ence either a star of nobility had been
rent away, or else the hot heart of some former wearer had scorched it
through and through. The neighbors said that this rich garment belonged
to the Black Man's wardrobe, and that he kept it at Mother Rigby's
cottage for the convenience of slipping it on whenever he wished to
make a grand appearance at the governor's table. To match the coat
there was a velvet waistcoat of very ample size, and formerly
embroidered with foliage that had been as brightly golden as the maple
leaves in October, but which had now quite vanished out of the
substance of the velvet. Next came a pair of scarlet breeches, once
worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, and the knees of which had
touched the lower step of the throne of Louis le Grand. The Frenchman
had given these small-clothes to an Indian powwow, who parted with them
to the old witch for a gill of strong waters, at one of their dances in
the forest. Furthermore, Mother Rigby produced a pair of silk stockings
and put them on the figure's legs, where they showed as unsubstantial
as a dream, with the wooden reality of the two sticks making itself
miserably apparent through the holes. Lastly, she put her dead
husband's wig on the bare scalp of the pumpkin, and surmounted the
whole with a dusty three-cornered hat, in which was stuck the longest
tail feather of a rooster.

Then the old dame stood the figure up in a corner of her cottage and
chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with its nobby
little nose thrust into the air. It had a strangely self-satisfied
aspect, and seemed to say, "Come look at me!"

"And you are well worth looking at, that's a fact!" quoth Mother Rigby,
in admiration at her own handiwork. "I've made many a puppet since I've
been a witch, but methinks this is the finest of them all. 'Tis almost
too good for a scarecrow. And, by the by, I'll just fill a fresh pipe
of tobacco and then take him out to the corn-patch."

While filling her pipe the old woman continued to gaze with almost
motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say the truth,
whether it were chance, or skill, or downright witchcraft, there was
something wonderfully human in this ridiculous shape, bedizened with
its tattered finery; and as for the countenance, it appeared to shrivel
its yellow surface into a grin--a funny kind of expression betwixt
scorn and merriment, as if it understood itself to be a jest at
mankind. The more Mother