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O'Shea,” says he. “Faith an' if it's to obleege a rale gintleman like yersilf, I will,” I says. The curtain riz, an' there wuz twinty payple shtandin' around dressed illigantly. Pat whispered 't wuz the king an' quane. Wan young feller seemed varry sad, an' had on full mournin', the natest I ever saw an’ me five years a widdy. “Who's that feller in mournin' fer?” I says to Pat. 6. His father,” whispered O'Shea. “Who wuz his father?” says I. “ The ghostkape quiet!” says Pat.
When I looked agin, the young feller in black wuz alone, but sum of the men what saw the ghost, kem in and told him about it. He was all of a thremble, an' nothin' wud do but he must go out the nixt night an' see if the ghost wud come agin. Well, the nixt thing the room seemed to go away, an' there was the mournin' feller waitin' for the ghost. I med up me mind not to schrame, but whin the ould sphook kem movhin' along, I had to put me two hands over me mouth. Thin the ghost's son says,
“ Arrah,” says he, "vy the divil air ye walkin'round instid o'layin' quiet and paceable in the cimetery, where we put ye? A’n’t ye contint wid wan o' the most expinsive grave-stuns in the country, widout bustin out an'chasin' up an' down the alley, scarin' the life out uv us?” Thin the ghost motioned wid his shtick for 'im to foller. The men grabbed him, but he shpoke up dacent to the ghost, "I'll foller ye,” says he, “an’ if any thinks he can shtop me I'll make him into a sphook in four siconds.” “ Bully for ye,” says I, out loud : jist then the ghost began to shpake. “Kape yer ears open to phat I'm tellin' ye,” says he, in a vice like the rumblin of a horse car, “ for I must git back to the place all brimstone an' fire, where I'm at prisent sphending me time to make up for the diviltries I did before I kem. If I wuz to tell what kind uv a picnic we have down there,” says he, “'t would sind plows an' harrows over yer sowl, turn yer blud ter ice, an' make
hair schtick up like squills on a parkypine.”. “What’s ailin' uv ye?” says the feller in mournin'. “I'll tell ye,” says the shpook. “I wuz kilt by that baste of a brother, who is now king an' yer mother's husband.” The thayeter wuz still as a church, an' the young feller wuz a sight to see as he begun to ketch on to the racket. “Yis,” says the ghost, “yer uncle is the feller that did the business for me, an' I think it showed schmall judgment in yer mother to marry a murd'rin villin like him whin she'd jist lost so dacent a man as myself.
“They turned pizen into me ears whin I wuz schlapin' in me back yard, an' off I went widout sayin' a praste or havin' a chance to ordher a mass fer me sowl. If ye 're the b’y I take
fer, 'll make it hot fer yer uncle, an' I carn't rest quiet in the warrum climate I’m residin' in till ye do.” The sphook thin walked off, an' the b'y made em swear they would n't tell, bekase he wanted to catch his ould blaggard of an' uncle whin he was onsushpictin, do ye moind: thin the curtain kem down. “How do ye like the play?” says Patsy. “ Does n't it make ye blush fer yer sex, to think of a woman pizenin' her husband to git another man?” “Ye'd bether be careful yerself, O'Shea,” says I, “or the ghost of Tim Calligan will be walkin' about yer bed sum night. Pizenin' a man is wan thing, an' kapin' him underground is another.” It's a long shtory I'm tellin', an’sure I can't remember half, but the ould sphalpeen went into the pizen business agin ; he put some on the swords an' inter the wine. The quane drank the wine, the fellers struck with the swords, an' the ghost's b’y, seein' through the game, shtabbed his uncle. In two minutes they wuz all dead—an’uv course that wuz the last uv it.
They bar with a purple stain
They are hot where I have lain;
my bosom throw,
That over the garden blow.
I dreamed I was with my Antony,
And in his arms I lay ;
The music has died away.
As this spiced aromatic pastille
Is now but an ashy hill.
Scatter upon me rose leaves,
They cool me after my sleep, And with sandal odors fan me Till into
veins they creep; Reach down the lute and play me
A melancholy tune, To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.
O cockatoo, shriek for Antony !
Cry “Come, my love, come home!” Shriek “ Antony! Antony! Antony!”
Till he hears you even in Rome.
There—leave me, and take from my chamber
That stupid little gazelle,
And its silly, tinkling bell !
The thing without blood or brain, Or, by the body of Isis,
I'll snap his neck in twain !
I will lie and dream of the past time,
Æons of thought away,
Loosen my fancy to play;
Ribbed with yellow and black,
I wandered where never the track Of a human creature had rustled
The silence of mighty woods, And fierce in a tyrannous freedom, I knew but the law of
moods. The elephant, trumpeting, started
When he heard my footsteps near,
In a yellow cloud of fear.
Quivering along the glade,
Basked in the Tamarisk shade,
As the shadows of night came on To brood in the trees' thick branches,
And the shadow of sleep was gone : Then I roused and roared in answer,
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet
My curving claws, and stretched me,
And wandered my mate to greet.
Upon the warm flat sand,
How powerful he was, and grand !
As he crouched and gazed at me, And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched curving nervously.
With a wild, triumphant cry ;
When the thunders before them fly.
Often another suitor
For I was flexile and fair-
While I lay crouching there,
And, ruffled with triumph and power,
To breathe him a vast half-hour;
That was a life to live for!
Not this weak human life,
Its poor and petty strife!
The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger's ancient fierceness
In my veins begins to flow. Come not cringing to sue me!
Take me with triumph and power, As a warrior storms a fortress!
I will not shrink, or cower. Come as you came in the desert,
Ere we were women and men, When the tiger passions were in us, And love as you loved me then!
William W. Story.