“Oh, when I was a little Ghost, A merry time had we! Each seated on his favourite post, We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
They gave us for our tea.” “That story is in print!” I cried. “Do n't say it's not, because It's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide!”
( The Ghost uneasily replied He hardly thought it was ). “It's not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet I almost think it is —
‘ Three little Ghosteses’ were set ‘ On posteses,’ you know, and ate Their‘ buttered toasteses.’ “I have the book; so, if you doubt it —”
I turned to search the shelf. “Do n't stir!” he cried. “We'll do without it; I now remember all about it; I wrote the thing myself.
“It came out in a‘ Monthly,’ or At least my agent said it did: Some literary swell, who saw It, thought it seemed adapted for
The Magazine he edited. “My father was a Brownie, Sir; My mother was a Fairy. The notion had occurred to her,
The children would be happier, If they were taught to vary. “The notion soon became a craze; And, when it once began, she
Brought us all out in different ways — One was a Pixy, two were Fays, Another was a Banshee; “The Fetch and Kelpie went to school,
And gave a lot of trouble; Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul, And then two Trolls ( which broke the rule ), A Goblin, and a Double —
“( If that's a snuff-box on the shelf,” He added with a yawn, “I'll take a pinch ) — next came an Elf, And then a Phantom ( that's myself ),
And last, a Leprechaun. “One day, some Spectres chanced to call, Dressed in the usual white: I stood and watched them in the hall,
And could n't make them out at all, They seemed so strange a sight. “I wondered what on earth they were, That looked all head and sack;
But Mother told me not to stare, And then she twitched me by the hair, And punched me in the back. “Since then I've often wished that I
Had been a Spectre born. But what's the use?” ( He heaved a sigh ). “They are the ghost-nobility, And look on us with scorn.
“My phantom-life was soon begun: When I was barely six, I went out with an older one — And just at first I thought it fun,
And learned a lot of tricks. “I've haunted dungeons, castles, towers — Wherever I was sent: I've often sat and howled for hours,
Drenched to the skin with driving showers, Upon a battlement. “It's quite old-fashioned now to groan When you begin to speak:
This is the newest thing in tone —” And here ( it chilled me to the bone ) He gave an awful squeak. “Perhaps,” he added, “to your ear
That sounds an easy thing? Try it yourself, my little dear! It took me something like a year, With constant practising.
“And when you've learned to squeak, my man And caught the double sob, You're pretty much where you began: Just try and gibber if you can!
That's something like a job! “I've tried it, and can only say I'm sure you could n't do it, e- Ven if you practised night and day,
Unless you have a turn that way, And natural ingenuity. “Shakspeare I think it is who treats Of Ghosts, in days of old,
Who‘ gibbered in the Roman streets,’ Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets — They must have found it cold. “I've often spent ten pounds on stuff,
In dressing as a Double; But, though it answers as a puff, It never has effect enough To make it worth the trouble.
“Long bills soon quenched the little thirst I had for being funny. The setting-up is always worst: Such heaps of things you want at first,
One must be made of money! “For instance, take a Haunted Tower, With skull, cross-bones, and sheet; Blue lights to burn ( say ) two an hour,
Condensing lens of extra power, And set of chains complete: “What with the things you have to hire — The fitting on the robe —
And testing all the coloured fire — The outfit of itself would tire The patience of a Job! “And then they're so fastidious,
The Haunted-House Committee: I've often known them make a fuss Because a Ghost was French, or Russ, Or even from the City!
“Some dialects are objected to — For one, the Irish brogue is: And then, for all you have to do, One pound a week they offer you,
And find yourself in Bogies!”
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