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.).
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?"