Tim Bluster's Dream.

A poem by George W. Doneghy

'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.

Then, all at once, he roused himself, and opening wide his eyes,
Beheld a figure standing there that made his hair arise
Like quills upon a porcupine, and froze his heart with fear,
And headless though it was, it spoke, and said in accents clear,

"There seems to be but two of us to stay in here to-night!"
Tim made a bound, and took with him the sash and every light,
And then he jumped a nine-rail fence, and down the road he spun,
And said, "Perhaps he thinks there's two, but darn me, there's but one!"

'Twas seven miles before he stopped and sat down on a log
To catch his breath and rest awhile from his nocturnal jog
And then he turned his head around, and right before his face
The figure stood, and said to him, "I think we've had a race!"

Tim tried to speak, and not a word he found to utter then,
But as he jumped from off his seat and broke away again,
He spluttered out, "I know we have, but think it's not quite done,
For you can bet right now's the time we'll have another one!"

Away Tim flew--he left the road, and through the woods and fields
The pace he set was wonderful, the ghost right at his heels!
And that old house is tenantless, and slowly rotting down,
Since that dread night Tim had his dream, and moved right back to town!

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