Little Grandmother Part 4

"I never heard of Mr. Phips."

"Well, that's nothing strange. He died over a hundred years ago; but _he_ didn't make fun of witches, I can tell you. He had 'em chained up so they couldn't hurt folks."

"Hurt folks?" said little Patty.

"Yes; you know witches have a way of taking various shapes, such as cats and dogs, and all sorts of creeturs, and going about doing mischief,"

said Siller, with a solemn click of her knitting-needles.

Mary's nose went farther up in the air. She had heard plenty about the Salem Witchcraft, and knew the stories were all as silly as silly can be.

"Didn't you never hear tell of that Joan of Arc over there to Salem?"

went on Siller, who knew no more about history than a baby.

"We've heard of _Noah's_ ark," put in Patty.

"Well, Joan was a witch, and took the shape of a man, and marched at the head of an army, all so grand; but she got found out, and they burnt her up. It was fifty years ago or more."

"Beg your pardon, Siller; but it was almost four hundred years ago,"

said Mary; "and it wasn't in this country either, 'twas in France.

Mother told me all about it; she read it in a book of history."

Siller looked extremely mortified, and picked up a st.i.tch without speaking.

"And besides that," said Mary, "Joan of Arc was a beautiful young girl, and not a witch. I know some of the people called her so; but mother says they were very foolish and wicked."

"Well, I ain't a going to dispute your mother in her opinion of witches; she knows twice to my once about books; but that ain't saying she knows everything, Polly Lyman," returned Siller, laying down her knitting in her excitement; "and 'twill take more'n your mother to beat me out of my seven senses, when I've seen witches with my own naked eyes, and heard 'em a talking to their gray cats."

"Where? O, where?" cried little Patty.

All the "witch" Siller had ever seen was an Englishwoman by the name of Knowles, and the most she ever heard her say to her cat was "Poor p.u.s.s.y." But Siller did not like to be laughed at by a little girl like Polly Lyman; so she tried to make it appear that she really knew some remarkable things.

"Well," said Mary, "I don't see why a gray cat is any worse to talk to than a white one: why is it? Mrs. Knowles asked my mother if it was having a gray cat that made folks call her a witch.--Siller, Mrs.

Knowles wasn't the woman you meant, when you said you'd seen a witch?"

"Perhaps so--perhaps not. But what did your mother say when Mrs. Knowles asked her that question?"

"Why, mother laughed, and told Mrs. Knowles not to part with her gray cat, if it was good to catch mice."

"Yes, yes. I know your mother don't believe any of these things that's going; but either Goody Knowles is a witch, or else I am," said Siller, her tongue fairly running away with her.

"Why, Siller Noonin, what makes you think so?"

"Well, for one thing, she can't shed but three tears, and them out of her left eye," said Siller; "that I know to be a fact, for I've watched her, and it's a sure sign. Then Daddy Wiggins, he weighed her once against the church Bible, and she was the lightest, and that's another sure sign. Moreover, he tried her on the Lord's Prayer, and she couldn't go through it straight to save her life. Did you ever mind Goody Knowles's face, how it's covered with moles?"

"Do you mean those little brown things," cried Patty, "with hair in the middle? I've seen 'em lots of times; on her chin, too."

"Yes, dear. Well, Polly, there never was a witch that didn't have moles and warts."

"But what does Mrs. Knowles do that's bad?" says Mary, laughing a little, but growing very much interested.

"Well, she has been known to bewitch cattle, as perhaps you may have heard. Last spring Daddy Wiggins's cows crept up the scaffold,--a thing cows never did afore."

"O, but my father laughed about that. He said he guessed if Mr.

Wiggins's cows had had hay enough, they wouldn't have gone out after some more; they'd have staid in the stalls."

"It will do very well for your father to talk," returned Siller, who was growing more and more excited. "Of course Goody Knowles wouldn't bewitch any of _his_ creeturs; it's only her enemies she injures. And that makes me think, children, that it's kind of curious for us to be sitting here talking about her. She _may_ be up on the ridge-pole of the house,--she or one of her imps,--a hearing every word we say."

"O, dear! O, dear!" cried Patty, curling her head under Siller's cape.

"Nonsense, child. I was only in fun," said the thoughtless Siller, beginning to feel ashamed of herself, for she had not intended to talk in this way to the children; "don't lets think any more about it."

And with that she hurried the little girls off to bed; but by this time their eyes were pretty wide open, as you may suppose.

CHAPTER VI.

A WITCH-FRIGHT.

Patty had forgotten all about her deep mortification, and never even thought of Deacon Turner, the t.i.thing-man.

"Hark!" whispered she to Mary, "don't you hear 'em walking on the roof of the house?"

"Hear what?" said Mary, sternly.

"Those things Siller calls creeturs--on broomsticks," returned Patty.

"Nonsense; go to sleep, child."

Mary was too well instructed to be really afraid of witches; still she lay awake an hour or two thinking over what Siller had said, and hearing her cough drearily in the next chamber. Little Patty was sleeping sweetly, but Mary's nerves were quivering, she did not know why, and

"All things were full of horror and affright, And dreadful even the silence of the night."

As she lay wis.h.i.+ng herself safe at home in her own bed, there was a sudden noise outside her window,--the sound of heavy footsteps. Who could be walking there at that time of night? If it was a man, he must want to steal. Mary did not for a moment fancy it might be a woman, or a "creetur" on a broomstick,--she was too sensible for that; but you will not wonder that, as she heard the footsteps come nearer and nearer, her heart almost stopped beating from fright. Siller had not coughed for some time, and was very likely asleep. If so, there was no time to be lost.

Mary sprang out of bed, and ran down stairs, whispering, "Fire! Murder!

Thieves!"

That wakened Patty, who ran after her, clutching at her night-dress, and crying out, "A fief! A fief!"

For she had lost a front tooth the day before, and could not say "thief."

It was a wonder they both did not fall headlong, going at such speed.

Siller was in the kitchen, standing in the middle of the floor, with a red cloak on, staring straight before her, with a white, scared look.

"Hush, children, for mercy's sake!" she whispered, putting her handkerchief over Patty's mouth, "we're in a terrible fix! It's either thieves or murderers, or else it's witches. Yes, Polly Lyman, witches!"