he Good Spirit,
and giving him all their choice tribute of oysters and lobsters, but
also of roasting Pocasset. They said, "The priest of the Evil Spirit
is good for nothing. When Sasasquit called upon his master, he heard
him, and at his request sent us a good gift; but Pocasset's master
hears him not, though he has sung him a song which makes our ears cry
for deafness." They had just caught hold of Pocasset, and were going
to pull him to pieces, when there was a great noise of thunder, though
they saw no lightning, and a little creature started up out of the
ground, and stood in the midst of them. Never was a more ugly,
misshapen monster seen upon the earth. He was no bigger than a child
that has seen the flowers bloom and the corn ripen twice. Yet he
appeared to be very old, for his hair was of the colour of the moss
upon the sunny side of the oak; his teeth were rotten and decayed; his
knees were bent out like warped bows; and his voice was not the voice
of a young man, but sounded like the voice of the muck-a-wiss singing
in the hollow woods in the summer moons. His face was covered with
hair of the colour of the feathers of the blue heron, and stood out
like the feathers of a duck that plumes itself in the warm sun, on the
shores of the lake. His skin was blacker than charred wood, or the
black raven. The Narragansetts were dreadfully frightened, and were
going to run away, when Pocasset stopped them, saying, "Don't be
afraid, it is my master. Don't you know him whom you have served so
many years? Why he won't hurt you."

"More than you know, Poke," grunted the ugly little creature, putting
his moss-coloured hair behind his great yellow ears. "But do not be
afraid, Narragansetts, the Little Man loves you, and is come to make
you a gift. What do you think these are?"--showing them a bow and a
sheaf of arrows. The Narragansetts all declared they could not tell,
and begged the Little Man to tell them the names, and shew them the
uses of the strange instruments.

"I will," said he. "Now tell me what bird that is which sits upon the
dry branch of the aged hemlock by the little stream?"

One answered, and told him it was the bird which sang in the morning to
wake lazy sleepers, and to tell the bashful lover who loitered around
the couch of his maiden that the eyes of the sun would soon be upon
them.

"The bird that has sung in the morning shall never sing in the evening,"
said the monster grinning. With that, drawi