to the pipe, and sent forth such abundant volleys of tobacco smoke that
the small cottage kitchen became all vaporous. The one sunbeam
struggled mistily through, and could but imperfectly define the image
of the cracked and dusty window pane on the opposite wall. Mother
Rigby, meanwhile, with one brown arm akimbo and the other stretched
towards the figure, loomed grimly amid the obscurity with such port and
expression as when she was wont to heave a ponderous nightmare on her
victims and stand at the bedside to enjoy their agony. In fear and
trembling did this poor scarecrow puff. But its efforts, it must be
acknowledged, served an excellent purpose; for, with each successive
whiff, the figure lost more and more of its dizzy and perplexing
tenuity and seemed to take denser substance. Its very garments,
moreover, partook of the magical change, and shone with the gloss of
novelty and glistened with the skilfully embroidered gold that had long
ago been rent away. And, half revealed among the smoke, a yellow visage
bent its lustreless eyes on Mother Rigby.

At last the old witch clinched her fist and shook it at the figure. Not
that she was positively angry, but merely acting on the
principle--perhaps untrue, or not the only truth, though as high a one
as Mother Rigby could be expected to attain--that feeble and torpid
natures, being incapable of better inspiration, must be stirred up by
fear. But here was the crisis. Should she fail in what she now sought
to effect, it was her ruthless purpose to scatter the miserable
simulacre into its original elements.

"Thou hast a man's aspect," said she, sternly. "Have also the echo and
mockery of a voice! I bid thee speak!"

The scarecrow gasped, struggled, and at length emitted a murmur, which
was so incorporated with its smoky breath that you could scarcely tell
whether it were indeed a voice or only a whiff of tobacco. Some
narrators of this legend hold the opinion that Mother Rigby's
conjurations and the fierceness of her will had compelled a familiar
spirit into the figure, and that the voice was his.

"Mother," mumbled the poor stifled voice, "be not so awful with me! I
would fain speak; but being without wits, what can I say?"

"Thou canst speak, darling, canst thou?" cried Mother Rigby, relaxing
her grim countenance into a smile. "And what shalt thou say, quoth-a!
Say, indeed! Art thou of the brotherhood of the empty skull, and
demandest of me what thou shalt say? Thou