oves the birds. When the boys want to rile her
they get a sling-shot an' shoot the birds in her garden an' she just
goes crazy. She pretty near starves herself every winter trying to
feed all the birds that come around. She has lots of 'em to feed right
out o' her hand. Da says they think its an old pine root, but she has
a way o' coaxin' 'em that's awful nice. There she'll stand in freezin'
weather calling them 'Me beauties'.

"You see that little windy in the end?" he continued, as they came
close to the witch's hut. "Well, that's the loft, an' it's full o' all
sorts o' plants an' roots."

"What for?"

"Oh, for medicine. She's great on hairbs."

"Oh, yes, I remember now Biddy did say that her Granny was a herb
doctor."

"Doctor? She ain't much of a doctor, but I bet she knows every plant
that grows in the woods, an' they're sure strong after they've been up
there for a year, with the cat sleepin' on them."

"I wish I could go and see her."

"Guess we can," was the reply.

"Doesn't she know you?"

"Yes, but watch me fix her," drawled Sam. "There ain't nothin' she
likes better'n a sick pusson."

Sam stopped now, rolled up his sleeves and examined both arms,
apparently without success, for he then loosed his suspenders, dropped
his pants, and proceeded to examine his legs. Of course, all boys
have more or less cuts and bruises in various stages of healing. Sam
selected his best, just below the knee, a scratch from a nail in the
fence. He had never given it a thought before, but now he "reckoned
it would do." With a lead pencil borrowed from Yan he spread a hue
of mortification all around it, a green butternut rind added the
unpleasant yellowish-brown of human decomposition, and the result
was a frightful looking plague spot. By chewing some grass he made a
yellowish-green dye and expectorated this on the handkerchief which he
bound on the sore. He then got a stick and proceeded to limp painfully
toward the witch's abode. As they drew near, the partly open door was
slammed with ominous force. Sam, quite unabashed, looked at Yan and
winked, then knocked. The bark of a small dog answered. He knocked
again. A sound now of some one moving within, but no answer. A third
time he knocked, then a shrill voice: "Get out o' that. Get aff my
place, you dirthy young riff-raff."

Sam grinned at Yan. Then drawling a little more than usual, he said:

"It's a poor boy, Granny. The doctors can't do nothin' for him," which