Мхи старой усадьбы

           Tosaythetruth,whetheritwerechance,orskill,ordownrightwitchcraft,therewassomethingwonderfullyhumaninthisridiculousshape,bedizenedwithitstatteredfinery;andasforthecountenance,itappearedtoshrivelitsyellowsurfaceintoagrin—afunnykindofexpressionbetwixtscornandmerriment,asifitunderstooditselftobeajestatmankind.ThemoreMotherRigbylookedthebettershewaspleased.

           "Dickon,"criedshesharply,"anothercoalformypipe!"

           Hardlyhadshespoken,than,justasbefore,therewasared-glowingcoalonthetopofthetobacco.Shedrewinalongwhiffandpuffeditforthagainintothebarofmorningsunshinewhichstruggledthroughtheonedustypaneofhercottagewindow.MotherRigbyalwayslikedtoflavorherpipewithacoaloffirefromtheparticularchimneycornerwhencethishadbeenbrought.Butwherethatchimneycornermightbe,orwhobroughtthecoalfromit,—furtherthanthattheinvisiblemessengerseemedtorespondtothenameofDickon,—Icannottell.

           "Thatpuppetyonder,"thoughtMotherRigby,stillwithhereyesfixedonthescarecrow,"istoogoodapieceofworktostandallsummerinacorn-patch,frighteningawaythecrowsandblackbirds.He’scapableofbetterthings.Why,I’vedancedwithaworseone,whenpartnershappenedtobescarce,atourwitchmeetingsintheforest!WhatifIshouldlethimtakehischanceamongtheothermenofstrawandemptyfellowswhogobustlingabouttheworld?"

           Theoldwitchtookthreeorfourmorewhiffsofherpipeandsmiled.

           "He’llmeetplentyofhisbrethrenateverystreetcorner!"continuedshe.