A little pale brown mushroom, cone-shaped. That’s what Barnabas was looking for. For sleeping potions. He knelt down and scoured the ground, fruitlessly. He looked to his right, where a purple-tinged mushroom was poking up, just slightly, from some twisted tree roots. If only he had the guts. Phlox dreams made the most potent poison he knew of, but he knew, somehow, that even if he did pluck the little mushroom and prepare the proper draught, that the wizard would know. So really, he could only look forward to being punished. Barnabas was almost afraid that the wizard would find some way to torture him just for looking at the mushroom. He walked on.

When he finally found the much safer (but certainly not harmless) butter tops, he cut them carefully at their bases, placed them delicately into the cloth-lined basket, and headed back.