<T A Haunted House>
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting.
From room to room they went, hand in hand,
lifting here, opening there, making sure - a ghostly
"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but
here too]" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the
garden," he whispered. "Quietly,"they said, "or we
shall wake them."
But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're
looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might
say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found
it," one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the
margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and
see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing
open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and
the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the
farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want
to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs
then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again,
the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped i . . .