I don't feel sure of his being good, But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,-- As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,-- (He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.) So what does he do but up and shout To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!" To mind his orders was all he knew; The gates swung open, and out they flew "Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried. [Illustration: "You're a good old-fellow-come, let us go"] "Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied. "They've been in--the place you know--so long They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; But they've gained by being left alone,-- Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown." [Illustration] [Illustration] --"And where is my cat?" a vixen squalled. "Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled, And began to call them all by name: As fast as they called the cats, they came: There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe, And many another that came at call,-- It would take too long to count them all. All black,--one could hardly tell which was which, But every cat knew his own old witch; And she knew hers as hers knew her,-- Ah, didn't they curl their tails and purr! No sooner the withered hags were free Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; I couldn't tell all they did in rhymes, But the Essex people had dreadful times. [Illustration] [Illustration: "The withered hags were free"] The Swampscott fishermen still relate How a strange sea-monster stole their bait; How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,-- It was all the work of those hateful queans! A dreadful panic began at "Pride's," Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms 'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms. [Illustration: "A strange sea-monster stole their bait"] Now when the Boss of the Beldams found That without his leave they were ramping round, He called,--they could hear him twenty miles, From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; The deafest old granny knew his tone Without the trick of the telephone. [Illustration] "Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,-- "At your games of old, without asking me! I'll give you a little job to do That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!" They came, of course, at their master's call, The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; [Illustration]