THE WITCH IN THE CREAM. A TRUE STORY.

The old stone farm-house in which my grandmother lived had beneath it what I thought a very interesting cellar. The floor was plastered and whitewashed like the walls, to ensure the place from rats and other intruders, as well as to keep it cool. From the walls, flat stones projected, serving as shelves on which the butter and milk were kept. For years the milk had had a shelf to itself near the window.

One summer morning, while Grandma and I were sitting on the porch waiting for breakfast, the little colored servant came to us with wide-open eyes, saying: “La, Missy, jes look at dis milk-pan!” We looked, and saw, to our disgust, that the inside of the pan was covered with sand and grime, while the milk, which usually was coated with rich, thick cream, was thin and poor. “Why, Janey,” said Grandma, “you didn’t put milk away in a pan like that, did you?” “La, no, Missy,” said Janey, “nobody wouldn’t nebber put milk away in a dirty pan.” “This is very strange,” said Grandma. “You will have to throw the milk away, Janey, and be especially careful to have the pan clean this evening.” “Yes’m,” said Janey, “I will.”

The following morning, however, the milk had to be thrown away again, as the pan was in a worse condition than on the preceding morning. “I don’t understand it,” said Grandma. “It can’t be rats, nor mice, for there is no way for them to come in.” “They couldn’t climb into a tin pan eight inches high, at any rate,” I said, “and if they jumped in they would drown.” Janey shook her head knowingly and said, “It’s witches, Missy, dat’s jes what it is.” A light board was placed over the milk that evening, but we found that the marauder pushed it off in the night. We felt that we must come to Janey’s conclusion about the witches, if the mystery were not solved soon.

In the afternoon of the third day of these experiences we were sitting on the back porch with our sewing, both of us half asleep, when chancing to look up I saw a rat go scudding across the yard. Straight to the cellar window he went, and, approaching one corner, thrust his nose under the sash. He gave a mighty tug, pushed one paw under, and soon, by pushing and pulling with nose and with paws, he crept through the window. From my position on the porch I could see all that was happening in the cellar. He jumped to the milk shelf, turned around, raised himself on his forepaws, and clasped the edge of the milk pan with his hind ones.

He then threw his tail into the pan, whisked it rapidly over the milk, coating it with cream, and licked it. This he repeated until he had a full meal, or at least until he had skimmed all the cream.

He started homeward then, and I was so much amazed that I didn’t attempt to stop him. On the following morning he was caught in the steel trap set just inside the window for him.

Elizabeth Roberts Burton.

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