The most important item of all, probably, although it made solittle show, was a certain broomstick, on which Mother Rigby had takenmany an airy gallop at midnight, and which now served the scarecrow byway of a spinal column, or, as the unlearned phrase it, a backbone.
One of its arms was a disabled flail which used to be wielded byGoodman Rigby, before his spouse worried him out of this troublesomeworld; the other, if I mistake not, was composed of the puddingstick and a broken rung of a chair, tied loosely together at theelbow. As for its legs, the right was a hoe handle, and the left anundistinguished and miscellaneous stick from the woodpile. Itslungs, stomach, and other affairs of that kind were nothing betterthan a meal bag stuffed with straw. Thus we have made out the skeletonand entire corporosity of the scarecrow, with the exception of itshead; and this was admirably supplied by a somewhat withered andshrivelled pumpkin, in which Mother Rigby cut two holes for theeyes, and a slit for the mouth, leaving a bluish-colored knob in themiddle to pass for a nose. It was really quite a respectable face.
"I've seen worse ones on human shoulders, at any rate," said MotherRigby. "And many a fine gentleman has a pumpkin head, as well as myscarecrow."But the clothes, in this case, were to be the making of the man. Sothe good old woman took down from a peg an ancient plum-colored coatof London make, and with relics of embroidery on its seams, cuffs,pocket-flaps, and button-holes, but lamentably worn and faded, patchedat the elbows, tattered at the skirts, and threadbare all over. On theleft breast was a round hole, whence either a star of nobility hadbeen rent away, or else the hot heart of some former wearer hadscorched it through and through. The neighbors said that this richgarment belonged to the Black Man's wardrobe, and that he kept it atMother Rigby's cottage for the convenience of slipping it onwhenever 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, andformerly embroidered with foliage that had been as brightly goldenas the maple leaves in October, but which had now quite vanished outof the substance of the velvet. Next came a pair of scarletbreeches, once worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, and theknees of which had touched the lower step of the throne of Louis leGrand. The Frenchman had given these small-clothes to an Indianpowwow, who parted with them to the old witch for a gill of strongwaters, at one of their dances in the forest. Furthermore, MotherRigby produced a pair of silk stockings and put them on the figure'slegs, where they showed as unsubstantial as a dream, with the woodenreality of the two sticks making itself miserably apparent through theholes. Lastly, she put her dead husband's wig on the bare scalp of thepumpkin, 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 cottageand chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with itsnobby little nose thrust into the air. It had a strangelyself-satisfied aspect, and seemed to say, "Come look at me!""And you are well worth looking at, that's a fact!" quoth MotherRigby, in admiration at her own handiwork. "I've made many a puppetsince I've been a witch, but methinks this is the finest of themall. 'Tis almost too good for a scarecrow. And, by the by, I'll justfill a fresh pipe of tobacco and then take him out to the corn-patch."While filling her pipe the old woman continued to gaze withalmost motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say thetruth, 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, itappeared to shrivel its yellow surface into a grin- a funny kind ofexpression betwixt scorn and merriment, as if it understood itselfto be a jest at mankind. The more Mother Rigby looked the better shewas pleased.
"Dickon," cried she sharply, "another coal for my pipe!"Hardly had she spoken, than, just as before, there was ared-glowing coal on the top of the tobacco. She drew in a long whiffand puffed it forth again into the bar of morning sunshine whichstruggled through the one dusty pane of her cottage window. MotherRigby always liked to flavor her pipe with a coal of fire from theparticular chimney corner whence this had been brought. But where thatchimney corner might be, or who brought the coal from it- further thanthat the invisible messenger seemed to respond to the name ofDickon- I cannot tell.
"That puppet yonder," thought Mother Rigby, still with her eyesfixed on the scarecrow, "is too good a piece of work to stand allsummer in a corn-patch, frightening away the crows and blackbirds.
He's capable of better things. Why, I've danced with a worse one, whenpartners happened to be scarce, at our witch meetings in the forest!
What if I should let him take his chance among the other men ofstraw and empty fellows who go bustling about the world?"The old witch took three or four more whiffs of her pipe andsmiled.
"He'll meet plenty of his brethren at every street corner!"continued she. "Well; I didn't mean to dabble in witchcraft today,further than the lighting of my pipe, but a witch I am, and a witchI'm likely to be, and there's no use trying to shirk it. I'll make aman of my scarecrow, were it only for the joke's sake!"While muttering these words, Mother Rigby took the pipe from herown mouth and thrust it into the crevice which represented the samefeature in the pumpkin visage of the scarecrow.
