Brenda's Ward Part 23

The hole that served for cas.e.m.e.nt Was glazed with a ragged hat.'

But this description applies only to the very first houses. Those that were built for the next twenty or thirty years were plain enough, but comfortable. Plymouth never had many of the elaborate Colonial houses that are shown in some of the New England towns."

"I wish one or two of those oldest houses were left," said Martine.

"Isn't there even one?"

"Why, I believe you are really interested in old Plymouth," said Mr.

Stacy, smiling at Martine. "If you don't mind walking with me I'll show you the oldest house now standing. But this old Doten house was built only a few years before 1660, and is very little changed from its original appearance, at least so far as the outside is concerned."

"The trees look as if they might be almost as old as the house," said Martine, as they stood before the little low-roofed house in Sandwich Street in front of which two great trees with gnarled trunks stood as sentinels.

"Say, Martine, let's go up to the Monument," whispered George. "I'm afraid Mr. Stacy will want to take us up on Burial Hill."

Mr. Stacy heard the loud whisper, and Martine herself was amused at George's entreaty.

"Why, that was what Marcus didn't want to do, and you said you would go anywhere with me."

"I want to show you something myself. You can go with Mr. Stacy to the hill some other day."

"There, George, you have suggested just what I had in mind. Please tell your mother that I hope to come over to see Priscilla and her friend this evening. Then we can arrange about our visit to Burial Hill."

After Mr. Stacy had said good-bye Martine and George retraced their steps, and climbed the hill to the monument to the Forefathers.

"There's nine acres in the park," explained George, "and the monument is eighty-one feet high. That's the figure of Faith on top, and I think the whole thing is fine, don't you?"

"It certainly _is_ fine," responded Martine, amused at George's eagerness.

"You know down at Provincetown they say the Pilgrims landed there first, and they're going to build a monument that will beat this all to pieces.

But I don't believe they can, do you, Miss Martine?"

"No," said Martine, "indeed I do not."

Whereupon, after she had sufficiently admired the historic bas-reliefs depicting scenes in the lives of the Forefathers, George led his guest down the hill, well pleased with her appreciation of his favorite work of art.

CHAPTER XIV

TALES AND RELICS

True to his promise Mr. Stacy called on Priscilla and Martine the second evening of their stay in Plymouth. He proved even more entertaining as a story-teller than as a guide.

"What he doesn't know about old-colony life isn't worth knowing,"

Priscilla had said, and Mr. Stacy certainly proved the truth of these words. Of Bradford and Carver and Winslow and Brewster he spoke as familiarly as if they were brothers. He made them live again as he talked, bringing out little facts that he said every schoolgirl and boy ought to know, though Martine had to admit that if she had ever known these things, they were now half forgotten. Priscilla modestly concealed her own store of information, but Martine, remembering how eagerly her friend had drunk in all that Amy and Balfour had had to tell the summer before about the English and the Acadians in Nova Scotia, knew that Priscilla was probably hardly second to Mr. Stacy in her knowledge of Puritan history.

"Oh, please, Mr. Stacy, tell us one of your witch stories," demanded Marcus, as they sat around the blazing fire.

"A witch story! Do you wish me to frighten the young lady from Chicago?"

"A witch story!" repeated Martine; "why, I thought the witches were only in Salem. I supposed people down here were too sensible to believe in witches."

"Few localities are so sensible as to escape all delusion. A vague belief in evil spirits and witches existed in all the colonies even well-through the eighteenth century, although the witchcraft persecution was of comparatively short duration."

"I don't care for witchcraft stories," said Priscilla, quietly.

"Well, well!" cried Mr. Stacy, smiling; "between two fires, what shall I do? Mrs. Danforth, you must be umpire."

"Tell them one little unexciting witch story," replied Mrs. Danforth.

"Priscilla is too old to be troubled by bad dreams, at least from so small a cause."

"It isn't that," protested staid Priscilla, "only witch stories are so silly."

"Oh, if that's the only thing against them," cried Martine, "please tell me as many as you can. I love silly things--sometimes. So please tell us a story, Mr. Stacy."

"Really," rejoined Mr. Stacy, "I should hardly know what to say, if the rules of hospitality did not provide me with an excuse. It is fair, I imagine, to regard Miss Martine as a guest of Plymouth in general, as well as of the Danforth family in particular, therefore, fair lady, I yield to your demand. But what I am going to tell you is neither very exciting, nor very silly. It merely shows how recently in this corner of the globe the plain people retained some of the mediaeval belief in witches. For I knew a man who in his youth knew a man who believed this story. On the outskirts of Plymouth once lived an old woman whom people called a witch, and once when she was calling at a certain house, Jenny, a girl of twelve, placed the broom with which she was sweeping, under Aunt Nabby's chair. Aunt Nabby was the reputed witch, and if you know anything about witches, you must know that to offer one a broomstick can only be regarded as an insult. So in this case Aunt Nabby, when she perceived what Jenny had done, rose in anger, and vowed that she would get even with Jenny and her family."

"Did she?" asked George, who was always over-anxious to hear the conclusion of a story.

"Wait," replied Mr. Stacy, "you will soon hear. In a day or two Jenny became very ill, and the old country doctor could not tell what the matter was. She seemed to be fading away. 'Perhaps Aunt Nabby has something to do with it,' said poor Mrs. Bonsal, Jenny's mother; and then the doctor, asking what was meant, heard the story of the broomstick. 'Go, John Bonsal,' he said to Jenny's father, 'go to Aunt Nabby's, and find out what she is up to.' When John Bonsal reached Aunt Nabby's house, there was no one in the kitchen but her big black cat, whom some people thought her a.s.sistant in evil doing. So John Bonsal went down by the brook, where he found Aunt Nabby so much occupied that she hardly looked up at his approach."

"What was she doing?" asked George.

"Hush," cried Marcus; "listen, and you will find out."

"Well," continued Mr. Stacy, "Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay that she moulded into shape with water from the brook.

When she finished these figures or dolls, she stuck a pin or two into them, and John Bonsal understood at once that by means of these dolls she was working a charm on poor Jenny that in time would cause her death, unless he could stop the doll-making. Upon this the angry father raised the horsewhip that he carried in his hand, and thrashed Nabby with might and main. As she cried for mercy, he told her that she should be burned as a witch unless she promised to remove the spell that she had cast over his daughter. At first she refused, but at last she promised. 'Your Jenny shall get well,' she cried, 'and I will work no more charms.' Upon this the big black cat that had followed John Bonsal from the house gave a great howl, and vanished completely from sight."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay."]

"Where did he go?" asked George.

"Down to the centre of the earth, probably," replied Mr. Stacy, solemnly. "But it's more to the point that Jenny recovered, and Aunt Nabby was never again known to carry on any of her witcheries."

"Thank you, thank you," cried all the circle, except Priscilla, who still looked as if she thought stories of this kind rather silly.

"Mamma," cried Lucy, after a moment's pause, as if she, too, shared Priscilla's feeling, "let us have something more sensible than witch stories."

"Let us have a charade--you said you had found one in an old book that you would give us."

Mrs. Danforth looked at the clock. "There is just time for one before you go to bed," she said, "and so I will give you the old one you speak of."

George and Lucy clapped their hands with delight. They were fond of guessing-games, particularly when their mother played with them.

"I must tell you," said Mrs. Danforth, picking up a book from the table, "that this is a very short one and must be guessed within five minutes after I have read it." Whereupon she read slowly:

"'Just where the heavens grew blue and high, My first that was so pure and bright, Ere it could rise into the sky, Pa.s.sed in my second out of sight; Before it vanished from the earth My whole rose through it at their birth.'"