This is the jack-o-lantern song.
Upon one wild and windy night, we jacks, our lanterns all delight.
The wind is surely new for whistle and whistle and whistle, now list.
Wirling and twirling with turn and twist, the wind is softly blue.
It was the creepiest, scariest night.
We held our breath, then lost it quite.
The wind is surely new for whistle and whistle and whistle, now list.
Wirling and twirling with turn and twist, the wind is loudly blue.
It rose in all its main and might.
The blue out every single light, the wind it surely knew for whistle and whistle and
whistle, now list.
Wirling and twirling with turn and twist, that wind, it laughed, ho ho.
How he caught the ghost.
Yes, the house is a good one, said the agent.
It's in a good neighborhood, and you're getting it, and almost nothing.
But I think it's right to tell you all about it.
You are orphans, you say, and with a mother dependent on you.
And that makes it all the more necessary that you should know.
The fact is, the house is said to be haunted.
The agent could not help smiling as he said it, and he was relieved to see an answering
smile on the two faces before him.
Ah, you don't believe in ghosts, he went on.
Nor do I, for that matter, but somehow the reputation of a house keeps me from having
a tenant long at a time.
The place ought to rent for twice as much as it does.
If we succeed in driving out the ghost, you will not raise the rent.
Ask the boy with a married twinkle in his eye.
Well, no, not this year at any rate.
And so the house was rented, and the slip of a girl and the tall lad her brother went
on their way.
Within a week the family had moved into the house, and were delighted with it.
It was large and cool with wide halls and fine stairways, and with more room than they
needed.
But that did not matter in the least, for they had always been cramped in small houses,
suffering many discomforts, and they never could have afforded such a place as this
if it had not been haunted.
Plus things on the ghost cried Margaret Galey as she ran about as Mary as a child.
Who would be without a ghost in the house when it brings one like this?
And it's so near your school, said the mother, and I used to worry so over the long walk,
and David can come home to lunch now, and you don't know what a pleasure that will be.
It seems to me, David gravely explained, that if I should meet the ghost I would treat
him with greatest politeness and encourage him to stay.
We shall not miss the room he takes, shall we?
I think it would be well to set aside that room over yours, Maggie, for his ghost ship's
own, for we shall not need that, you know.
Besides the door doesn't shut, and he can go in and out without breaking the lock.
And then they all laughed and had a great deal of fun over the ghost, which was a great joke
to them.
They were all very tired that night and slept soundly all night long.
And they met the next morning, there was more laughter about the ghost, which was shy
about meeting strangers, probably, and had made no effort to introduce himself.
For the next three days they were all hard at work, trying to bring chaos into something
like order, and then it was time for the school to open, and Margaret was to begin teaching,
and David inserted an advertisement in the city papers for a maid of all work, whom might
help their mother in their absence.
For one whole day, prospective servants presented themselves unannounced.
Is this the house that there wants a work lady?
No, ma'am, I ain't going to work in this house.
Catch me working in no haunted house, after which they each and all departed, and others
came in their stead.
One was secured after a while, but no sooner had she talked across the fence with the
neighbor's servant than she too departed.
"'Never mind, children,' said Mrs. Craig Wearily, "'I would much rather do the work than
be troubled in this way."
So the maid of all work was dismissed, and the Craig family locked the doors and went
to their rooms, worn out with the day's anxieties.
They had been in the house four days, and there had been neither sight nor sound of the
ghost.
The very mention of it was enough to start them all to laughing, for they were thoroughly
practical people, with a fondness for inquiring into anything that seemed mysterious to them,
and for understanding it thoroughly before they let it go.
David was soon sleeping the sound sleep of healthy boyhood, and all was silent in the
house, when Margaret stole softly into his room and laid her hand on his arm.
He was not easy to waken, and several minutes had passed before he sat up in bed with an
articulate murmur of surprise.
"'Hush,' said Margaret, in a whisper, with her hand on his lips, "'I want you to come
to my room, and listen to a sound that I've been hearing for some time.'"
Door's creaking, suggested David as he began to dress, "'Nothing of the kind,' was all
she said.
They walked up the stairway, and along the upper hall to the door of the unused room.
Something was wrong with the lock, and the door would not stay fastened, as I have said.
Something that was not fear thrilled their hearts as they pushed the door further ajar,
and stood where they could see every foot of the vacant floor.
One of their own boxes stood in the middle of the room, but aside from that, nothing was
to be seen, and they looked at one another in silence.
Pulled the lamp a minute, Maggie, David said at last, and then he went all over the room,
and looked more particularly at its emptiness, and even felt the walls.
Secret panels, you know, he said, with a smile.
But it was a very puzzled smile, indeed.
"'I can't see what it could have been,' Margaret said, as they went down the stairs.
"'No, I can't see either, but I'm going to see,' said David.
That was a chain, and chains don't drag around by themselves, you know.
A ghost could not drag a chain if he were to try.
"'The conventional ghost very often drags chains,' said Margaret, as she closed the door
of her room, and then she lay awake all night and listened for the conventional ghost that
dragged a chain, but it seemed that the weight of the chain must have weiried him, for he
was not heard again.
The mother had slept through it all, and next morning they gave her a vivid account of
the night's adventures.
"'Perhaps it was someone in the house,' she said in alarm.
There were no ghosts within the bounds of possibility as far as she was concerned, but burglarers
were very possible, indeed.
Then Margaret and David both laughed more than ever.
What fun it would be,' said David, for a burglar to get into the house and try to find
something worth carrying away.
So they went on to the next night, all three fully determined to spend the night in listening
for the ghosts and running him to earth if possible, but it was Margaret that heard the
ghost after all.
She had been sleeping and was suddenly startled wide awake, and there, overhead, was the sound
of the chain dragging, and just as she was on the point of springing out of bed to call
her brother, the chain seemed to go out of the upper room.
She lay still and listened, and in a moment she heard it again.
It was coming down the stairs.
There was no carpet on the stairs, and she could hear the chain drop from step to step
until it had come the whole way down.
There it was, almost at the door of a room, and something that was strangely like fear
kept her lying still, listening in a horrified silence.
And it went along the hall, dragging close to the door, and then further away, and back
and forth for a while, and then it began dragging back up the stairs again, step by step.
She could hear it drawn over the edge of every step, and by the time it had reached the
top she remembered herself and called David.
Again, did the brother and sister make a tour of the upper room with the lamp?
Not only that, but they looked into every nook and corner of the upper part of the house,
and at last came back, baffled.
They had seen nothing extraordinary, and they had not heard a sound.
I'm going to see that ghost tonight.
David said to his sister the next evening,
How?
I'm going to sit up all night at the head of the stairs.
Don't say anything about it to mother.
It might make her uneasy.
So after the household were all quiet, David slipped into his place at the head of the
stairs, and sat down to his vigil.
He had placed a screen at the head of the stairway, so that it hid him from view, as if
a ghost cared for a screen.
And he established himself behind it and prepared to be as patient as he could.
It seemed to him that hours so long had never been devised as those the town clocks
told off that night.
He bore it until midnight, moderately well, because he argued with himself.
If there were any ghosts about, they would surely walk then.
But they were not in a humor for walking, and still the hours rolled on without any developments.
He took the fidgets, and had nervous twitches all over him, and at last he could endure it
no longer.
He leaned his head back against the wall, and was going blissfully to sleep when.
He heard a chain dragging just beyond the open door of that unused room.
In spite of himself, a shiver ran down his back.
There was no mistaking it.
It was a real chain if he had ever heard one.
More than that, it had left the room, and was coming straight toward the stairs.
The hall was dark, and it was impossible for him to see anything, though he strained
his eyes in the direction of the sound.
And even while he looked, it had passed beyond the screen, and was going down the stairs,
dropping from step to step with a clank.
Halfway down a narrow strip of moonlight from a window-stair laid directly across the
steps.
Whatever the thing was, it must pass through that patch of light, and David leaned forward
and watched.
On it went, from step to step, and presently it had slipped through the light, and was
down, and a little later it came back again through the light, and up the stairs, and back
into that unused room.
And then David slapped his knees jubilently, and ran down to his room, and slept all the
rest of the night.
Next morning he was very mysterious about his discoveries of the night before.
Oh yes, I saw the ghost, he said to Maggie.
There, don't ask so many questions, I'll tell you more about it tomorrow, maybe.
And that was all the information she could get from him.
It was very provoking.
That day David made a purchase downtown, and brought home a bulky bundle, which he hid
in his own room, and would not let his sister even pee bat.
I'm going to try to catch a ghost tonight, he said.
And you know how it is, if I bragged too much beforehand, I shall be sure to fail.
He was working with something in the hall, after the others had retired, but he did not
sit up this time.
He went to bed, and Margaret listened at his door, and found that he was soon asleep.
But away in the night they were all awakened by a squealing, that brought them all into
the hall in a great hurry, and there, at the head of the stairs, they found a huge wrap
that David had set a few hours before, and in the midst of the toils was a rat.
Why, David? exclaimed his mother.
I didn't know there was a rat in the house.
And then all at once she saw there was a long chain, hanging from a little iron collar
around the creature's neck, and she and Margaret cried together.
And this was the ghost!
Such a funny ghost, when they came to think of it, this poor rat, with a nest in some
hole of the broken chimney, he had been someone's pet once, perhaps, and now the household
he had broken up, the nights he had disturbed, the wild sensations he had created.
It made his captors laugh to think that this innocent creature had been the cause of the
whole trouble.
I'll get a cage for him, and take care of him for the rest of his life, said David.
We owe him so much that we can't afford to be ungrateful.
The next morning he took the ghost in a cage and showed it to the agent, and gave him a
vivid account of the capture.
So you have a good house, for almost half the price, all on account of that rat, exclaimed
the agent grimly, young man, but never mind, you deserve it.
What are you working for now, six dollars a week?
If you ever want to change your place, suppose you come round here.
I think you need a business that will give you a chance to grow.
And the agent and David shook hands warmly over the cage of the ghost.
Jack O'lantern by Mary E. Folsom.
Who is this Nabob come to town after a long vacation?
He seems to have a host of friends and makes a great sensation.
He stalks about these frosty nights while troops of boys run after to welcome him with
Mary Jess and ringing shouts of laughter to Smister Jack O'lantern.
He towers above the noisy group as though he were a grandi and struts about upon his stilts
as agile as a dandy.
You might think him an eastern prince because his skin's so yellow, but spite of all his
heirs he is, a common sort of fellow.
This Mr. Jack O'lantern.
All summer long upon the ground he lay for Lauren dejected, no one in all the country round
was quite so much neglected, but see him now with head-aloft he shines with wriggle splendor,
and loyal subjects by the score admiring homage render.
How proud is Jack O'lantern?
Now give three cheers for Jack my lad, three rousing cheers and hearty, for is he not the
brightest one in all your jolly party?
And though his is an empty head, he can with satisfaction, amuse a crowd and make himself
the center of attraction, hurrah for Jack O'lantern.
Agarell and Pose, the Raven.
Once upon a midnight jury, while I pondered weak and weary, over the many a quaint and curious
volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
as of someone gently wrapping, wrapping at my chamber door.
To some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, only this and nothing more.
Ah distinctly I remember it was in bleak December and each separate dying ember wrought
its ghost upon the floor.
Clearly I wished it morrow, mainly I sought to borrow, from my book's success of sorrow,
sorrow for the lost, Lennore.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lennore, nameless here, forever more.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with
fantastic terrors never felt before.
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood, repeating, to some visitor entering
entrance at my chamber door, some late visitor entering entrance at my chamber door, this
it is, and nothing more.
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating, then no longer, sir said I, or madam, truly
your forgiveness I implore.
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came wrapping, and so faintly you came
tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you.
There I opened wide the door, and darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming,
dreams, no mortals ever dared to dream before.
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there that
was spoken was the whispered word, Lennore.
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lennore.
Clearly this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again I heard a tapping
something louder than before, surely said I, surely that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see then what threat is, and this mystery explore, let my heart be still a moment,
and this mystery explore, to the wind, and nothing more.
Even here I flung the shutter, wind the thmany of flirt and flutter, in there stepped
a stately raven of the sanely days of your.
Not the least obscene maid he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, but with mine of lord
or lady, perched above my chamber door, perched upon a bust of palace, just above my chamber
door, perched and sat, and nothing more.
In this ebony bird, be gulling my sad fancy into smiling, by the graven stern decorum
of the countess at war, though thy crest be shorn, and shaven thou, I said,
art sure no craven, ghastly graham and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what thy lord name is on the night's plantation shore, quote the raven, never
more.
Which I marvel this ungainly foul to hear his discourse so plainly, though its answer
little meaning, little revelance bore.
For we cannot help agreeing with no living human being, ever yet was blessed with seeing
bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculpted bust above this chamber door,
with such name as, never more, but the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust spoke only
with one word.
As if his soul, in that one word, he did outpour.
Nothing further than he uttered, not a feather, then he fluttered, till I scarcely, more
than muttered.
Other friends have flown before, on the marrow we will leave me, as my hopes have flown
before.
Then the bird said, never more, startled at the stillness broken by a reply so aptly
spoken, doubtless, said I, what it utters, it's only stock and store, caught from some
unhappy master whom unmercifully disaster, followed fast and followed faster till his songs
once burdened bore, till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burdened bore, oh, never,
never more.
But the raven still be gullingly, my sad fancy into smiling, straight I wheeled a cushioning
seat in front of bird and bust and door, then upon the velvet-sinking I be took myself
to linking, fancy on to fancy, thinking what this usmost bird of your, what this grim
ungainly ghastly gaunt and ominous bird of your, meant in croaking, never more.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing, to the foul whose fiery eyes now
burned into my bosom's core, this in more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining,
on the cushions velvet lining, that the lamp light glowed at ore, but whose velvet-violent
lining, with the lamp lit gloating ore, she shall press, ha, never more.
Then myth-hot the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, swung by serfen whose
footfalls tinkled on the tuffled floor, wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee by these angels
he hath sent thee, respite, respite in the penth, from thy memories of Lenore, quoth, quoth,
this kind napheen, and forgot this lost Lenore.
Quoth the raven, never more.
Said I, think of evil, profit still, if bird or devil, whether tempter, sent, or whether
tempt is tossed thee, here ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land and
chanted, on this home by horror haunted, tell me truly I implore, is there, is there
a bomb and glad, tell me, tell me, I implore, quoth the raven, never more.
Profit, said I, think of evil, profit still, if bird or devil, by the heaven that bends above
us, by that God we both adore, tell this soul was sorrow laden, if within the distant
Eden, it shall clasp a sataned maiden whom the angels named Lenore, clasp a rare and
radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, quoth the raven, never more.
Be that word our sign in pairing bird or friend, I shriek, upstarting.
Get thee back into the tempest and nights, pleton and shore, leave no black loom as a token
of that lie that thy have spoken, leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my
door, take thy beat from out my heart and take thy form from off my door, quoth the raven,
never more.
And the raven, never fitting still in sitting, still is sitting on that pallid bust of
palace just above my chamber door, and his eyes have all seen of a demon that is dreaming,
in the lamplight or him streaming through shadows of the floor, and my soul from out that
shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted never more.
My ant will be down presently, Mr. Newtell, set a very self-possessed young lady of
fifteen.
In the meantime, you must try and put up with me.
Frampton Newtell endeavored to say the correct something which should doly flatter the
niece of the moment, without unduly discounting the ant that was to come.
Privately, he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total
strangers would do much towards helping the nerve-cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
You know how it will be, his sister said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural
retreat.
You will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul and your nerves will be
worse than ever from moping.
I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there.
Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.
Martin wondered whether Ms. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters
of introduction, came into the nice division.
To you know many of the people around here asked the niece when she judged that she had
had sufficient silent communication, hardly a soul, said Frampton.
My sister was staying here at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave
me letters of introduction to some of the people here.
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
Then you know practically nothing about my aunt, pursued the self-possessed young lady.
Only her name and address admitted the collar.
He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state, an undefinable
something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
Her great tragedy happened just three years ago, said the child.
That would be since your sister's time.
Her tragedy, asked Frampton, somehow in this restful country, spot tragedies seemed
out of place.
It is quite warm for the time of year, said Frampton.
But has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?
Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two brothers
went off for their day's shooting.
They never came back.
In crossing the more to their favorite snipe shooting ground, they were all three engulfed
in a treacherous piece of bog.
It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other
years gave way suddenly without warning.
Their bodies were never recovered.
That was the dreadful part of it.
Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human.
Poor Aunt, always thinking that they will come back someday.
They and the little brown spaniel that they lost with them.
And walk in that window just as they used to.
That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk.
Poor dear Aunt, she has often told me how they went out.
Her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm and Ronnie, her youngest brother,
singing, birdie, why do you bound?
As he always did to tease her because she said it got on her nerves.
Do you know, sometimes, and still quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling
that they will all walk in through that window.
She broke off with a little shutter.
It was a relief to Frampton when the ant bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies
for being late and making her appearance.
I hope Vera has been amusing you.
She said.
She's been very interesting, said Frampton.
I hope you don't mind the open window, said Mrs. Sappleton briskly.
My husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting and they always come in this way.
They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor
carpets.
So like you men folk, isn't it?
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds and the prospects
for duck in the winter.
To Frampton, it was all purely horrible.
He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk to a less ghastly topic.
He was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention and her
eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window.
It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this
tragic anniversary.
The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of medical excitement, and avoidance
of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise, announced Frampton, who labored
under the totally widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are
hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities.
Their cause and cure.
On the matter of diet, they are not so much in agreement.
He continued.
No, said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment.
Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention, but not to what Frampton was saying.
Here they are at last.
She cried, just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the
eyes.
Frampton shivered slightly and turned toward the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic
comprehension.
The child was staring through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes.
In a chill shock of nameless fear, Frampton swung around in his seat and looked in the
same direction.
In the deepening twilight, three figures were walking across the lawn toward the window.
They all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with
a white coat hung over his shoulders.
A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels.
Noiselessly, they entered the house, and then a horse-young voice chanted out of the dusk.
I say, birdie, why do you bound?
Frampton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat.
The hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his head
long retreat.
A cyclist came along the road and had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.
Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white macintosh coming in through the window.
Fairly muddy, but most of it is dry.
Who was that who bolted out as we came up?
A most extraordinary man, Mr. Newtell, said Mrs. Sappleton.
It could only talk about his illness and dashed off without a word of goodbye or apology
when you arrived.
One would think he had seen a ghost.
I expect it was the spaniel, said the niece calmly.
He told me he had a horror of dogs.
He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah
dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning
and foaming just above him enough to make anyone lose their nerve.
Oh, which is hot, from Act 4, scene 1 of Shakespeare's Macbeth?
Thrice, the brinded catath mewed.
Thrice and once, the hedge pig wind, hopper cries, tis time, tis time.
Round about the call-dring-go, in the poison-end trails through, towed that under code stone days
and night has 31, spotted venom-sleeping-got, boiled out first in the charmed pot.
Double, double, toil and trouble, fab and cold-dring-bubble.
For lay of any snake in the cold-dring-boil and bake, I have noot in towed a frog, all
of bat in tongue of dog, at a fork, and blind worm sting, lizard's leg, and howl its wing,
for a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.
Double, double, toil and trouble, fire-burn and cold-dring-bubble.
Scale of dragon tooth of footh, which is mummy-maw and gulf of the ravine, salt-sea-shock root
of hemlock digged in the dark, slivered in the moon's eclipse, noose of turk and tatters-lips.
Finger of birth-strengthened babe, ditch-delivered by a drape, make the gruel thick and slab,
add their two attackers' cold-dring for the ingredients of our cold-dring.
Double, double, toil and trouble, fab and cold-dring-bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood, then the charm is firm and good.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
The Thing in the Forest by Bernard Capes
Into the snow-locked forests of Upper Hungary steal wolves and winter,
but there is a footfall worse than theirs to knock upon the heart of the lonely traveler.
One December evening, Elspet, the young, newly-wetted wife of the woodmen's taffon,
came hurrying over the lower slopes of the White Mountains from the town where she had been all day
marketing. She carried a basket with provisions on her arm, her plump cheeks were like a
couple of cold apples, her breath spoke short, but more from nervousness than exhaustion.
It was nearing dusk, and she was glad to see the little lonely church in the hollow below,
the hub, as it were, of many radiating paths through the trees,
one of which was the road to her own warm cottage, yet a half mile away.
She paused a moment at the foot of the slope, undecided before entering the little chill,
silent building, and making her plea for protection to the great battered stone image
of our lady of sucker, which stood within by the confessional box,
but the stillness in the growing darkness decided her, and she went on.
A spark of fire glowing through the Presbytery window seemed to repel rather than attract her,
and she was glad when the convolutions of the path hid it from her sight.
Being new to the district, she had seen very little of father rule as yet,
and somehow the penetrating knowledge and burning eyes the pastor made her feel uncomfortable.
The soft drift, the lane of tall, motionless pines, stretched on in a quiet like death.
Somewhere the sun, like a dead fire, had fallen into obsolescent embers, faintly luminous.
They were enough only to touch the shadows, with a ghastly or pallor.
It was so still that the light crunched in the snow of the girl's own footfalls,
trod on her heart like a desecration. Suddenly there was something near her that had not been before.
It had come like a shadow without more sound or warning. It was here, there, behind her.
She turned in mortal panic and saw a wolf. With a strangled cry and trembling limbs,
she strove to hurry on her way, and always she knew, though there was no whisper of pursuit
that the gliding shadow followed in her wake. Desperate in her terror, she stopped once more and faced it.
A wolf. Was it a wolf? Oh, who could doubt it? Yet the wild expression in those famished
eyes so lost, so pitiful, so mingled of unsatiable hunger and human need condemned for its unspeakable
sins to take this form with sunset, and so howl and snuffle about the doors of men until the blessed
day released it. A werewolf, not a wolf. The terrific realization of the truth
smote the girl as with a knife out of darkness for an instant she came near fainting,
and then a low-mone broke into her heart and flooded it with pity. So lost, so infinitely hopeless,
and so pitiful, yes, in spite of it all so pitiful. It had sinned beyond any sinning that her
innocence knew or her experience could gauge, but she was a woman, very blessed, very happy in her
store of comforts and her surety of love. She knew that it was forbidden to suck her these damned
and nameless outcasts, to help or sympathize with them in any way, but there was a good store of
meat in her basket, and who need ever no or tell. With shaking hands she found and threw a
sock to the desolate brute to then turning, sped upon her way, but at home her secret sins stood
up before her, and interposing between her husband and herself through its shadow upon both their
faces. What had she dared? What done? By her own act forfeited her birthright of innocence,
by her own act placed herself in the power of the evil to which she administered.
All that night she lay in shame and horror, and all the next day until Stefan had come about his
dinner and gone again, she moved in dumb agony. Then driven unendurably by the memory of his troubled
bewildered face, as twilight threatened she put on her cloak and went down to the little church
in the hollow to confess her sin. Mother, forgive and save me, she whispered as she passed the statue.
After ringing the bell for the confessor she had not dealt long at the confessional box in the
dim chapel cold and empty as a waiting vault. When the chancel rail clicked and the footsteps of
father-rule were heard rustling over the stones. He came, he took his seat behind the grating,
and, with many sighs and falterings, else bet about her guilt, and as with bowed head she ended a
strange sound answered her. It was like a little laugh, and yet not so much like a laugh as a snarl.
With a shock as of death she raised her face. It was father-rule who sat there, and yet it was not
father-rule. In that time of twilight his face was already changing, narrowing, becoming wolfish,
the eyes rounded and the jaw slavoured. She gasped and shrunk back, and at that barking and
snapping at the grating, with a wicked look he dropped, and she heard him coming. Sheer horror
lent her wings, with a scream she sprang to her feet and fled. Her cloak caught on something
there was a wrench and crash and like a flood oblivion over-swebbed her.
It was the old deaf and nearly senile sacristan who found them lying there, the woman unhurt but
insensible, the priest crushed out of life by the fall of the ancient statue, long tottering to its
collapse. She recovered for her part, for his, no one knows where he lies buried, but there were
dark stories of a bane pack that night, and of an empty, blood-stained pavement when they came
to seek for the body.
The Highway Man by Alfred Noise
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, the moon was a ghostly galleon
tossed upon the cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple
and the Highway Man came riding, riding, riding. The Highway Man came riding up to the old
indoor. He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of
claret velvet and breeches of brown dough skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle, his boots were up
to the thigh, and he rode with the jeweled twinkle, his pistol butts a twinkle, his rapier hilt a twinkle
under the jeweled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inyard. He tapped
with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked in barred. He whistled a tune to the window,
and who should be waiting there? But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, best the landlord's
daughter, plating a dark red love-nut into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inyard,
a stable wicket creaked, where Tim the Osler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay. But he loved the landlord's daughter,
the landlord's red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robbers say.
One kiss, my Bonnie sweetheart. I'm after a prize tonight, but I shall be back with a yellow gold
before the morning light. Yet if they press me sharply and harry me through the day,
then look for me by the moonlight. Watch for me by the moonlight. I'll come to the by the moonlight,
though hell shall bar the way. He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
but she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burned like a brand. As the black cascade of
perfume came tumbling over his breast, he kissed its waves in the moonlight. Oh, sweet waves in
the moonlight. Then he tugged at his rain in the moonlight and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon, and out of the tawny sunset before
the rise of the moon, when the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple more. A red coat
troop came marching, marching, marching. King George's men came marching up to the old indoor.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead, but they gagged his daughter
and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement with muskets at their
side. There was death at every window and hell at one dark window. For best could see through
the casement the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention with many a sniggering
chest. They had bound a musket beside her with the barrel beneath her breast. Now keep good watch,
and they kissed her. She heard the doomed men say. Look for me by the moonlight. Watch for me by the
moonlight. I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell shall bar the way. She twisted her hands
behind her, but all the knots held good. She rived her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat
or blood. They stretched and strained in the darkness and the hours crawled by like years.
Till now on the stroke of midnight, cold on the stroke of midnight, the tip of one finger
touched it. The trigger at least was hers. The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more
for the rest. Up she stood up to attention with the barrel beneath her breast. She would not
risk their hearing. She would not strive again. For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
blank and bare in the moonlight, and the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her
love's refrain. Tadalat, Tadalat, had they heard it? The horses hooves ringing clear. Tadalat,
Tadalat in the distance, were they death that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight,
over the brow of the hill. The highwayman came riding. Riding, riding, the red coats looked to their
priming. She stood up straight and still. Tadalat in the frosty silence. Tadalat in the echoing night,
nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment. She drew one
last deep breath. Then her finger moved in the moonlight. Her musket shattered the moonlight,
shattered her breast in the moonlight, and warned him with her death. He turned, he spurred to the
west. He did not know who stood, bowed with her head or the musket, drenched in her own red blood.
Not till the dawn he heard it. His face grew gray to hear. How best the landlord's daughter,
the landlord's black-eyed daughter, had watched for her love in the moonlight and died in the darkness
there. Back he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky with a white road smoking behind him
and his rapier, brandished high. Blood red were his spurs in the gold noon, wine red his velvet coat,
when they shot him down on the highway, down like a dog on the highway, and he lay in his blood on
the highway with a bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter's night they say,
when the wind is in the trees, when the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
when the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor. A highwayman comes riding, riding,
riding. A highwayman comes riding up to the old indoor, over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in
the dark in yard. He taps with his whip at the shutters, but all is locked in barred.
He whistles a tune to the window and who should be waiting there. But the landlord's black-eyed
daughter, best the landlord's daughter, plating a dark red love knot into her long black hair.
The Earl King by Johann Wolfgang von Gertha
Who rides so late where winds blow wild, it is the father grasping his child.
He holds the boy embraced in his arm, he clasps him snugly, he keeps him warmed.
My son, like cover your face in such fear.
Oh, don't you see the Earl King there? The Earl King with his crown and train.
My son, the mist is on the plane.
Sweet lad, oh come and join me. Do such pretty games I'll play with you.
On the shore, gay flowers, their colors unfold. My mother has made you a garment of gold.
My father, my father, can you not hear? The promised the Earl King brids in my ear.
Be calm, stay calm, my child, lie low. In withered leaves, the night winds blow.
Will you sweet lad come along with me? My daughters shall care for you tenderly.
In the night, my daughters, they'll rubberly keep. They'll rock you and dance you and send you to sleep.
My father, my father, can you not trace the Earl King's daughters in that gloomy place?
My son, my son, I see clear how grey the ancient willes appear.
I love you, your comeliness terms me, my boy, and if you're not willing, then force I'll employ.
Now, father or father, he's seizing my arm. The Earl King has done me the cruelest harm.
The father shutters his right as wild in his arms holding the shivering child.
He reaches home with toil and dread in his arms and the child was dead.