How old Betty Booker rode skipper Perkins down to York
These two skippers, Mitchell and Perkins, were both Kittery salts, but of the two Skipper Perkins was the worst curried. Old Betty Booker wanted some fish, and she suggested her need to the skipper, “Bring me a bit o’ hal’but, skipper, when you git in—.”
“Show me your sixpence, ma’am,” was the thrifty reply. And with an ill-boding scowl, and a shake of— “Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair, And nose of a hawk, and eyes like a snake,”
She watched the skipper sail away. The sea beat him up and down. The gale tore his sails, and the fish sheered away from his trawls. His men got sick, and his schooner came home poorer than she went. Then it got bruited about that Betty Booker was making a witch-bridle for the skipper, and was going to ride him down to York some wild night, whereat, the skipper, when it came to his ears, got into a mortal terror. He was sure to be at home, always, before dusk; and his doors were barred double, and he quaked and shivered and shook until the sun came up. Finally Betty sent the skipper word that the first stormy night she would ride him to York…
[H]e waited for Betty Booker; nor was she long in coming. An unearthly wail came down the wind, and there was a scratching of a hundred witch-claws on his door, and above all sounded the cracked notes of Betty Booker’s voice—
“Bring me a bit o’ hal’but, skipper!”…
With the cry of the hag, the gale rose higher, and with rougher buffetings it smote the old door that was built to look out on the sea; and then it began to open so the skipper felt a spatter of rain on his face. He heard the wild chatter of the witches, but he still held to his pushing, until he felt himself sliding along the rough floor. He made a leap for his bed, winding himself about in its coverings; the door flew open and in trooped the witches. They pounced upon the skipper, and stripped him to his skin; and while he cowered in his fear, old Betty bridled him and got upon his back, while the other witches climbed upon hers, and off they raced through the gale to York Harbor. When he lagged, they pricked him with their claws to make him go faster; and so they rode him as long as they wished, to get him back to Kittery before cock-crow, more dead than alive.
“Don’t say sixpence, skipper, to a poor old woman again,” was Betty booker’s parting admonition, as she and her familiars vanished into the mists of the darkest part of the night.
After that the skipper took to his bed, where for three weeks he nursed his wounds and told his story to his neighbors.
I had sex in a graveyard and was walking around nude cause it was like 80 degrees and I was all sweaty and it was like midnight or whatever.
So this car rolls up out of nowhere and I’m stark fucken naked.
I’m also white as fuck. I glow in the dark.
I make eye contact with the dude driving.
I don’t make a move to cover up or anything because idgaf about being naked.
I see his eyes widen….
He fucken books it out of there like a bat out of hell.
And that’s the story about how I became a ghost sighting in a small town in New England.
okay, listen for a sec. We all know the “”“"American”“”“” Harry Potter universe houses are trash for many, many reasons. One of the reasons is that America is too big to have just one wizarding school where there are only 4 houses, right? so I propose that we in MA instead start sorting ourselves into these exclusive New England houses I made up as I wrote this post:
-Dunked Donut (those who are loyal to their ideals, strong-willed and hardworking but susceptible to black-and-white thinking)
-Duck Boat (those with a hunger for life experience, sharp and analytical but also impulsive and desperate for thrills)
-Lobster (those who are blue-blood types with a taste for power and the intelligence to lead effectively but tend to be overzealous and can’t appreciate the subtleties of teamwork)
-Murphy, they’re literally just the Dropkick Murphys we made a whole house for them and none of them even attend the school it’s just in case one of them shows up one day
After WWI ended, New Zealand soldiers
awaiting repatriation carved a giant kiwi
into the chalk on the side of a hill in
Wiltshire, England. Though it was
camouflaged during WWII to prevent
the Germans from using it as a marker
during their raids, it is still visible today. Source
I have recently moved to a little town way up in the mountains. I absolutely love it. My evening walks consist of bats, crickets and bullfrogs instead of guns and yelling. I don’t carry a knife for protection anymore. Everyone in town finds me odd, but in a good way. They seem to like my ever changing hair colors and me collecting wild flowers to put in my unruly hair.
I get to wonder into the woods to collect plants and herbs. I eat wild raspberries and blueberries.
I am so content and happy. My craft is flourishing. I feel at home here.