The sculptured letters must be cut anew,
That on the crumbling girdle of his house
Proclaim him Principe. That be your task,
And pare your miserable marble, me.

FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

"Dickon," cried Mother Rigby, "a coal for my pipe!"

The pipe was in the old dame's mouth, when she said these words. She had
thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to
light it at the hearth; where, indeed, there was no appearance of a fire
having been kindled, that morning. Forthwith, however, as soon as the
order was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the
pipe, and a whiff of smoke from Mother Rigby's lips. Whence the coal came,
and how brought thither by an invisible hand, I have never been able to
discover.

"Good!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head. "Thank ye, Dickon! And
now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, Dickon, in case I need you
again!"

The good woman had risen thus early (for as yet it was scarcely sunrise),
in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she intended to put in the
middle of her corn patch. It was now the latter week of May, and the crows
and blackbirds had already discovered the little, green, rolled-up leaf of
the Indian corn, just peeping out of the soil. She was determined,
therefore, to contrive as lifelike a scarecrow as ever was seen, and to
finish it immediately, from top to toe, so that it should begin its
sentinel's duty that very morning. Now, mother Rigby (as every body must
have heard) was one of the most cunning and potent witches in New England,
and might, with very little trouble, have made a scarecrow ugly enough to
frighten the minister himself. But, on this occasion, as she had awakened
in an uncommonly pleasant humor, and was further dulcified by her pipe of
tobacco, she resolved to produce something fine, beautiful, and splendid,
rather than hideous and horrible.

"I don't want to set up a hobgoblin in my own corn-patch, and almost at my
own doorstep," said Mother Rigby to herself, puffing out a whiff of smoke;
"I could do it if I pleased; but I'm tired of doing marvellous things, and
so I'll keep within the bounds of everyday business, just for variety's
sake. Besides, there is no use in scaring the little children, for a mile
roundabout, though 'tis true I'm a witch!"

It was settled, therefore