TIM BLUSTER'S DREAM.
'Twas a place of fifty acres, in a lonely neighborhood,
And near a grove of somber pines the shackly farm-house stood;
And all the folks, for miles around, did solemnly declare
That ghosts and goblins horrible held nightly revel there.
They said the house was "hanted," and that not a man alive,
In all the country round about, could own the place and thrive;
That the cattle died with fever, and the hogs the cholera took—
And every one that tried it wore a mighty troubled look.
But they put it up at auction, and Tim Bluster bid the most,
Who always said "There want no hants nor any kind of ghost
That ever walked a graveyard in the middle of the night
Could make his nerves unsteady, or could fill him with affright!"
So Tim got full possession, and he moved out to his home,
And the first night, as he sat there, within his room alone,
The door was softly opened, and a cat came walking in,
With eyes like balls of fire and a coat as black as sin.
Then squatting on its haunches, it said, in tones polite,
"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim muttered in a trembling voice, as for the door he run,
"Perhaps you think there will be two, but darn me, there's but one!"
Tim staid away the blessed night, but when the daylight came,
It brought him back his courage, and it filled him full of shame;
And then he said, unto himself, "There wasn't any cat
Could make him leave that room again—he'd bet his life on that!"
So when the shades of evening fell, Tim double-barred the door,
And took precautions that, perhaps, he hadn't night before,
And felt quite sure that nothing now could gain admittance there,
And peacefully he dozed and slept, a-sitting in his chair.