The Little Witch
Victoria Foster • Nonfiction
“Did you ever encounter any animals? A dog? A cat?” Dorothy Good, only five years old, stood frightened in front of the entire town, her tiny hands clinging to the hem of her dress as the local magistrates interrogated her with the accusations of practicing witchcraft. “There is a snake outside our house,” she said. “Who gave you that snake?” “Momma keeps it because she said it helps keep the mice away. It bit me once,” she said, showing off a small spot on her finger. There was murmuring amongst the gathered crowd. People glared and occasionally pointed towards the child, whispering witch. “Did you ever see, or conjure with the Devil?” “No, sir,” she said. “Did you torture Mary Walcott or Ann Putnam?” Dorothy shook her head, her eyes downcast as she focused on her feet, a pebble on the ground, anywhere but the vulturous eyes scanning over her in the tiny church-house. “No, sir,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
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