The real trouble begins....
It is one thing to be a beggar, but quite another to be accused of being an ungrateful beggar. Yes, I was very easily offended, and the more often I had to
rely on others for help, the more I naturally resented a situation not of my making. I further admit that I often used harsh words and cursed people whom I felt
neglected or abused me. It was a vicious cycle — the verbal abuse hurled back and forth — and it escalated. I was not one to take insults lightly from people
who, in all honestly, cared for me but very little. In fact, many neighbors were openly vile and they called out as they passed my home, wishing me harm. I
expected my husband to use his influence, as little as it was, or to call on his brothers to intercede in my behalf. But he was a helpless sot when it came to
moments that called for strength, and so I continued to bear the brunt of the town's disdain for our family.
To add to my miseries, William’s brother moved back to Hadley after his homestead in Northfield was attacked and burned by Indians. Although Thomas
barely escaped with his family, he was left with very little else, and so William invited him and his wife and children to move into our tiny home.
The townspeople lavished their pity on this more favored son of Governor John Webster, erecting a second small hut near ours for Thomas’ growing family.
Perhaps this should have eased my daily strife, but the fact that his wife, Abigail Alexander, was welcomed by the very townspeople who hated me (she
herself came to me a beggar!)... the unfairness of life in Hadley caused me great pain. As William and I spiraled downward into abject poverty, relying solely
upon the town after William sold the last of his lands, I openly cursed those who helped Abigail as they passed my front door. I laughed at any and all
misfortunes that others suffered because only then did I feel my load evened, and the Lord to be mindful of my sacrifices. Only in these lighter moments did I
feel His mercy for me. Some townspeople claimed I was mentally ill; others called me intentionally cruel. None had any sympathy or understanding.
The cry of the day soon became "Witch! Goodwife Webster is a Witch!"
It seems inevitable (in hindsight) that the ultimate charge of witchcraft would be made. Initially I laughed it off and even encouraged it, hoping to scare people
into keeping their distance. I wanted no part of my “neighbors.” And perhaps for them, too, it began in a joking manner — their references to me as a crone
of odd behavior. But soon most people were of like mind in their claim that I was evil. Although the infamous witchcraft trials at nearby Salem, Massachusetts
would not begin for more than 11 years, the penalties for witchcraft were well established long before the colonists came to America, and a guilty verdict
could result in terrible beatings, prison, or even death. I had thought the fame, reputation and friendships of my dead father-in-law would shield me. Who
would dare charge his family of impropriety? And yet I was ruined by the gossip.
About me, specifically it was whispered (and then shouted aloud) that teams of horses and herds of cattle would run from my property and refuse to be driven
past my door. The owners of the livestock, vexed with their inability to get the animals to the meadow beyond, sometimes burst into my home and whipped
me to force me to "let" the teams pass. A man reported that I once magically turned over a load of hay near my house. When he, the driver of the cart,
entered my home to chastise me, he claimed that I righted the hay wagon again and let him go about his business. It was said that I was able to fly without the
aid of any tangible object “such as a pole, fireplace spit, or broomstick.”
"She entered my house and had such influence upon my infant in the cradle that it was
raised to the chamber floor and fell back again, three times, and no visible hand touched it."
Such stories. Such nonsense. But the gossip grew intense, and all watched me with suspicious eyes. One silly, frightened goodwife claimed a hen came down
her chimney and felt into her pot, where it was scalded. Busybodies came running to my house to see if I might be involved in the mischief, checking my hands
for burns. Of course I had burns! Any goodwife worth her salt had burns from tending fires and pushing pots! But my burns were attributed to hotter fires
than those tindered for their Puritan pots.
Finally, the contest of wills escalated beyond occasional beatings. In September of 1680, William made a formal complaint and 16-year old Ann Belding was
officially held accountable for “purposes and practices against the body and life of Mary, wife of William Webster of Hadley.” The girl willingly acknowledged
her attempt to kill me, as if it was a prideful act. She was fined “one pound to William Webster and four pounds to the county” for the county's trouble. Her
father, Samuel Belding of Hatfield, paid the fine.
Three years later, on March 27, 1683, I was formally charged with witchcraft and forced to appear before the county court at Northampton.
"Mary, Wife of William Webster of Hadley, being under strong suspicion of having familiarity with the devil, or using witchcraft, and having
been in examination before the worshipful Mr. [Peter] Tilton, and many testimonies brought in against her, or that did seem to centre upon
her, relating to such a thing; and the worshipful Mr. Tilton aforesaid binding her to appear at this court, and having examined her yet
further, and the testimonies forenamed, looked upon her case, a matter belonging to the Court of Assistants to judge of, and therefore have
ordered said Mary Webster to be, by the first convenient opportunity, sent to Boston gaol [jail] and committed there as a prisoner, to be further
examined there as aforesaid, and the clerk is to gather up all the evidences and fit them to be sent by the worshipful Mr. Tilton, to our honored
governor, that he may communicate them to the magistrates, as he shall judge merit, or further order prosecution of said matters."
The next month, I was sent to Boston and brought to court. A grand jury convened and the jurists indicted me, saying I did not have the fear of God before
my eyes, because I had become familiar with the devil, assuming the shape of a warraneage [wild black cat of the woods]. My lifestyle was pronounced
“contrary to the peace of our sovereign lord, the king, his crown and dignity, the laws of God and of this jurisdiction...." So saying, they bound me to a witch
trial. While I was in jail, my husband was expected to pay for the use of leg irons and handcuffs, and also to pay court charges such as the salaries, food and
expenses incurred by the magistrates. His financial suffering was no worse, however, than my physical suffering. I got word to him that I was chained to a wall
in a semi-enclosed room open to the elements of weather. My jail diet consisted of the basest sort of a soupy gruel. He, of course, was his usual worthless
self and of no help to me.
I pleaded "not guilty," but declined further comment -- except to say I would leave my fate in the hands of God. It was sufficient. Despite the resounding
testimony against me, I was acquitted.
I dared hope the ordeal over, but far worse was yet to come.
The townspeople alternately shunned and harassed me. Some threatened to try me their own way; to see if my hands burned or scalded if plunged into boiling
water. Another suggested a test -- “swimming with a witch". He called for my right thumb to be tied to a toe on the my left foot, and the left thumb to a toe on
the right foot. Then I might be thrown into a pond. An innocent person would sink to the bottom and drown, while a guilty witch would float … only to be
hung in The Common as a proven witch.
There was no defense of witchcraft.
When a Hadley church deacon named Philip Smith became ill, I of course was accused of having cursed him. He was greatly respected, a member of the
General Court and selectman for the town’s affairs, a lieutenant in the militia. He had been appointed to act on my behalf to get money to help with expenses,
and I expressed my legitimate dissatisfaction with how the fool went about it. According to him, I threatened him in some manner, and he told others of his
apprehension that he might fall victim to some mischief created by me, Mary Webster, just for him. Some special torment I might cause him to suffer.
Philip Smith had a gift for premonition: He did fall ill. On his sickbed, he begged his brother Samuel to keep a careful eye upon him, as he believed that people
would mistaken him for dead when, in fact, he was not. His apprehension was due, he said, to an incantation made by me, the witch. Philip was inconsolable
in his grief and depression, saying that living under my spell was becoming more than he could bear. He told many that he actually welcomed death. I laughed
at the notion and suggested he should be careful of which he wished.
Then things got weird.
Witnesses claimed Philip Smith’s bed shook, though he lay still upon it, apparently in a state of coma. Fires erupted spontaneously in his bed but extinguished
as soon as anyone noticed them. Galley pots of medicines were unaccountably emptied. A beast seemed to enter and leave the room — its scratching heard
on the bed —but it was only a shadow beast, an invisible form that people sensed but could not describe. Several times young men were dispatched to
“discipline the witch who held Smith under her spell," -- meaning they beat me. During the time I was “disturbed,” Philip was said to have slept peacefully. But
nothing seemed to change the course of Philip’s suffering in the end. In angry frustration that they couldn't alter events as Philip Smith obviously lay dying, a
number of "brisk lads" tried an "experiment."
The town lads dragged me out of my home, beat me, and hung me in a tree by my heels, leaving me in the frigid elements to die.
Can you even begin to imagine my terror?! There I hung, naked, in freezing weather from about eight o'clock that evening until about the same time the
following morning. Believing me dead, the gang at last cut me down, rolled me in the snow, and then buried me in a drift. They were joyous that the witch
finally was dead, and loudly celebrated the hope that perhaps the curse against their friend had died with me. But I was not dead.
I will give no one the relief of knowing whether I was pulled inside by my hapless, helpless husband or raised by my own effort … or the will of a beast or a
Saint.
Philip Smith, however, had no such intercession. He died January 10, 1685. Fearing he was not dead, but still under my curse, his body was carefully
examined, the jury's death verdict reserved. It was recorded that his genitals appeared to be wounded or burned. Initial examination of his body revealed a
swelling on one breast, and his back was bruised badly, with several holes "that seemed made with awls." What they did not witness was his jaw falling slack
or any other signs of death. In fact, although the jury believed him dead, it was said by others that his "countenance continued as lively as if he had been alive."
His prophesy was, in my opinion, a fitting end for him.
Philip remained in this state from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon. When loved ones checked the body then, it was noted that he was still warm,
though the New England winter night had been frigid, and the fire in his quarters untended. By Monday morning, his face was "extremely tumified and
discolored ... black and blue, and fresh blood seemed running down his cheek upon the hairs." More disturbing, "diverse noises were also heard in the room
where the corpse lay; as the clattering of chairs and stools, whereof no account could be given." That evening, a credible witness reported that, while watching
the corpse, he perceived the bed to move and stir more than once. But by no means could he discern the cause.
History will record that I was the fourth person sent from Connecticut River to Boston to be tried for witchcraft, and all of us were acquitted. Although the
Massachusetts code of law allowed for witches to be put to death, King Charles II had revoked the charter in 1684, when all crimes were made subject to
British regulations. Witchcraft still was a crime in Britain, but ironically, they could charge me but the King’s charter had abolished the Massachusetts courts
which might have tried me! Yet our lives were by no means easy after returning to our homes and accusers. I came to fully appreciate the seriousness of my
mutterings after Smith died, and I quietly live out my remaining 11 years. William died a couple years after Smith, leaving me a widow and ever more at the
mercy of the people who despised me. I took every step from the day he died (until the day of my own death) most carefully.
After my death in 1696, an inventory was made of my estate. It was recorded that Mary Reeves Webster, 72, owned only a bed, a few other housekeeping
articles, some clothing, and a Bible, psalm book and three sermon books. As I said at my trial, I was a God-fearing woman who trusted my fate in the
hands of God.
It is one thing to be a beggar, but quite another to be accused of being an ungrateful beggar. Yes, I was very easily offended, and the more often I had to
rely on others for help, the more I naturally resented a situation not of my making. I further admit that I often used harsh words and cursed people whom I felt
neglected or abused me. It was a vicious cycle — the verbal abuse hurled back and forth — and it escalated. I was not one to take insults lightly from people
who, in all honestly, cared for me but very little. In fact, many neighbors were openly vile and they called out as they passed my home, wishing me harm. I
expected my husband to use his influence, as little as it was, or to call on his brothers to intercede in my behalf. But he was a helpless sot when it came to
moments that called for strength, and so I continued to bear the brunt of the town's disdain for our family.
To add to my miseries, William’s brother moved back to Hadley after his homestead in Northfield was attacked and burned by Indians. Although Thomas
barely escaped with his family, he was left with very little else, and so William invited him and his wife and children to move into our tiny home.
The townspeople lavished their pity on this more favored son of Governor John Webster, erecting a second small hut near ours for Thomas’ growing family.
Perhaps this should have eased my daily strife, but the fact that his wife, Abigail Alexander, was welcomed by the very townspeople who hated me (she
herself came to me a beggar!)... the unfairness of life in Hadley caused me great pain. As William and I spiraled downward into abject poverty, relying solely
upon the town after William sold the last of his lands, I openly cursed those who helped Abigail as they passed my front door. I laughed at any and all
misfortunes that others suffered because only then did I feel my load evened, and the Lord to be mindful of my sacrifices. Only in these lighter moments did I
feel His mercy for me. Some townspeople claimed I was mentally ill; others called me intentionally cruel. None had any sympathy or understanding.
The cry of the day soon became "Witch! Goodwife Webster is a Witch!"
It seems inevitable (in hindsight) that the ultimate charge of witchcraft would be made. Initially I laughed it off and even encouraged it, hoping to scare people
into keeping their distance. I wanted no part of my “neighbors.” And perhaps for them, too, it began in a joking manner — their references to me as a crone
of odd behavior. But soon most people were of like mind in their claim that I was evil. Although the infamous witchcraft trials at nearby Salem, Massachusetts
would not begin for more than 11 years, the penalties for witchcraft were well established long before the colonists came to America, and a guilty verdict
could result in terrible beatings, prison, or even death. I had thought the fame, reputation and friendships of my dead father-in-law would shield me. Who
would dare charge his family of impropriety? And yet I was ruined by the gossip.
About me, specifically it was whispered (and then shouted aloud) that teams of horses and herds of cattle would run from my property and refuse to be driven
past my door. The owners of the livestock, vexed with their inability to get the animals to the meadow beyond, sometimes burst into my home and whipped
me to force me to "let" the teams pass. A man reported that I once magically turned over a load of hay near my house. When he, the driver of the cart,
entered my home to chastise me, he claimed that I righted the hay wagon again and let him go about his business. It was said that I was able to fly without the
aid of any tangible object “such as a pole, fireplace spit, or broomstick.”
"She entered my house and had such influence upon my infant in the cradle that it was
raised to the chamber floor and fell back again, three times, and no visible hand touched it."
Such stories. Such nonsense. But the gossip grew intense, and all watched me with suspicious eyes. One silly, frightened goodwife claimed a hen came down
her chimney and felt into her pot, where it was scalded. Busybodies came running to my house to see if I might be involved in the mischief, checking my hands
for burns. Of course I had burns! Any goodwife worth her salt had burns from tending fires and pushing pots! But my burns were attributed to hotter fires
than those tindered for their Puritan pots.
Finally, the contest of wills escalated beyond occasional beatings. In September of 1680, William made a formal complaint and 16-year old Ann Belding was
officially held accountable for “purposes and practices against the body and life of Mary, wife of William Webster of Hadley.” The girl willingly acknowledged
her attempt to kill me, as if it was a prideful act. She was fined “one pound to William Webster and four pounds to the county” for the county's trouble. Her
father, Samuel Belding of Hatfield, paid the fine.
Three years later, on March 27, 1683, I was formally charged with witchcraft and forced to appear before the county court at Northampton.
"Mary, Wife of William Webster of Hadley, being under strong suspicion of having familiarity with the devil, or using witchcraft, and having
been in examination before the worshipful Mr. [Peter] Tilton, and many testimonies brought in against her, or that did seem to centre upon
her, relating to such a thing; and the worshipful Mr. Tilton aforesaid binding her to appear at this court, and having examined her yet
further, and the testimonies forenamed, looked upon her case, a matter belonging to the Court of Assistants to judge of, and therefore have
ordered said Mary Webster to be, by the first convenient opportunity, sent to Boston gaol [jail] and committed there as a prisoner, to be further
examined there as aforesaid, and the clerk is to gather up all the evidences and fit them to be sent by the worshipful Mr. Tilton, to our honored
governor, that he may communicate them to the magistrates, as he shall judge merit, or further order prosecution of said matters."
The next month, I was sent to Boston and brought to court. A grand jury convened and the jurists indicted me, saying I did not have the fear of God before
my eyes, because I had become familiar with the devil, assuming the shape of a warraneage [wild black cat of the woods]. My lifestyle was pronounced
“contrary to the peace of our sovereign lord, the king, his crown and dignity, the laws of God and of this jurisdiction...." So saying, they bound me to a witch
trial. While I was in jail, my husband was expected to pay for the use of leg irons and handcuffs, and also to pay court charges such as the salaries, food and
expenses incurred by the magistrates. His financial suffering was no worse, however, than my physical suffering. I got word to him that I was chained to a wall
in a semi-enclosed room open to the elements of weather. My jail diet consisted of the basest sort of a soupy gruel. He, of course, was his usual worthless
self and of no help to me.
I pleaded "not guilty," but declined further comment -- except to say I would leave my fate in the hands of God. It was sufficient. Despite the resounding
testimony against me, I was acquitted.
I dared hope the ordeal over, but far worse was yet to come.
The townspeople alternately shunned and harassed me. Some threatened to try me their own way; to see if my hands burned or scalded if plunged into boiling
water. Another suggested a test -- “swimming with a witch". He called for my right thumb to be tied to a toe on the my left foot, and the left thumb to a toe on
the right foot. Then I might be thrown into a pond. An innocent person would sink to the bottom and drown, while a guilty witch would float … only to be
hung in The Common as a proven witch.
There was no defense of witchcraft.
When a Hadley church deacon named Philip Smith became ill, I of course was accused of having cursed him. He was greatly respected, a member of the
General Court and selectman for the town’s affairs, a lieutenant in the militia. He had been appointed to act on my behalf to get money to help with expenses,
and I expressed my legitimate dissatisfaction with how the fool went about it. According to him, I threatened him in some manner, and he told others of his
apprehension that he might fall victim to some mischief created by me, Mary Webster, just for him. Some special torment I might cause him to suffer.
Philip Smith had a gift for premonition: He did fall ill. On his sickbed, he begged his brother Samuel to keep a careful eye upon him, as he believed that people
would mistaken him for dead when, in fact, he was not. His apprehension was due, he said, to an incantation made by me, the witch. Philip was inconsolable
in his grief and depression, saying that living under my spell was becoming more than he could bear. He told many that he actually welcomed death. I laughed
at the notion and suggested he should be careful of which he wished.
Then things got weird.
Witnesses claimed Philip Smith’s bed shook, though he lay still upon it, apparently in a state of coma. Fires erupted spontaneously in his bed but extinguished
as soon as anyone noticed them. Galley pots of medicines were unaccountably emptied. A beast seemed to enter and leave the room — its scratching heard
on the bed —but it was only a shadow beast, an invisible form that people sensed but could not describe. Several times young men were dispatched to
“discipline the witch who held Smith under her spell," -- meaning they beat me. During the time I was “disturbed,” Philip was said to have slept peacefully. But
nothing seemed to change the course of Philip’s suffering in the end. In angry frustration that they couldn't alter events as Philip Smith obviously lay dying, a
number of "brisk lads" tried an "experiment."
The town lads dragged me out of my home, beat me, and hung me in a tree by my heels, leaving me in the frigid elements to die.
Can you even begin to imagine my terror?! There I hung, naked, in freezing weather from about eight o'clock that evening until about the same time the
following morning. Believing me dead, the gang at last cut me down, rolled me in the snow, and then buried me in a drift. They were joyous that the witch
finally was dead, and loudly celebrated the hope that perhaps the curse against their friend had died with me. But I was not dead.
I will give no one the relief of knowing whether I was pulled inside by my hapless, helpless husband or raised by my own effort … or the will of a beast or a
Saint.
Philip Smith, however, had no such intercession. He died January 10, 1685. Fearing he was not dead, but still under my curse, his body was carefully
examined, the jury's death verdict reserved. It was recorded that his genitals appeared to be wounded or burned. Initial examination of his body revealed a
swelling on one breast, and his back was bruised badly, with several holes "that seemed made with awls." What they did not witness was his jaw falling slack
or any other signs of death. In fact, although the jury believed him dead, it was said by others that his "countenance continued as lively as if he had been alive."
His prophesy was, in my opinion, a fitting end for him.
Philip remained in this state from Saturday morning until Sunday afternoon. When loved ones checked the body then, it was noted that he was still warm,
though the New England winter night had been frigid, and the fire in his quarters untended. By Monday morning, his face was "extremely tumified and
discolored ... black and blue, and fresh blood seemed running down his cheek upon the hairs." More disturbing, "diverse noises were also heard in the room
where the corpse lay; as the clattering of chairs and stools, whereof no account could be given." That evening, a credible witness reported that, while watching
the corpse, he perceived the bed to move and stir more than once. But by no means could he discern the cause.
History will record that I was the fourth person sent from Connecticut River to Boston to be tried for witchcraft, and all of us were acquitted. Although the
Massachusetts code of law allowed for witches to be put to death, King Charles II had revoked the charter in 1684, when all crimes were made subject to
British regulations. Witchcraft still was a crime in Britain, but ironically, they could charge me but the King’s charter had abolished the Massachusetts courts
which might have tried me! Yet our lives were by no means easy after returning to our homes and accusers. I came to fully appreciate the seriousness of my
mutterings after Smith died, and I quietly live out my remaining 11 years. William died a couple years after Smith, leaving me a widow and ever more at the
mercy of the people who despised me. I took every step from the day he died (until the day of my own death) most carefully.
After my death in 1696, an inventory was made of my estate. It was recorded that Mary Reeves Webster, 72, owned only a bed, a few other housekeeping
articles, some clothing, and a Bible, psalm book and three sermon books. As I said at my trial, I was a God-fearing woman who trusted my fate in the
hands of God.
Mary Webster, Witch of Hadley
Hampshire County, MA
Hampshire County, MA
Glynn Patrick & Associates: Capturing "Forever"
Copyright 2006: Jody Glynn Patrick
Copyright 2006: Jody Glynn Patrick
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Mary Molly Webster about this Mary
Webster.
Webster.
I, Mary Reeves, married William Webster in 1670, when he
was 53 years old and I was but a few years younger. It
should have been a good marriage to a rich man, since he
and his brother Thomas had jointly inherited lands in Hadley
when their father died -- John Webster, Governor of
Massachusetts and founder of the town of Hadley.
was 53 years old and I was but a few years younger. It
should have been a good marriage to a rich man, since he
and his brother Thomas had jointly inherited lands in Hadley
when their father died -- John Webster, Governor of
Massachusetts and founder of the town of Hadley.
A fanciful biography based on facts.
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After their famous father's death, the brothers were to share a house on a 5.5 acre lot that faced The Common
sector of the town, and they also shared 38 acres of meadowland. As I later saw it, Robert, known as Lieutenant
Webster, and Matthew, the firstborn, received the most valuable lands and homes of the estate.
William and I were not yet married when his brother Thomas soon sold his share of the house and land to a
man named John Taylor. Of the two younger brothers, Thomas was the more adventurous sort and certainly
the harder worker. He moved his family to the fledgling settlement of Northfield, 24 miles upriver. Everyone knew
that he expected his family to endure a pioneer lifestyle to increase his land holdings. It was not how I intended
to live, certainly.
Although William remained on the homestead property, he was more inclined to read than to work. William hired
indentured servants and Hadley youth to farm his lands, and by this manner he quickly went through his cash
reserves before he met me. In 1668, he sold his half of the house and moved in with his married sister,
Elizabeth Markam, who had become a stepmother to five children. To help her with such responsibilities, she
had hired a spinster housekeeper — me, Mary Reeves. Whether my marriage to William was for love or
convenience, only my husband and I could honestly say, but William soon asked me to share his life.
William sold some of his meadowland to support us. Later he tried teaching, but though he loved books, he
admittedly was a failure at that endeavor. He continued to grow poorer year by year. The townspeople erected
a very small house for us in 1674, because, they said, of the immense respect his father had earned. But it was
not genuine pity or understanding. In return for our lodging, my husband suffered the public humiliation of being
assigned care of “the pound,” tending cattle for ungrateful neighbors. It was a gift with a hefty price attached.
People laughed all about Hadley, as he and I struggled to maintain even a small hut on the middle highway into
the meadow.
sector of the town, and they also shared 38 acres of meadowland. As I later saw it, Robert, known as Lieutenant
Webster, and Matthew, the firstborn, received the most valuable lands and homes of the estate.
William and I were not yet married when his brother Thomas soon sold his share of the house and land to a
man named John Taylor. Of the two younger brothers, Thomas was the more adventurous sort and certainly
the harder worker. He moved his family to the fledgling settlement of Northfield, 24 miles upriver. Everyone knew
that he expected his family to endure a pioneer lifestyle to increase his land holdings. It was not how I intended
to live, certainly.
Although William remained on the homestead property, he was more inclined to read than to work. William hired
indentured servants and Hadley youth to farm his lands, and by this manner he quickly went through his cash
reserves before he met me. In 1668, he sold his half of the house and moved in with his married sister,
Elizabeth Markam, who had become a stepmother to five children. To help her with such responsibilities, she
had hired a spinster housekeeper — me, Mary Reeves. Whether my marriage to William was for love or
convenience, only my husband and I could honestly say, but William soon asked me to share his life.
William sold some of his meadowland to support us. Later he tried teaching, but though he loved books, he
admittedly was a failure at that endeavor. He continued to grow poorer year by year. The townspeople erected
a very small house for us in 1674, because, they said, of the immense respect his father had earned. But it was
not genuine pity or understanding. In return for our lodging, my husband suffered the public humiliation of being
assigned care of “the pound,” tending cattle for ungrateful neighbors. It was a gift with a hefty price attached.
People laughed all about Hadley, as he and I struggled to maintain even a small hut on the middle highway into
the meadow.