Chapter III

The Yellow Bird


Goodwife Higgins, who kept the home for the little maid and her father,
rose early the next day before the sun was up. The soft light of dawn
filled the air; the eastern sky was breaking rosily. A moment, she stood
in the doorway, inhaling with delight the fresh, delicious air, noting
how the dew lay white as hoar-frost on the grass. She made the fire and
put the kettle on to boil, filling it first with water from the spring.
Then she went to Deliverance’s room to awaken her, loath to do so, for
she felt the little maid had become very weary the previous day. To her
surprise she found the small hooded bed empty.

“The dear child,” smiled the goodwife, “she has gone to gather
strawberries for her father’s breakfast. She repents, I perceive,
her unchastened heart, and seeks to pleasure me by an o’er amount o’
promptness.”

She turned to fling back the covers of the bed that they might air
properly. This, however, had already been done. On the window-ledge a
little yellow bird sat preening its feathers. It looked at her with its
bright, black eyes and continued its dainty toilet undisturbed. Now, this
was strange, for as every one knew, the wild canary was a shy bird and
flew away at the least approach. The goodwife grew pale, for she feared
she was in the presence of a witch, knowing that witches often took upon
themselves the forms of yellow birds, that they might by such an innocent
and harmless seeming, accomplish much evil among unsuspecting persons.
She tiptoed out of the room, and returned with her Bible as a protection
against any spell the witch might cast upon her.

“Ye wicked one,” she cried, and her voice shook, “ye who have given
yourself over from God to the Devil, get ye gone from this godly house!”

At these words the bird flew away, proving it beyond doubt to be
possessed by an evil spirit, for it is known that a witch cannot bear to
hear the name of the Lord. The goodwife was yet more affrighted to see
the bird fly in the woods in the direction in which the strawberry patch
lay. There Deliverance probably was. What power could avail against the
witch casting a malignant spell upon her? She leaned out of the window,
calling,—

“Deliverance, Deliverance, come into the house! There be a witch abroad.
Deliverance, oh, Deliverance!”

Several moments passed. At last to her anxious gaze appeared Deliverance,
tripping out of the green woods from the direction in which the bird had
flown. She was attired in her tiffany gown, and there was that about the
yellow sheen of the fair silk and the long braid of her yellow hair which
made her seem like the yellow bird in human form. The first rays of the
sun struck aslant her head. She was singing, and as she sang she smiled.
She could not have gone to gather berries, for she carried neither
basket nor dish. It was evident she had not heard her name called, for
she paused startled and abashed, and the singing words died on her lips,
when she saw the dame leaning out of the window.

“Deliverance, ye naughty baggage,” cried the goodwife, sharply, “where
have ye been and what for have ye on your gown o’ tiffany?”

The words were stern, but her heart was beating like to break and
throbbed in unison with Sir Jonathan’s warning the previous night.
“Gossips, take care lest you harbour a witch in yonder girl.” She hurried
to the kitchen door to meet Deliverance. As the little maid shamefacedly
crossed the threshold she raised her hand to strike her, but dropped it
to her side and shook her head, for in her heart she said sadly, “And gin
ye be a witch, child, sore will be your punishment and my hand shall add
no blow.” For she was minded of her own little girl who had died of the
smallpox so many years ago. She prepared the breakfast with more bustle
and noise than usual, as was her wont when disturbed.

Deliverance, greatly mortified at having been detected and wondering why
she was not questioned, went to her room and put on her linsey-woolsey
petticoat and sacque.

When she came out to lay the table, to her surprise, Goodwife Higgins
spoke her gently. “Go, child, and call your father, for the Indian bread
be right crusty and brown and the bacon crisp.”

Deliverance opened the still-room door. Master Wentworth, attired in
his morning-gown, was preparing his work for the day. He was celebrated
in Boston Town for his beauty and honey waters as well as for his
diet-drinks. Recently, he had had a large order from the Governor’s
lady—who had many vanities and was very fine indeed—for balls of sweet
gums and oils, which, wrapped in geranium leaves, were to be burned on
coals to perfume the room.

This morning no accustomed sweet odour greeted Deliverance. Pungent,
disagreeable fumes rose from the bowl over which her father bent. So
absorbed was he in this experiment that he did not answer until she had
called him several times.

Then he greeted her kindly and the two walked out to breakfast. Goodwife
Higgins watched Deliverance narrowly while grace was said and her heart
grew lighter to behold the little maid listen devoutly, her head humbly
bowed, as she said “amen” with fervour. Nevertheless, Sir Jonathan’s
words rang in the dame’s ears all day: “Gossips, take care lest you
harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

Even the cream was bewitched. The butter would not come until she had
heated a horseshoe red-hot and hung it over the churn. Also, three times
a mouse ran across the floor.

Deliverance hurried through her morning chores, anxious to reach the
town’s highway before school called, that she might see the judges go
riding by to court, then being held in Salem. A celebrated trial of
witches was going on. In the front yard she found Goodwife Higgins
weeding the flower-bed.

“Be a good child, Deliverance,” said the dame, looking up with troubled
face, for she was much perplexed over the unseemly conduct of the little
maid.

“Might ye be pleased to kiss me before I go?” asked Deliverance, putting
up her cheek.

The goodwife barely touched her lips to the soft cheek, having a secret
fear lest the little maid were in communion with evil spirits. Her heart
was so full of grief that her eyes filled with tears, and she could
scarce see whether she were pulling up weeds or flowers.

As soon as Deliverance had made the turn of the road and was beyond the
goodwife’s vision, she began to run in her anxiety to reach the town’s
highway and see the reverend judges go riding by. The Dame School lay
over half-way to town, facing the road, but she planned to make a cut
through the forest back of the building, that she might not be observed
by any scholars going early to school. To her disappointment, these happy
plans were set at naught by hearing the conch-shell blown to call the
children in. In her haste she had failed to consult the hour-glass before
leaving home. She was so far away as to be late even as it was, and she
did not dare be any later. She stamped her foot with vexation. The school
door was closed when she reached it, out of breath, cross, and flurried.
She raised the knocker and rapped. A prim little girl opened the door.
Prayers had already been said and Dame Grundle had called the first class
in knitting.

Deliverance courtesied low to the dame, who kept the large room with
the older scholars. There were four rows of benches filled with precise
little girls. The class in knitting was learning the fox-and-geese
pattern, a most fashionable and difficult stitch, new from Boston Town.
In this class was Abigail Brewster.

Deliverance opened the door into the smaller room. At her entrance soft
whispers and gurgles of laughter ceased. She had twelve scholars, seven
girls and five boys, the boys seated on the bench back of the girls.

The little girls were exact miniatures of the larger scholars in Dame
Grundle’s room. Each of them held a posy for her teacher, the frail wild
flowers already wilting. The boys, devoid of any such sentiment, were
twisting, wriggling, and whispering. Typical Puritan boys were they with
cropped heads, attired in homespun small-clothes, their bare feet and
legs tanned and scratched.

Deliverance made all an elaborate courtesy.

They slipped down from the benches, the girls bobbing and the boys
ducking their heads, in such haste that two of them knocked together and
commenced quarrelling. Deliverance, with a vigorous shake of each small
culprit, put them at opposite ends of the bench. The first task was the
study of the alphabet. A buzz of whispering voices arose as the children
conned their letters from books made of two sheets of horn: on one side
the alphabet was printed and on the other the Lord’s Prayer. The humming
of the little voices over their A, B, C’s made a pleasant accompaniment
to their teacher’s thought, who, with every stitch in the sampler she
was embroidering, wove in a vision of herself in a crimson velvet gown
and stomacher worked with gold thread, such as were worn by the little
court lady, the Cavalier’s sweetest daughter. Growing conscious of a
disturbance in class she looked up.

“Stability Williams,” she said sternly, “can ye no sit still without
jerking around like as your head was loosed?”

Stability’s tears flowed copiously at the reproof.

“Please, ma’am,” spoke up Hannah Sears, “he’s been pulling o’ her hair.”

Deliverance’s sharp eyes spied the guilty offender.

“Ebenezer Gibbs,” said she, “stop your wickedness, and as for ye,
Stability Williams, cease your idle soughing.”

For awhile all was quiet. Then, there broke forth a muffled sob from
Stability, followed by an irrepressible giggle from the boys. Deliverance
stepped down from the platform and rapped Ebenezer Gibbs’ head smartly
with her thimble.

“Ye rude and ill-mannered boy,” she cried; “have ye no shame to be
pulling Stability Williams’ hair and inticing others to laugh at your
evil doings? Ye can just come along now and stand in the crying-corner.”

The crying-corner was the place where the children stood to weep after
they had been punished. Pathetic record of childish grief was this
corner, the pine boards black with the imprint of small grimy fingers and
spotted with tears from little wet faces. Doubtless Deliverance rapped
the offender more severely than she intended, for he wept steadily.
Although she knew he deserved the reproof, his crying smote her heart
sorely.

“Ebenezer Gibbs,” she said, after a while, “when ye think ye have weeped
sufficient long, ye can take your seat.”

But he continued to weep and sniffle the entire morning, not even ceasing
when his companions had their resting-minute. The day was quite spoiled
for Deliverance by the sight of the tiny figure with the cropped head
pressed close in the corner, as the culprit rested first on one foot and
then the other.

Altogether she was very glad when Dame Grundle rang the bell for
dismissal, and she could put on the children’s things and conduct them
home. It was a pleasant walk to town through the woods. Deliverance, at
the head of her little procession, always entered the village at an angle
to pass the meeting-house where all important news was given forth and
public gatherings held. The great front door faced the highway and was
the town bulletin board. Sometimes a constable was stationed near by to
read the message aloud to the unlettered. A chilling wind swept down the
road this morning as Deliverance and her following drew near.

Inside the meeting-house the great witch-trial was still in session.
A large crowd, which could not be accommodated inside, thronged the
steps and peered in through the windows. The sun which had risen so
brightly, had disappeared. The gray sky, the raw air, hung gloomily over
the scene, wherein the sad-coloured garments of the gentlefolk made a
background for the bright bodices of the goodwives, and the red, green,
and blue doublets of the yeomen. Soldiers mingled with the throng. So
much noise had disturbed the court that the great door had been ordered
closed. On the upper panels wolves’ heads (nailed by hunters in proof of
their success that they might receive the bounty), with grinning fangs
and blood trickling to the steps, looked down upon the people.

The children with Deliverance grew frightened and clutched at her dress,
trying to drag her away, but she, eager to hear whatever news there was,
silenced them peremptorily.

Suddenly she heard a strange sound. Glancing down she beheld one of her
scholars, crawling on his hands and knees, mewing like a cat. Another
child imitated this curious action, and yet another. A fourth child
screamed and fell in convulsions. In a few moments the panic had spread
to them all. The children were mad with terror. One little girl began
barking like a dog, still another crowed like a cock, flapping her arms
as though they were wings.

The crowd, disturbed by the shrill cries, turned its attention and
pressed around the scene of fresh excitement. Faces of hearty women and
stout men blanched.

“Even the babes be not spared,” they cried; “see, they be bewitched.”

Goodwife Gibbs broke from the rest, and lifted up her little son who lay
in convulsions on the dusty road. “The curse o’ God be on the witch who
has done this,” she cried wildly; “let her be revealed that she may be
punished.”

The child writhed, then grew quiet; a faint colour came back into his
face. His eyelids quivered and unclosed. Deliverance called him by name,
bending over him as he lay in his mother’s arms. As she did so he struck
her in the face, a world of terror in his eyes, screaming that she was
the witch and had stuck pins in him.

“Dear Lord,” cried the little maid, aghast, raising her eyes to heaven,
“ye ken I but rapped his pate for sniffling and larfing in class.”

But strange rumours were afloat regarding Deliverance Wentworth. Sir
Jonathan’s words were on every gossip’s tongue: “Gossips, take care lest
you harbour a witch in yonder girl.”

Naturally, at the convulsed child’s words, which seemed a confirmation of
that warning, the good people drew away, shuddering, each man pressing
against his neighbour, until they formed a circle a good distance back
from the little assistant teacher of the Dame School.

Thus Deliverance stood at noonday, publicly disgraced, sobbing, with her
hands over her face in the middle of the roadway; an object of hatred
and abhorrence, with the screaming children clutching at her dress, or
crawling at her feet.

But suddenly her father, who, returning from his herb-gathering, had
pushed his way to the edge of the crowd and perceived Deliverance,
stepped out and took his daughter by the hand. He spoke sternly to those
who blocked the way, so that the people parted to let them pass. Master
Wentworth was a man of dignity and high repute in those parts.

As the two walked home hand in hand, Deliverance, with many tears,
related the morning’s events; how in some anger she had rapped Ebenezer
Gibbs’ head with her thimble, and how he had cried thereat.

“I am ashamed of you, Deliverance,” said her father. “Have you no heart
of grace that you must needs be filled with evil and violence because of
the naughtiness of a little child? Moreover, if you had been discreet
all this mortification had not befallen you. How many times have you
been telled, daughter, not to idle on the way, ogling, gossiping, and
craning your neck about for curiosity? And now we will say nothing more
about it,” he ended. “Only do you remember, Deliverance, that when people
are given over to foolishness, and there is a witch panic, it behooves
the wise to be very prudent, and to walk soberly, with shut mouth and
downcast eyes, so that no man may point his finger and accuse them.
Methinks Goodwife Gibbs’ boy is coming down with a fever sickness. Remind
me that I brew a strengthening draught for him to-night.”