Joining with them in rolling down the steep
A shower of stones toward Moll Pitcher’s house;
But, as we played, the wind began to rise,
And some faint hearts among our little clan
Said the old witch had raised the wind in spite.
Our hearts beat quick with childish fear. At once
We left our sport and, running down the hill,
In the dread fear that the weird woman’s rage
Would yet o’ertake us, slackened not our speed
Until the friendly shelter of a house