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listening.”
    “I couldn’t get skinny,” Brom went on, “the way Mrs. Vanderpoel feeds me. When I get hungry I just rap at her door. How’d you find out about Rip van Winkle, Bobby?”
    “ ’Cause Sleepyside isn’t very far from Sleepy Hollow,” Bobby said. “The story’s in all the books.”
    “Is that so?” old Brom wondered. “Is that so? I can tell you stories you’ll never find in any books, Bobby, and they’re all true. The Hudson River Valley and the Catskill Mountains are full of witches and ghosts and goblins—it just takes a certain kind of eyes to be able to see them.”
    “Do you have that kind of eyes?” Bobby asked.
    “I do,” old Brom answered. “Listen—you’ve never heard of No-mah-ka-ta, the witch who lives on top of the highest mountains in the Catskills, have you?”
    “No, sir,” said Bobby. “Is she a
real
witch?”
    “Yes, indeed,” Brom said. “In the morning she lets the day out of the dark cave where it’s been all night. At night No-mah-ka-ta puts the day back in the cave and everything is black as night.”
    “An’ the owls come out,” Bobby said.
    “That they do, Bobby,” old Brom said. “But when No-mah-ka-ta wants light in the sky at night she hangs out a new moon.”
    “What does she do with the old ones?” Bobby asked, his eyes as big as saucers.
    “She cuts them up into stars,” Brom said.
    “She must be a good witch,” Bobby said.
    “No,” Brom said thoughtfully, “I’ve seen her when she was good and mad.”
    “You really
saw
the witch?” Bobby asked.
    “That’s right,” Brom said. “I’ve seen her right there on top of her mountain spinning clouds and flinging them to the four winds. Of course, some people would say it was just the mist I saw, blown by the wind.”
    “I like the wind,” Bobby said.
    “Yes,” Brom said, “the soft west wind. But No-mah-ka-ta spins wild winds, too, when she is cross—black winds that bring rain, rain that floods the earth and sweeps away houses.”
    “Brom will go on like that for an hour,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said, “as long as there is a little child to tell his stories to. What are you looking at, child?”
    “Your wonderful, wonderful old furniture,” Trixie said as Mrs. Vanderpoel led her into the big family room. “That little melodeon—may I touch it?”
    “You sit right down and play on it, Trixie,” said Mrs. Vanderpoel, turning the stool to the right height. “It has a pretty tone, hasn’t it? Land, you’ve seen it adozen times, and the rest of the furniture, too.”
    “It’s different now, though,” Trixie said. “I’ve always thought it was beautiful, but now …”
    She told Mrs. Vanderpoel about the antique show they were planning. She told of the reason for the show, of the need for money for little children far across the oceans.
    She didn’t have enough courage to ask Mrs. Vanderpoel if they could exhibit some of her heirlooms. She did not need to ask. Mrs. Vanderpoel offered them to the Bob-Whites.
    “You say you only want to borrow them overnight and for one day?” she asked.
    “That’s all,” Trixie told her. “I’ll come after them with Tom and Regan myself and watch to see that there isn’t a scratch on them.”
    “Mercy, I don’t worry about that,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said. “Children have played around my furniture for several generations. They’ve never done any harm that a little rubbing with cabinet-maker’s wax won’t cure. Just tell me what you want for the show and I’ll have it ready and shined. I’m going to give you this small carved oak lap desk,” she said. “It belonged to my father. I’d like to think the money for it would be used to help children.”
    “That’s wonderful!” Trixie exclaimed. “Why, ourtickets won’t go begging when people hear about these beautiful things!”
    “There are some pieces in the lean-to kitchen, too,” Mrs. Vanderpoel went on. “I’ve been wondering what to do with them. They need a touch