English Eclogues V - The Witch NATHANIEL.
Father!
here
father!
I
have
found
a
horse-shoe!
Faith
it
was
just
in
time,
for
t'other
night
I
laid
two
straws
across
at
Margery's
door,
And
afterwards
I
fear'd
that
she
might
do
me
A
mischief
for't.
There
was
the
Miller's
boy
Who
set
his
dog
at
that
black
cat
of
hers,
I
met
him
upon
crutches,
and
he
told
me
'Twas
all
her
evil
eye.
FATHER.
'Tis
rare
good
luck;
I
would
have
gladly
given
a
crown
for
one
If
t'would
have
done
as
well.
But
where
did'st
find
it?
NATHANIEL.
Down
on
the
Common;
I
was
going
a-field
And
neighbour
Saunders
pass'd
me
on
his
mare;
He
had
hardly
said
"good
day,"
before
I
saw
The
shoe
drop
off;
'twas
just
upon
my
tongue
To
call
him
back,--it
makes
no
difference,
does
it.
Because
I
know
whose
'twas?
FATHER.
Why
no,
it
can't.
The
shoe's
the
same
you
know,
and
you
'did
find'
it.
NATHANIEL.
That
mare
of
his
has
got
a
plaguey
road
To
travel,
father,
and
if
he
should
lame
her,
For
she
is
but
tender-footed,--
FATHER.
Aye,
indeed--
I
should
not
like
to
see
her
limping
back
Poor
beast!
but
charity
begins
at
home,
And
Nat,
there's
our
own
horse
in
such
a
way
This
morning!
NATHANIEL.
Why
he
ha'nt
been
rid
again!
Last
night
I
hung
a
pebble
by
the
manger
With
a
hole
thro',
and
every
body
says
That
'tis
a
special
charm
against
the
hags.
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.
FATHER.
I
wish
she
was!
She
has
plagued
the
parish
long
enough!
CURATE.
Shame
farmer!
Is
that
the
charity
your
bible
teaches?
FATHER.
My
bible
does
not
teach
me
to
love
witches.
I
know
what's
charity;
who
pays
his
tithes
And
poor-rates
readier?
CURATE.
Who
can
better
do
it?
You've
been
a
prudent
and
industrious
man,
And
God
has
blest
your
labour.
FATHER.
Why,
thank
God
Sir,
I've
had
no
reason
to
complain
of
fortune.
CURATE.
Complain!
why
you
are
wealthy.
All
the
parish
Look
up
to
you.
FATHER.
Perhaps
Sir,
I
could
tell
Guinea
for
guinea
with
the
warmest
of
them.
CURATE.
You
can
afford
a
little
to
the
poor,
And
then
what's
better
still,
you
have
the
heart
To
give
from
your
abundance.
FATHER.
God
forbid
I
should
want
charity!
CURATE.
Oh!
'tis
a
comfort
To
think
at
last
of
riches
well
employ'd!
I
have
been
by
a
death-bed,
and
know
the
worth
Of
a
good
deed
at
that
most
awful
hour
When
riches
profit
not.
Farmer,
I'm
going
To
visit
Margery.
She
is
sick
I
hear--
Old,
poor,
and
sick!
a
miserable
lot,
And
death
will
be
a
blessing.
You
might
send
her
Some
little
matter,
something
comfortable,
That
she
may
go
down
easier
to
the
grave
And
bless
you
when
she
dies.
FATHER.
What!
is
she
going!
Well
God
forgive
her
then!
if
she
has
dealt
In
the
black
art.
I'll
tell
my
dame
of
it,
And
she
shall
send
her
something.
CURATE.
So
I'll
say;
And
take
my
thanks
for
her's.
['goes']
FATHER.
That's
a
good
man
That
Curate,
Nat,
of
ours,
to
go
and
visit
The
poor
in
sickness;
but
he
don't
believe
In
witchcraft,
and
that
is
not
like
a
christian.
NATHANIEL.
And
so
old
Margery's
dying!
FATHER.
But
you
know
She
may
recover;
so
drive
t'other
nail
in!
