When I Have Heard Him Talking To

Father Time Is Not Always A Hard Parent And Though He Tarries For None Of His Children, Often Lays His Hand Lightly Upon Those Who Have Used Him Well; Making Them Old Men And Women Inexorably Enough, But Leaving Their Hearts And Spirits Young And In Full Vigor. With Such People The Gray Head Is But The Impression Of The Old Fellow's Hand In Giving Them His Blessing, And Every Wrinkle But A Notch In The Quiet Calendar Of A Well-spent Life.

It's Over, And Can't Be Helped, And That's One Consolation, As They Always Say In Turkey, When They Cut The Wrong Man's Head Off.

Such Is Hope, Heaven's Own Gift To Struggling Mortals, Pervading, Like Some Subtle Essence From The Skies, All Things Both Good And Bad.

Now, What I Want Is, Facts. . . . Facts Alone Are Wanted In Life.

Under None Of The Accredited Ghostly Circumstances, And Environed By None Of The Conventional Ghostly Surroundings, Did I First Make Acquaintance With The House Which Is The Subject Of This Christmas Piece. I Saw It In The Daylight, With The Sun Upon It. There Was No Wind, No Rain, No Lightning, No Thunder, No Awful Or Unwonted Circumstance, Of Any Kind, To Heighten Its Effect.