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<h2><SPAN name="page381"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE GHOSTS’ HIGH NOON</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> the night wind
howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight
flies,<br/>
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight
skies—<br/>
When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black
dogs bay the moon,<br/>
Then is the spectres’ holiday—then is the
ghosts’ high noon!</p>
<p class="poetry">As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees,
and the mists lie low on the fen,<br/>
From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women
and men,<br/>
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends
too soon,<br/>
For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the
night’s high noon!</p>
<p class="poetry">And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to
their churchyard beds take flight,<br/>
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim
“good night”;<br/>
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its
jolliest tune,<br/>
And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the
night’s high noon!</p>
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