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A good witch is truly a rare find. I should be well aware of this fact; after all, I've spent my entire life in search of one. So, when I delved into this read, I couldn't help but think... perhaps this is her... the witch of Blackbird Pond. Maybe she would finally turn out to be the "tatter-haired witch" as Karla Kuskin describes, or the "magical prognosticator, chanting, canting, calculator" that Felice Holman makes me eager to meet. I wasn't in the market for a Bellatrix LeStrange. I simply desired the witch I had been patiently waiting for. Alas, I didn't discover her within these pages. No, indeed. There were no genuine witches here. Just a whole bunch of those Arthur Miller type "witches" from The Crucible. What that means is there was no delightful cleavage or cackle, no orgies by the river... no incantation, no levitation, no black tresses or long black gowns. Just a sorrowful, somewhat demented Quaker woman who had been shunned by the town due to her religious beliefs. Oh, and a town complete with "a pillory, a whipping post and stocks." All the proper trappings for inducing public humiliation in the village square in 17th-century Connecticut. Goodness, I loathe Puritans. I despise them, and so does Kit, our protagonist, who is compelled to abandon wealth and the paradise that is Barbados for the bleak, never-ending world of Puritans and snow. I think this is what is known as "hell," or at least purgatory. Poor Kit. And poor me. But once I released my fixation on the perfect witch, I permitted this 1958 Newberry winner and Kit Tyler to seize my attention, and I uncovered an "old school" captivating story and a charming protagonist. This is excellent, unadulterated story-telling, and it's also a surprisingly romantic coming-of-age tale. And, by God, as I wrapped up the story today, my 9-year-old daughter arrived home carrying a huge, black cauldron from a thrift store. I retreat to my lair with magical thoughts dancing in my mind.