Witches’ Loaves (for Advanced Levels C1-C2)  

Witches’ Loaves by O. Henry is one of the author’s most memorable short stories, celebrated for its gentle humour, sharp irony, and unforgettable twist ending. O. Henry, the pen name of William Sydney Porter, was an American writer renowned for creating stories that explore ordinary life while revealing unexpected truths about human nature.

His works continue to be widely read because of their engaging characters, clever plots, and timeless moral lessons.

In Witches’ Loaves, a kind-hearted bakery owner develops a deep sympathy for one of her regular customers and tries to help him in secret. However, her well-intentioned act leads to an entirely unexpected outcome, reminding readers that assumptions can sometimes do more harm than good.

Blending humour with emotional insight, the story offers a thoughtful reflection on kindness, misunderstanding, and the importance of truly understanding others.

This version has been carefully retold for English learners, preserving the original plot, characters, and famous ending while using rich, natural language suitable for advanced readers. If you are looking for short stories C1 to improve your vocabulary, reading comprehension, and understanding of authentic English, this adaptation is an excellent choice.

This story was rewritten by LearnEnglish-new.com for English learners. The story is in the public domain, so it is free from copyright. Enjoy reading and improve your English skills!

Source: americanliterature.com

Witches’ Loaves

O. Henry

Contents

Chapter One: Miss Martha and the Mysterious Customer

Chapter Two: Hope, Kindness, and a Secret Gift

Chapter Three: The Unexpected Consequence

Vocabulary

Comprehension Questions

Grammar Exercises

Chapter One

Miss Martha and the Mysterious Customer

The little bakery occupied a modest corner of a quiet neighbourhood where life seemed to proceed at a gentler pace than elsewhere in the bustling city. Customers reached the entrance by climbing three worn stone steps, and each arrival was announced by the cheerful tinkling of a small brass bell fastened above the door. The sound had become so familiar to the regular patrons that it seemed almost as welcoming as Miss Martha herself.

Although the bakery was neither fashionable nor particularly large, it possessed a warmth that many grander establishments lacked. The fragrance of freshly baked bread mingled with the sweet aroma of cinnamon, butter, and fruit pies, creating an atmosphere that encouraged people to linger a little longer than they had intended. Every shelf was arranged with meticulous care, and every loaf displayed the quiet pride of a woman who regarded baking not merely as a profession but as a craft worthy of devotion.

Miss Martha Meacham had managed the bakery alone for many years. She had reached the age of forty with a life that many would have described as comfortable, if somewhat solitary. Her savings account contained two thousand dollars, a respectable sum that provided both security and independence. She possessed two artificial teeth, accepted them with admirable good humour, and rarely complained about the disappointments life had brought her. After all, she often reflected, many women with far fewer advantages had succeeded in finding husbands and building happy families. If fortune had not granted her the same blessing, there was little to be gained by dwelling upon it.

Yet beneath her practical exterior lay an exceptionally tender heart. She found genuine pleasure in small acts of kindness. Whether she wrapped a customer’s purchase with unusual care, slipped an extra biscuit into a child’s parcel, or exchanged friendly conversation with an elderly neighbour, she believed that generosity, however modest, had the power to brighten ordinary lives.

It was perhaps inevitable, therefore, that one particular customer should gradually awaken both her curiosity and her sympathy.

He visited the bakery two or three times each week, arriving with remarkable regularity. He was a middle-aged gentleman whose appearance immediately suggested education rather than prosperity. A neatly trimmed brown beard framed his thoughtful face, while a pair of round spectacles rested upon a prominent nose. His blue eyes possessed an unusual brightness, revealing intelligence and careful observation even when he spoke very little.

His clothes, however, had unquestionably seen better days. The elbows of his coat had been expertly patched. Several seams had been mended so skilfully that only close inspection revealed the repairs. His trousers hung rather loosely upon his slender frame, and the fabric had become shiny with years of wear. Nevertheless, every garment was perfectly clean, carefully brushed, and worn with unmistakable dignity. Poverty, if indeed he suffered from it, had never persuaded him to neglect his appearance.

His manners impressed Miss Martha even more deeply than his clothing.

He invariably greeted her with a slight bow before speaking.

“Two loaves of stale bread, if you please.”

His English, though entirely understandable, carried a strong German accent that lent every sentence a curious rhythm. He chose his words with deliberate precision, spoke politely, paid exactly the required amount, thanked her sincerely, and departed without unnecessary conversation.

There was, however, one peculiarity that soon distinguished him from every other customer.

He purchased nothing except stale bread.

Fresh bread, fragrant and still warm from the oven, cost five cents a loaf. Stale bread, by contrast, was sold two loaves for the same price. Most customers preferred freshness whenever possible, regarding stale bread as suitable only for crumbs, stuffing, or economical households. Yet this gentleman never hesitated. He ignored the golden rolls, the delicate cakes, the fruit tarts, and the famous Sally Lunn buns that tempted nearly everyone who entered the shop.

Always the same request.

Always two stale loaves.

At first Miss Martha considered the habit merely unusual. Yet as the weeks passed, curiosity gradually matured into concern. Surely no one would willingly choose dry bread over fresh unless compelled by necessity. Human behaviour, she reflected, rarely lacked an explanation.

One afternoon, while accepting the customer’s payment, she happened to notice faint reddish-brown stains upon his fingers. They resembled dried paint.

The discovery instantly transformed speculation into certainty.

He must be an artist.

The conclusion appeared perfectly logical. Artists, according to popular imagination, often endured hardship while pursuing beauty. They worked in lonely studios, sacrificed comfort for inspiration, and remained stubbornly devoted to their craft despite receiving little financial reward. Everything seemed to support her theory. His worn clothing, his thoughtful expression, his quiet dignity, and his habit of buying the cheapest bread available all combined to create a picture that appeared entirely convincing.

From that day onward, Miss Martha’s imagination began furnishing details that reality had never supplied.

She pictured him living beneath the roof of some ageing building in a narrow attic overlooking rows of chimneys and slate rooftops. The room, she imagined, contained little more than an easel, a wooden table crowded with brushes and paints, and a narrow bed beside a small iron stove that seldom produced enough warmth during winter. Half-finished canvases leaned against cracked walls, waiting patiently for the inspiration—or the money—that would allow their completion.

She imagined him rising early each morning, determined to continue his work despite hunger. Hours would pass unnoticed while he mixed colours, studied light, and struggled to capture beauty upon canvas. Only when exhaustion overcame him would he pause long enough to eat a few slices of stale bread before returning to his painting.

The image touched her more deeply than she cared to admit.

Whenever Miss Martha prepared her own evening meal—a tender chop, warm rolls spread generously with butter, homemade preserves, and a comforting pot of tea—her thoughts wandered irresistibly toward the solitary artist. She could almost see him seated alone beneath the dim light of a single lamp, forcing himself to eat another dry crust while dreaming of meals he could scarcely afford.

More than once she found herself sighing.

“If only he knew,” she whispered one evening, “how gladly I would share this supper.”

Yet she immediately dismissed the thought as impractical. Charity, however kindly intended, could easily wound a person’s pride. A gentleman who maintained such impeccable manners despite obvious hardship would surely reject open generosity. Any assistance offered to him would need to preserve his dignity completely.

Her growing interest prompted her to test her theory.

Among the few decorative possessions in her upstairs room was a painting she had purchased at a public sale years earlier. Although she possessed little artistic knowledge, she had always admired the colourful Venetian scene it depicted. Marble buildings reflected gracefully upon quiet water while elegant gondolas drifted beneath a brilliant sky filled with dramatic clouds.

One morning she carried the painting downstairs and placed it prominently behind the bread counter, arranging it so that anyone entering the bakery would notice it immediately.

“No true artist,” she thought with quiet satisfaction, “could possibly overlook such a picture.”

For two days she waited.

At last the familiar bell announced his arrival.

He stepped inside, removed his hat politely, approached the counter, and spoke in his customary manner.

“Two loaves of stale bread, if you please.”

As Miss Martha wrapped the bread, she observed him from the corner of her eye. Exactly as she had anticipated, his attention drifted toward the painting.

“You haf here a fine bicture, madame,” he remarked courteously.

Her heart leapt.

So she had been right.

Trying to conceal both her excitement and her satisfaction, she replied with studied casualness.

“Do you really think so? I have always admired paintings, though I know very little about them.”

The gentleman adjusted his spectacles and examined the picture with surprising seriousness.

“The composition,” he said after a thoughtful pause, “is respectable enough. But der perspective is entirely wrong. Der buildings could not stand so. Der artist has made several serious mistakes.”

Having delivered his professional judgement with complete sincerity, he accepted his parcel, bowed politely, wished her good morning, and departed.

Miss Martha watched him disappear along the street, her conviction stronger than ever.

Only a genuine artist, she believed, could detect such technical flaws at a single glance.

Little did she realise that the truth, although standing directly before her, was something she had never once imagined.

---

Chapter Two

Hope, Kindness, and a Secret Gift

Following their brief discussion about the Venetian painting, Miss Martha found herself thinking of the mysterious gentleman more frequently than ever before. His confident criticism of the picture had not weakened her original assumption; quite the contrary, it had strengthened it beyond doubt. Surely no ordinary man could have commented so naturally upon perspective and composition. His observations had been neither boastful nor rehearsed. They had come from habit, from experience, from the trained eye of someone accustomed to judging lines and proportions.

To Miss Martha, the matter was settled.

He was unquestionably an artist.

Indeed, she felt almost embarrassed that she had ever entertained the slightest uncertainty. The faded coat, the worn shoes, the careful manners, the paint upon his fingers, and now his discerning remarks about perspective all combined into a portrait that appeared entirely convincing. Although she knew scarcely anything about his actual life, her imagination eagerly supplied every missing detail.

The little bakery continued its quiet routine from one day to the next. Housewives arrived early to purchase fresh bread before preparing breakfast for their families. Children stopped by after school with a few coins tightly clasped in their hands, hoping to exchange them for sweet buns or ginger biscuits. Elderly gentlemen lingered over ordinary conversations about the weather, rising prices, or the latest local gossip. Throughout these familiar activities Miss Martha performed her duties with her customary diligence, yet she found herself glancing instinctively toward the door whenever the bell rang.

Whenever the gentleman entered, the atmosphere seemed to change ever so slightly.

He remained as courteous as ever, greeting her with the same modest bow before requesting his customary purchase.

“Two loaves of stale bread, if you please.”

Sometimes he exchanged a few pleasant remarks while she wrapped the bread.

He never spoke at great length, nor did he reveal much about himself. Nevertheless, his quiet voice possessed a thoughtful quality that made even ordinary conversation seem unusually agreeable. He commented upon the weather, admired the fragrance of freshly baked bread, or apologised politely if he happened to arrive during a busy hour.

Miss Martha treasured these brief conversations far more than she cared to admit.

She gradually became convinced that the gentleman appreciated her company as much as she appreciated his. Although reserved by nature, he appeared entirely at ease within the peaceful surroundings of the little bakery. There were moments when he lingered for an extra minute or two, as though reluctant to hurry back to whatever lonely occupation awaited him elsewhere.

Such moments encouraged her imagination even further.

Perhaps, she thought, the bakery offered him a welcome escape from the silence of his attic studio. Perhaps the warmth of the ovens, the cheerful conversation, and the comforting aroma of fresh bread reminded him that kindness still existed in the world beyond his solitary labour.

She often wondered what masterpiece he might be creating.

Was he painting landscapes illuminated by golden sunsets? Was he attempting an ambitious historical scene destined one day to hang in a famous gallery? Or was he struggling over portraits that no wealthy patron seemed willing to purchase?

Whatever the subject, she hoped sincerely that success would eventually reward such patient devotion.

Yet another thought troubled her increasingly.

He never bought anything nourishing.

Not once did he purchase a slice of pie.

Never a sponge cake.

Never one of the rich fruit tarts arranged so attractively in the display case.

Never the famous Sally Lunn buns for which the bakery had become locally known.

Only stale bread.

Always stale bread.

The contrast became almost painful whenever she prepared attractive parcels for other customers. She wrapped delicate pastries for children, elaborate cakes for birthday celebrations, and warm rolls for families gathering around generous dinner tables. Then the quiet gentleman would arrive and depart carrying nothing more than two dry loaves that most customers considered scarcely fit for eating.

Her compassionate heart rebelled against the injustice.

“He grows thinner every week,” she reflected one afternoon as she watched him disappear along the street. “Surely he cannot continue living in this manner.”

Whether he had truly become thinner or whether her sympathy merely persuaded her that he had was impossible to determine. Nevertheless, the conviction settled firmly in her mind.

She longed to help him.

More than once she considered slipping a small cake into his parcel without mentioning it. On other occasions she imagined wrapping several buttered rolls together with the stale bread. Yet each possibility presented the same difficulty.

His pride.

Everything about the gentleman suggested quiet self-respect. He accepted no favours, requested no credit, and never hinted at hardship. To offer charity openly would almost certainly embarrass him.

Miss Martha respected dignity too deeply to risk such humiliation.

Consequently, she contented herself with treating him with exceptional courtesy whenever he visited. She listened attentively whenever he spoke, smiled warmly as she handed him his purchase, and wished him a pleasant day with genuine sincerity.

Meanwhile, subtle changes began appearing in her own daily routine.

She found herself taking greater care with her appearance before opening the bakery each morning.

One particularly attractive blue silk waist, decorated with tiny white dots, had remained folded carefully inside her wardrobe for several years, reserved for occasions she had imagined but which had never quite arrived. Now she began wearing it behind the counter whenever she expected the gentleman’s visit.

The colour suited her remarkably well.

Although no customer commented upon the change, Miss Martha secretly hoped that one pair of observant blue eyes might notice.

She also devoted increasing attention to her complexion. Having read an article praising an old household remedy, she prepared a curious mixture of quince seeds and borax in the little room behind the shop. Many women, the article confidently declared, had found it most effective in preserving youthful skin.

Whether the remedy possessed any genuine merit mattered very little.

Hope itself exercised a remarkable influence.

Every small improvement seemed worthwhile if it brightened the ordinary routine of life.

Days passed quietly.

Then, one crisp morning, the opportunity she had long desired unexpectedly presented itself.

The gentleman entered the bakery as usual.

His greeting was as courteous as ever.

“Two loaves of stale bread, if you please.”

He placed his nickel upon the glass counter while Miss Martha turned to fetch the loaves from the shelf.

At that very moment an extraordinary commotion erupted outside.

The sharp blast of a fire-engine horn echoed through the street, followed immediately by the clanging of its great bell and the pounding of heavy wheels upon the cobblestones.

Like everyone else nearby, the gentleman instinctively hurried to the doorway to discover the cause of the disturbance.

He stood with his back toward the counter, watching the magnificent machine thunder past, its horses straining at full speed while uniformed firemen shouted urgent commands above the deafening noise.

The distraction lasted only a few seconds.

For Miss Martha, however, those few seconds seemed filled with extraordinary possibility.

Her eyes fell immediately upon a fresh pound of butter that the dairyman had delivered scarcely ten minutes earlier.

An irresistible idea flashed into her mind.

Before she had time to reconsider, she seized a sharp bread knife, cut a deep slit along one side of each stale loaf, and generously filled both openings with fresh, creamy butter. Working quickly but carefully, she pressed the crusts together until the cuts became almost invisible.

The transformation was complete.

Outwardly the loaves appeared exactly as before.

Only the fortunate recipient would discover the delicious surprise hidden within.

As the gentleman returned to the counter, Miss Martha had already wrapped the bread neatly in brown paper and tied it securely with string.

He thanked her with his customary politeness.

Their conversation that morning seemed unusually pleasant. They exchanged a few cheerful remarks before he tipped his hat, wished her good day, and departed carrying the parcel beneath his arm.

Miss Martha watched him disappear around the corner.

A smile spread slowly across her face.

Her heart, however, fluttered with equal measures of excitement and uncertainty.

Had she acted wisely?

Or had she exceeded the proper limits of kindness?

She reassured herself almost immediately.

Surely no reasonable person could object to receiving fresh butter.

It was not a declaration of affection.

Nor was it an act of humiliating charity.

It was merely a thoughtful gift, offered anonymously, preserving both generosity and dignity.

As she resumed her work, her imagination began constructing a delightful scene.

She pictured the gentleman climbing the narrow stairs to his modest attic studio after a long morning devoted to painting. Weary and hungry, he would place the parcel upon his table, prepare his customary luncheon of bread and water, and slice into one of the loaves.

Then would come the wonderful surprise.

His knife would uncover rich, golden butter concealed within the dry bread.

For a moment he would stare in astonishment.

Then, gradually, he would smile.

Perhaps he would wonder who had shown him such unexpected kindness.

Perhaps, while enjoying the first satisfying meal he had tasted for many days, he would think with gratitude of the gentle woman who kept the little bakery on the corner.

The thought filled Miss Martha with quiet happiness.

She had no idea that, by following the generous impulses of her compassionate heart, she had unknowingly set in motion a chain of events that would transform a simple act of kindness into a misunderstanding of astonishing proportions.

---

Chapter Three

The Unexpected Consequence

The remainder of the day passed more slowly than any Miss Martha could remember. Although customers continued to enter the bakery, purchasing bread, cakes, and pastries as they always had, her thoughts wandered repeatedly to the mysterious gentleman.

Again and again she imagined the same delightful scene.

By now, she supposed, he would have returned to his modest room beneath the rooftops. He would place the parcel upon a worn wooden table beside his easel, remove the string with careful fingers, and prepare his usual frugal luncheon.

Then, as his knife sliced through the first loaf, he would discover the unexpected treasure concealed within.

Fresh butter.

Rich, smooth, and fragrant.

Miss Martha could almost picture the expression of astonishment upon his thoughtful face. Perhaps he would pause in silent disbelief before smiling with quiet gratitude. Perhaps he would never discover the identity of his anonymous benefactor, yet surely he would recognise that somewhere in the world there remained someone who cared about his well-being.

The image warmed her heart.

Several times she caught herself blushing at the thought.

Would he remember her as he enjoyed the meal?

Would he suspect that the little bakery on the corner had offered him more than bread?

She immediately reproached herself for entertaining such romantic notions. Butter, after all, was merely food. It carried no hidden declaration of affection, no improper sentiment, no expectation of gratitude. It was simply a small act of kindness—nothing more.

Nevertheless, she could not entirely suppress the pleasant excitement that accompanied the thought.

For the first time in many years, the ordinary routine of her life seemed touched by hope.

The following morning began peacefully enough.

The ovens were warm, the shelves neatly arranged, and the first customers arrived shortly after sunrise. Miss Martha attended to her work with unusual care, though she found herself glancing frequently towards the entrance.

She wondered whether the gentleman might appear and, perhaps with a grateful smile, reveal that he had discovered the little surprise.

Instead, the familiar bell above the door suddenly rang with startling violence.

Someone pushed the door open with far greater force than usual.

Miss Martha looked up in surprise.

Two men entered the bakery.

One of them was a young man whom she had never seen before. He carried a pipe between his teeth and appeared considerably stronger than his companion.

The other was the gentleman who bought the stale bread.

For a brief moment Miss Martha scarcely recognised him.

His normally composed appearance had completely vanished.

His face was flushed a deep crimson.

His carefully brushed hair had become hopelessly disordered.

His hat rested awkwardly upon the back of his head, and his blue eyes flashed with unmistakable anger behind his spectacles.

Without offering his customary greeting, he strode directly towards the counter.

His hands were clenched into fists.

Before Miss Martha could utter a single word, he struck the wooden counter so violently that everything upon it rattled.

“Dummkopf!” he shouted.

The unfamiliar German word echoed through the quiet bakery.

Then followed another exclamation, even louder than the first.

“Tausendonfer!”

Miss Martha stood speechless.

She had never imagined that such fury could exist beneath the gentleman’s ordinarily calm exterior.

The younger man immediately caught hold of his companion’s sleeve.

“Come along,” he urged quietly. “You’ve said enough.”

“I vill not go!” the older man cried, struggling to free himself. “She must hear! I shall tell her exactly vat she has done!”

Again he struck the counter with his fist.

“You haf ruined me!” he exclaimed.

His voice trembled with genuine distress rather than mere irritation.

“You vas von meddlesome old cat!”

The words fell upon Miss Martha like physical blows.

She instinctively reached for the shelf behind her to steady herself.

Her face turned pale.

She neither defended herself nor attempted to answer.

The younger man, recognising that his companion’s anger had reached its limit, firmly took hold of his collar and guided him towards the door despite his continued protests.

Reluctantly the gentleman allowed himself to be led outside.

For a moment silence returned to the bakery.

The younger man hesitated before following.

Then, noticing Miss Martha’s bewildered expression, he removed his pipe and stepped back inside.

“I suppose,” he said kindly, “someone ought to explain what all this is about.”

Miss Martha nodded faintly.

She still could not understand how a simple gift of butter had produced such astonishing hostility.

The young man rested one elbow upon the counter.

“My friend’s name is Blumberger,” he began. “He’s an architectural draftsman. We work together in the same office.”

Miss Martha listened without speaking.

“He isn’t a painter,” the young man continued. “He’s been working for nearly three months on the drawings for a new City Hall. It’s part of a prize competition, and the plans had to be absolutely perfect.”

He paused briefly before continuing.

“You probably don’t know much about drafting.”

Miss Martha quietly shook her head.

“Architects first draw every line lightly in pencil. When the entire design is complete, they carefully trace the final lines with ink. Afterwards the pencil marks have to be removed.”

Again he paused.

“The best way to erase those pencil lines isn’t rubber.”

A faint smile of sympathy crossed his face.

“It’s stale bread.”

Miss Martha stared at him.

“Stale bread?” she repeated almost inaudibly.

“Exactly. Dry bread crumbles just enough to remove the pencil without damaging the paper. Blumberger has been buying stale loaves here for months because they’re perfect for the job.”

A dreadful understanding slowly began to dawn upon her.

The young man continued gently.

“Yesterday he finished inking the entire drawing.”

His expression became almost apologetic.

“This morning he cut into one of the loaves.”

He sighed.

“The butter spread over the crumbs.”

Nothing more needed to be said.

Miss Martha instantly saw the entire disaster unfolding before her eyes.

The greasy crumbs had smeared across months of careful work.

Every precise line.

Every measured angle.

Every painstaking detail.

The architectural plan—the result of three months of patient labour—had been ruined in a matter of moments.

“It can’t be repaired?” she whispered.

The young man slowly shook his head.

“I’m afraid not.”

He attempted a sympathetic smile.

“The drawing’s fit for nothing now except wrapping sandwiches.”

With that he replaced his pipe, tipped his hat politely, and left the bakery.

The little bell tinkled softly as the door closed behind him.

For several long moments Miss Martha remained perfectly still.

The bakery, which only yesterday had seemed so warm and cheerful, now felt strangely silent.

At last she turned away from the empty shop and walked slowly into the room behind the counter.

There, without haste and without a single word, she removed the blue silk waist with its tiny white dots—the blouse she had worn in the hope that someone might notice her.

She folded it carefully and placed it back inside the wardrobe.

Then she took up the old brown serge dress she had worn for years before allowing herself to dream that life might still hold unexpected happiness.

Finally, she picked up the small bowl containing her homemade mixture of quince seeds and borax—the cosmetic she had prepared with such quiet optimism.

She walked to the open window.

Without hesitation, she poured the entire mixture into the ash can below.

The bowl was empty.

So, too, were the gentle hopes that had quietly taken root in her heart.

Yet Miss Martha had not acted out of selfishness, cruelty, or malice.

She had acted out of compassion.

Her mistake had been a different one.

She had mistaken imagination for knowledge.

She had created an entire story about another person’s life without ever asking whether it was true.

The gentleman had never claimed to be an artist.

He had never asked for sympathy.

He had never suggested that he was hungry.

Every conclusion had belonged to Miss Martha alone.

And therein lay the quiet irony that gives the story its enduring power.

Good intentions, however sincere, cannot replace understanding.

Kindness achieves its greatest value only when it is guided by truth rather than assumption.

In the end, neither Miss Martha nor Blumberger was a villain.

One possessed an exceptionally compassionate heart.

The other had devoted months of painstaking effort to honest work.

Their tragedy arose not from wickedness but from misunderstanding—a reminder that even the noblest intentions may produce painful consequences when they rest upon mistaken beliefs.

Such was the lesson hidden within two ordinary loaves of stale bread.

— THE END –

Read the original story: americanliterature.com

Vocabulary

Comprehension Questions

1. Why did Miss Martha become interested in the gentleman who regularly visited her bakery?

2. What details about the gentleman’s appearance led Miss Martha to believe he was poor?

3. Why did Miss Martha conclude that the customer was an artist?

4. How did the gentleman’s comments about the Venetian painting strengthen Miss Martha’s belief?

5. Why did Miss Martha hesitate to offer the gentleman food directly?

6. What changes did Miss Martha make in her daily routine because of her growing affection for the customer?

7. Describe the opportunity that allowed Miss Martha to put butter inside the stale loaves.

8. Why did Miss Martha believe her secret gift would make the gentleman happy?

9. How did Miss Martha imagine the gentleman would react when he discovered the butter?

10. What unexpected events took place the following morning in the bakery?

11. Why was Blumberger so angry when he returned to the bakery?

12. What was Blumberger’s real profession, and how did it differ from Miss Martha’s assumption?

13. Why did Blumberger buy stale bread instead of fresh bread?

14. How did Miss Martha’s act of kindness accidentally ruin Blumberger’s work?

15. What lesson did Miss Martha learn by the end of the story?

16. What is the central message of Witches’ Loaves, and how does O. Henry use irony to communicate it?

Grammar Exercises

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