The sky was yelled clean by boys occupying at least eight of those brooms at once. And what with changing their cries of fear to cries of delight, the boys almost forgot to look or listen for Pipkin, similarly sailed off among island clouds. “This way!” announced Pipkin. “As quick as we can!” said Tom Skelton. “But, Pip, it’s awful hard to ride a broomstick, I find!” “Funny you say that,” said Henry-Hank. “I agree.” Everyone agreed, falling off, hanging on, climbing back. There was now such a hustle of brooms as left no room for clouds, and none for mists and certainly none for fog or boys. There was an immense traffic jam of brooms, as if all earths forests gave up their branches in one boom and fling and, scouring autumn fields, cut clean and throttled tight such cereal grains as made good sweepers, thrashers, beaters, then flew up.
What do You think about (1972) The Halloween Tree?
