"Old woman, we travel to Bethlehem, the new-born child to see." "'Tis an easy sign I give you, follow that bright star, Sirs three."
"Wilt thou come with us, old woman and help us find the way?" "Nay, Sirs, I thank thee, but methinks I have much to do today."
Since then, 'tis said, at Epiphany she searches every year, for that child around Italy, among children there and here.
She hovers her flying broomstick, above the houses where they live, seeking chimneys down which to drop the gifts she has to give.
Candies for those who have been good; a lump of coal for those who have not; remembering each child on her list of gifts careful that none has been forgot.
