Читать книгу Ye Lyttle Salem Maide. A Story of Witchcraft онлайн

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So Deliverance was seated on a stool next to Abigail Brewster, with Goodwife Higgins’ apron tied around her neck, a pewter bowl of steaming hasty-pudding in her lap, a mug of milk conveniently near.

The goodwives, their attention taken from the little maid, turned their conversation upon witchcraft, and as they talked, sturdy voices shook and florid faces blanched at every gust of wind in the chimney.

“Abigail,” whispered Deliverance, “did ye e’er clap eyes on Goody Jones sith she became a witch?”

“Never,” answered Abigail. “Father telled me to run lest she give me the malignant touch. Oh dear, I have counted my stitches wrong.”

The humming of Goodwife Higgins’ spinning-wheel made a musical accompaniment to all that was said. And the firelight dancing over the spinner’s ruddy face and buxom figure made of her a pleasant picture as she guided the thread, her busy foot on the treadle.

Ah, what tales were told around the fireplace of the New England kitchen where centred all homely cheer and comfort, and the gossips’ tongues wagged fast as the glancing knitting-needles flashed! High in the yawning chimney, from ledge to ledge, stretched the great lugpole, made from green wood that it might not catch fire. From it swung on hooks the pots and kettles used in cooking. Bright andirons reflected the dancing flames and on either side were the settles. From the heavy rafters were festooned strings of dried fruit, small yellow and green squashes, scarlet peppers. Sand was scattered over the floor. Darkness, banished by the firelight, lurked in the far corners of the room.