The Discontented Witch

Southland Times, Issue 23954, 21 October 1939, Page 6 (Supplement)

The Discontented Witch

It was Hallowe’en, night of bats and goblins and wailing ghosts. The full moon hung above the rooftops like a lighted jack-o’-lantern and a chill wind blew; but louder than the wind, and more swift, was the whisking of brooms across the sky.

For an instant, the moon itself was blotted out by flying shadows as, clustered together, singly or in groups, the witches passed. Then might be heard the rattling of their bones and the flapping of ragged skirts.

Last of all came Toby. She crouched low over her broomstick, while a black cat clung with arched back and stiff tail to her shoulder. A more dreadful, mean-looking old witch could not be imagined. Cobwebs hung to her tall pointed hat. Her face looked like a dusty old cobweb, to&. As for her nose and chin, they were so long that they well nigh met each other. Her very voice sounded splintered and cracked as she cried out, “Oh, how I hate it! Hate it! Hate it!” Her words rose to a shriek, thin and shrill like the wind through the telephone wires, and then died away completely. So Toby flitted haphazardly across the sky, with her old cat on her shoulder, with her pointed blue shoes and her cobwebby hat—higher still, and higher.

“Watch yourself!” the cat said, sharply. Toby veered to the left, ' just grazing a corner of the moon. Pointing her broomstick downward, she circled slowly, until once again the round, misty world came into view.

"Do you know,” Toby said suddenly, turning about, until she looked into the wide, yellow eyes of the cat, “it must be a wonderful thing to be respectable.” “Respectable!” the cat gasped. Toby nodded. “Yes, to be a nice

old lady, with grandchildren and spectacles and all! Sort of a plump old lady.” “Toby!” the cat exclaimed. “What’s come over you? You must be sick."

“No," Toby said slowly, “not really sick—just sick of the kind of a life I lead—you krfow, broomsticks and cauldrons and evilsmelling brews. Sometimes I think I can’t stand it another minute.”

The cat twitched her tail. “You’re not going soft on me, are you?” she asked irritably. “You’re not getting—well, queer or anything?” “It’s just that I’ve been thinking,” the witch went on, “about a nice little cottage by the side of the road, with pretty green shutters and turnips growing in the yard. About a sweet little granddaughter—.” Toby broke off with a sigh. “I would

rather be a grandmother,” she said a moment later in a smothered sort of voice, “than anything else in the world.”

For a time she bounced along in silence, only leaning forward now and then to peer down, where the lights of a city twinkled in the distance. “Surely it’s a sad thing,” she said at last, "to be flying around like a bat, while all the other old ladies of my age are knitting quietly by the hearth. And the worst of it is, there must be plenty of children in the world simply longing for a grandmother. I wonder what would happen if I were to introduce myself into some -

modest little house and say, quite simply, ’Children, I’m your grandmother.’ "

The cat on her shoulder sniggered unpleasantly. "Be still!” shouted Toby. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m a horrid, ugly old witch and nobody will have anything to do with me. No! Don’t deny it,” she cried, as the cat made a funny sound.

“I wouldn’t dream of denying it,” the cat said loftily. “As I was about to say, the mere sight of you is enough to send any decent child into fits.”

“I don’t know about that,” Toby answered stiffly. “If I were to put on a little weight and crimp my hair a bit, I'd be quite a cosy old soul. Anyway, you shall see! The children will appreciate me, even if you don’t. They’ll see that even

if I am an old witch on the outside, inside I’m a kind, sweet grandmother;”

“Don’t you think you’d better be careful?” the cat suggested. But Toby only tossed her head stubbornly and, giving a jerk to her broomstick, plunged recklessly toward the earth.

For an instant the world seemed to swim up toward them, then the broom grazed the top of a tree and a telephone wire, and Toby drew up with a bump in a little dark street. Lighted jack-o’-lanterns scowled down from the windows of the houses that rose straight from the sidewalk. The cat leapt on to a gatepost and sat there grinning at her.

“Almost any little house would do,” said the old witch, hobbling up and down with her broomstick in her hand and peering up at the lighted windows. Before one she paused. What a gay little house it was. The sound of laughter and children’s voices floated out, shrill and happy, in the night air. “That’s the one,” she went on, and pushing back a stray wisp of hair and straightening her dress, she started toward the steps. “Your petticoat’s hanging down,” the cat told her, but Toby was too excited to care. She set her broom neatly by the door and, raising one gnarled old hand, rapped timidly. The door was opened at once by a little boy. "Good evening, my dear,” said the witch, and before he had time to answer, with a flutter of her ragged skirts and a twinkle of pointed blue shoes, she whisked past him into the living room. Here a gay, happy scene met her eyes! Four children (one scarcely

more than a baby) sat cross-legged on the hearth before a fire that crackled merrily. They were laughing and the old witch’s cheeks grew rosy with pleasure. “Good evening, my dears, good evening,” she cackled. The children’s eyes grew round with surprise. They drew back and glanced uneasily at one another. Toby stretched her wizened face into a smile.

“My dears,” she began, and then she noticed the one who was scarcely more than a baby. How plump and rosy he looked there in the firelight! With a little cry of pleasure she bent over and caught him up in her bony old arms. The baby made a gasping sound. He doubled up his fists and began to scream and struggle. "There, there,” said the witch, as she set him quickly on the floor again. “I meant no harm,” she

went on apologetically to the other children. Two of them, she found, had scrambled under a table, and the third was peering at her from behind a door. The witch’s heart began to pound furiously. How the children stared at her! “Who are you?” the little boy demanded, as he squeezed himself as far as he was able into a corner. The witch smiled more sweetly than ever. “I am your grandmother, children, your own dear, kind grandmother.” “You’re not either! My grandmother is a nice old lady. She’s got a pretty, soft face and—why, you’re just a horrid old—.” Suddenly the little boy gasped. “Why, you’re a witch!” There was a moment of startled silence, and then all the children began to scream together, “Go away! Go away, you horrid old witch!” Toby burst out of the door like a startled cat. Her tall hat was all askew and she wailed to herself, “Oh, misery! Oh, me! Oh, my!” She caught hold of her broom and leapt astride it. “Well,” sniggered the cat. “Back again, eh?” “Oh, misery!” howled the witch and then—zoom—up into the air she shot, straight as a rocket and twice as fast, right above the housetops and into the clouds. “No hope! No hope left! I can never hope to be anything but a mean, ugly old witch.” “Let’s go faster," a voice whispered behind her. Turning round with a start, Toby found herself looking into the eyes of a little girl, who sat gaily bouncing up and down on the end of the broomstick. Toby headed instantly for the earth, where she came to rest in a deserted cornfield. “Now then,” she said, “who are you, and how do you come to be riding on the end of my broom?” The little girl sat still among the stalks of corn and smiled at the

witch through the moonlight. "I saw you jump on to it, so I just scrambled up behind, that’s all. My name is Patches.” And no wonder, Toby thought, peering at her sharply! The little girl’s dress, though neat and clean, was made up of a quantity of bright-coloured patches, like a crazy, quilt or a jumbled piece of rainbow. But what a charming little girl she was—just such a little girl as anyone would want as a grandchild! Her eyes were wide and merry. There were freckles on her blunt little nose and two bright pigtails stuck out saucily behind. And how the old witch longed to keep her; how she longed to carry her off to a desolate hearth and

keep her forever, among the cobwebs and cauldrons! But, “No!”

a voice cried out in Toby’s crabbed heart. “For shame! The poor child would turn into a witch herself, as

sure as shooting.” “I’ll have to take you back to your people,” she said with a sigh. “But I have no people,” Patches explained. “I’m just a waif.” “No—no grandmother?” the witch cislcocL “No, nobody at all. Unless,” Patches added shyly, “you’d like to be my grandmother.” Toby’s face grew suddenly tender. "Oh, my dear, if I would like to! But no—it’s no sort of life for a

child, broomsticks and cauldrons—” “I wouldn’t mind,” said Patches. The old witch shook her head. “What you should have is a sweet little house with hollyhocks and shutters—”

“Why don’t you make one?” asked

the little girl. "Oh, don’t think I haven’t tried. I’ve spent my life making one brew after another, but nothing eves

Came of it. Of course,” the old, witch went on, after a moments' thought, “I could try again.” “Of course, you could,” said,. Pstchcs The cat winked maliciously at Toby. “I will try,” said Toby, staring him straight in the eye. Taking the little girl’s hand, with the cat tripping along daintily behind her, she led the way to an old abandoned cottage. It was just such a place as a witch would choose to make her magic brews, of a midnight on Hallowe’en. The sagging • door creaked forlornly as they entered and, when they had lighted a candle, its beam showed a mass of cobwebs and dust and dirt. “Mice,” whispered the cat, beginning to twitch her tail. Toby found a rusty old kettle and when she had built a fire under it, she fell to work at once. So intent was she that she scarcely noticed Patches, who sat down on a lopsided stool and stared. Toby did her very best. She put everything she could think of into the boiling kettle —herbs, and potions, and cast-off snake skins—and when the kettle was full to the very brim, she began her incantation and dance. Hobbling in a circle round the crackling flames, with arms raised, she cried out, “Come, hollyhocks! Come, come, shutters! Come, little house! Out of a kettle and a witch’s dream, come pretty white home!” The kettle went "Blub!” There was a horrid smell—and nothing more. “Pardon me, if I seem to smile,” said the cat. The old witch’s shoulders drooped. “It will do very nicely,” said Patches. “Of course, it needs a lot of fixing.” “What needs fixing?” Toby asked sharply, turning to look at the little girl. “Our little house,” said Patches, staring about at the dilapidated old cottage. “A bit of paint and. a good sweeping—after all, we have a kettle and a broom, and Sarah can attend to the mice. I’ve named the cat, Sarah. It seems to suit her.”

What wonders a witch and her granddaughter can accomplish, once they set their wits to work in a sensible way! Before a week had passed, the dilapidated old cottage ■was as clean as a brand new rose.

Sarah no longer sniggered and winked unpleasantly, but lay like a respectable cat beside the hearth, with her tummy full of mice and a purr in her throat. But, perhaps, the most remarkable change of all was seen in Toby the witch. Gone were the pointed hat and rattling bones. She grew comfortably stout and crimped her hair into soft white curls about her face. A more respectable old lady could not be imagined, nor one whose eyes looked so happily out from behind her spectacles. No wonder everyone loved them—Miss Tabitha, as the witch came to be known among her neighbours, and her merry granddaughter, little Miss Patches]