The village of Polstead, though obscurely situate, is not entirely
destitute of celebrity, chiefly derived from an abundance of the small,
sweet, black cherries,[10] so common in London, and known for miles
round by the exclusive denomination of Polstead cherries. There are here
large orchards of cherry-trees; and it is a common observation, that the
face of a Polstead man is an index of a good or bad cherry season; if
productive, he may be seen with his chin in the air, his hands in his
pockets, and a saucy answer on the tip of his tongue; if, on the
contrary, the crop of cherries has failed, he hangs his head, folds his
hands behind him, and if asked whence he comes, replies, in a subdued
tone, "_From poor Poustead_."

Unhappily, as in the event that has given notoriety to this obscure
village, there are some exceptions, but the inhabitants are for the most
part peaceable, well conducted, and only remarkable for their orthodox
belief in ghosts and witches. An old gentleman, who died there some
years ago, lamented till his death a sight he had lost when a boy, only
for the want of five pounds--a man having undertaken for that sum to
make all the witches in the parish dance on the knoll together; and
though he grew up a penurious man, (and lived a bachelor till fifty), he
never ceased to lament that such an opportunity of seeing these
weird-sisters collected together, never occurred again. He used to say
he had seen a witch "_swam_ on Polstead Ponds," and "she went over the
water like a cork." He had, when a boy, stopped a wizard in his way to
Stoke, by laying a line of single straws across the path; and, concealed
in a hedge, he had watched an old woman (alias witch) feeding her imps
in the form of three blackbirds.

The house in which Mrs. Corder lives is one of the best in the place,