He was no commonplace suburban spook
Content to rap on table-tops; he cherished
The memory of days when at his look
Princes and peers incontinently perished;
Stuck in his heart a jewelled knife dripped red;
Flames had been known to issue from his head.
The Moated Grange, now ruinous and drear,
He roamed, constrained to bitter self-effacement,
Until one midnight his enraptured ear
Detected mortal accents in the basement.
Downstairs he crept; beside the cheerless grate
Sat four or five old men in keen debate.
Softly he chuckled, "Here's a bit of luck!"
And beat a warning rattle on his tabor
That once had made the stoutest run amok;
Then each old boy sat up and nudged his neighbour;
Calm and collected round the chimney-piece
They showed no sign of imminent decease.
In vain he practised all his horrid lore
And rolled his eyes and beckoned with distort hand;
In vain his dagger dripped with gouts of gore,
They only beamed and took a note in shorthand;
When in despair he loosed his flaming jet
One smiled and lit therefrom a cigarette.
That was the end! With agonising shriek
He turned and fled, the spectral perspiration
Dewing his brow and coursing down his cheek;
Fled, and was lost to man's investigation
(For full discussion of his little tricks
See Psychical Research Reports, vol. vi.).
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Country Host._ "I HOPE THE OWLS DIDN'T DISTURB YOU LAST
NIGHT, LADY JENKINS?"
_Wife of Local Mayor._ "LAW BLESS YOU, NO! I DIDN'T 'EAR ANYTHING. WHICH
DOG WAS IT?"]
* * * * *