Part 3 (1/2)
On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, Seen like shadows against the sky; Crossing the track of owls and bats, Hugging before them their coal-black cats.
Well did they know, those gray old wives, The sights we see in our daily drives: s.h.i.+mmer of lake and s.h.i.+ne of sea, Brown's bare hill with its lonely tree, (It wasn't then as we see it now, With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) Dusky nooks in the Ess.e.x woods, Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake Glide through his forests of fern and brake;
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Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, And many a scene where history tells Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,-- Of ”Norman's Woe” with its tale of dread,
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Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, (The fearful story that turns men pale: Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.)
Who would not, will not, if he can, Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,-- Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, Loved by the sachems and squaws of old?
Home where the white magnolias bloom, Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, Hugged by the woods and kissed by the sea!
Where is the Eden like to thee?
For that ”couple of hundred years, or so,”
There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, ”It isn't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air!
We've had enough of your sulphur springs, And the evil odor that round them clings; We long for a drink that is cool and nice,-- Great buckets of water with Wenham ice;
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We've served you well up-stairs, you know; You're a good old--fellow--come, let us go!”
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.
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”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.”
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--”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 Ess.e.x people had dreadful times.
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