fe
depends on it!"

This was a strange exhortation, undoubtedly, to be addressed to a mere
thing of sticks, straw, and old clothes, with nothing better than a
shriveled pumpkin for a head, as we know to have been the scarecrow's
case. Nevertheless, as we must carefully hold in remembrance, Mother
Rigby was a witch of singular power and dexterity; and, keeping this
fact duly before our minds, we shall see nothing beyond credibility in
the remarkable incidents of our story. Indeed, the great difficulty
will be at once got over if we can only bring ourselves to believe that
as soon as the old dame bade him puff there came a whiff of smoke from
the scarecrow's mouth. It was the very feeblest of whiffs, to be sure,
but it was followed by another and another, each more decided than the
preceding one.

"Puff away, my pet! Puff away, my pretty one!" Mother Rigby kept
repeating, with her pleasantest smile. "It is the breath of life to ye
and that you may take my word for."

Beyond all question, the pipe was bewitched. There must have been a
spell either in the tobacco or in the fiercely glowing coal that so
mysteriously burned on top of it, or in the pungently aromatic smoke
which exhaled from the kindled weed. The figure, after a few doubtful
attempts, at length blew forth a volley of smoke extending all the way
from the obscure corner into the bar of sunshine. There it eddied and
melted away among the motes of dust. It seemed a convulsive effort, for
the two or three next whiffs were fainter, although the coal still
glowed and threw a gleam over the scarecrow's visage. The old witch
clapped her skinny hands together, and smiled encouragingly upon her
handiwork. She saw that the charm had worked well. The shriveled yellow
face, which heretofore had been no face at all, had already a thin
fantastic haze, as it were, of human likeness shifting to and fro
across it, sometimes vanishing entirely, but growing more perceptible
than ever with the next whiff from the pipe. The whole figure, in like
manner, assumed a show of life such as we impart to ill-defined shapes
among the clouds and half deceive ourselves with the pastime of our own
fancy.

If we must needs pry closely into the matter, it may be doubted whether
there was any real change, after all, in the sordid, worn-out,
worthless and ill-jointed substance of the scarecrow, but merely a
spectral illusion and a cunning effect of light and shade, so colored
and contrived as