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 The Indian hunter, searching his traps,
Peered stealthily through the forest gaps;
And the outlying settler shook his head,—
‘They're witches going to jail,’ he said.
At last a meeting-house came in view;
A blast on his horn the constable blew;
And the boys of Hampton cried up and down,
‘The Quakers have come!’ to the wondering town.
From barn and woodpile the goodman came;
The goodwife quitted her quilting frame,
With her child at her breast; and, hobbling slow,
The grandam followed to see the show.
Once more the torturing whip was swung,
Once more keen lashes the bare flesh stung.
‘Oh, spare! they are bleeding!’ a little maid cried,
And covered her face the sight to hide.
A murmur ran round the crowd: ‘Good folks,’
Quoth the constable, busy counting the strokes,
“No pity to wretches like these is due,
They have beaten the gospel black and blue!”
Then a pallid woman, in wild-eyed fear,
With her wooden noggin of milk drew near.
‘Drink, poor hearts!’ a rude hand smote
Her draught away from a parching throat.
‘Take heed,’ one whispered, “they'll take your cow
For fines, as they took your horse and plough,
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