_Father_. It could not be a proper natural hole then, Or ’twas not a right pebble,—for I found him Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, And panting so! God knows where he had been When we were all asleep, thro’ bush and brake Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch At such a deadly rate!— _Nathaniel_. By land and water, Over the sea perhaps!—I have heard tell That ’tis some thousand miles, almost at the end Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear Some ointment over them and then away Out of the window! but ’tis worse than all To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it That in a Christian country they should let Such creatures live! _Father_. And when there’s such plain proof! I did but threaten her because she robb’d Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind That made me shake to hear it in my bed! How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, And only mine in the parish? look at her And that’s enough; she has it in her face— A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, Just like a corpse, and purs’d with wrinkles round, A nose and chin that scarce leave room between For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, And when she speaks! I’d sooner hear a raven Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees Smoak-dried and shrivell’d over a starved fire, With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes Shine like old Beelzebub’s, and to be sure It must be one of his imps!—aye, nail it hard. _Nathaniel_. I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! She’d curse the music. _Father_. Here’s the Curate coming, He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; In the old times they used to hunt them out And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! The world is grown so wicked! _Curate_. Good day Farmer! Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold? _Nathaniel_. A horse-shoe Sir, ’tis good to keep off witchcraft, And we’re afraid of Margery. _Curate_. Poor old woman! What can you fear from her? _Father_. What can we fear? Who lamed the Miller’s boy? who rais’d the wind That blew my old barn’s roof down? who d’ye think Rides my poor horse a’nights? who mocks the hounds? But let me catch her at that trick again, And I’ve a silver bullet ready for her, One that shall lame her, double how she will. _Nathaniel_. What makes her sit there moping by herself, With no soul near her but that great black cat? And do but look at her! _Curate_. Poor wretch! half blind And crooked with her years, without a child Or friend in her old age, ’tis hard indeed To have her very miseries made her crimes! I met her but last week in that hard frost That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask’d What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad And pick the hedges, just to keep herself From perishing with cold, because no neighbour Had pity on her age; and then she cried, And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, And wish’d that she were dead.