I hardly got within pistol shot of the place.

Decked out as I was, I walked towards a cottage, from whose chimney smoke rose. However, I hardly got within pistol shot of the place before I found myself surrounded by a mob of completely naked men, who seemed surprised to see me. I don't think they'd ever seen someone dressed in bottles, whose feet barely touched the ground; with my every movement, the dew in my remaining bottles caught the Sun's rays and made me bob up and down. Had I more of them, I am sure I'd have risen up into the air before them.

I would have spoken with them, but in a twinkling they were gone, like birds scattering among the trees. However, I caught one whose legs had doubtless failed his heart, and with a deal of difficulty - the forest was suffocating - I asked him how far we were from Paris, and since when the people of France went about in the total nude, and why he'd fled in such obvious terror?

He was an old, olive-skinned man, who sank before me and joined his hands behind his head, mouth open, eyes shut. He spoke, but I could make nothing of it; he mumbled like a mute.

A while later, though, I saw a company of soldiers, marching to the drum. A couple of them noticed me, and peeled away to investigate. When they were within distance, I hailed them.

'Where are we?'

'You are in France', they replied. 'But what the Devil are you doing going about like that? Have we seen you before? Are you from the fleet, has it made land? And are you bringing word to the governor? And why are you carrying your aqua vit in lots of little bottles like that?'

'The Devil has nothing to do with my dress', I said, 'and you don't recognise me, because who really knows everyone? I have no idea what ships were moored along the Seine, and so I have no news for the Marechal de l'Hospital. Oh, and these bottles are not charged with brandy.'

'Ho! Ho!' they said as they pinioned my arms, 'Fine, play the fool! Let's see if the Governor knows you.'

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She called the Devil by the Name of Bunne: The Faversham Witches (1645).

The Examination, Confession, Trial and Execution of Joan Williford, Joan Cariden and Jane Holt. Who were executed at Faversham in Kent for being Witches, on Monday the 29. of September, 1645. Being a true copy of their evil lives and wicked deeds, taken by the Mayor of Faversham and jurors for the said inquest. With the examination and confession of Elizabeth Harris, not yet executed. All attested under the hand of Robert Greenstreet, Mayor of Faversham. London, Printed for J.G. October 2. 1645. The Confession of Joan Williford, Septemb. 24. 1656, made before the Mayor, and other jurates. She confessed that the Devil about seven years ago did appear to her in the shape of a little dog, and bid her to forsake God and lean to him. Who replied, that she was loath to forsake him. She confessed also that she had a desire to be revenged upon Thomas Letherland and Mary Woodrofe, now his wife. She further said that the Devil promised her that she shoul...

Robert Plot, first Keeper of the Ashmolean, on mysterious circles, from 'The Natural History of Staffordshire' (Oxford, 1686).

And here perchance, by the way, it may be no great digression to enquire into the nature and efficient cause of those rings we find in the grass, which they commonly call fairy circles, whether they are caused by lighning, or are indeed the rendezvouzes of witches , or the dancing places of those little pygmy spirits they call elves or fairies . And the rather because, 1 - a question - perhaps by reason of the difficulty - scarce yet attempted, and 2 - because I met with the largest of their kind - that perchance were ever heard of - in this county; one of them showed me in the grounds between Handsworth Church and the heath being near forty yards diameter, and I was told of another by that ingenious gent. - one of the most cordial encouragers of this work - the Worshipful Sir Henry Gough, Knight, that there was one in his grounds near Pury-Hall but few years since - now indeed plowed up - of a much larger size, he believed near fifty. Whereas,...

Se riza el aire gris.

The field of olives opens and closes like a fan. Above the grove the sky is sunk the rain is dark the stars are cold. A trembling in the rushes and darkness falls on the riverbank. A ripple through the grey air. Olive trees laden with screams. A flock of captive birds move their long, long tails in the shadows. FGL (1931) PSY (Feb. 2025)

Paul Summers Young

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