Part 5 (1/2)

I bade him seek the altar, He vowed that he would not.

”She's yours, old fellow. Make her As happy as you can.”

”Not so,” said I, ”you take her-- You are the lucky man.”

At length--the situation Had lasted now a year-- I had an inspiration, Which seemed to make things clear.

”Supposing,” I suggested, ”We ask Miss WHITE to choose?

I should be interested To hear her private views.

”Perhaps she has a preference-- I own it sounds absurd-- But I submit, with deference, That she might well be heard.

In clear, commercial diction The case in point we'll state, Disclose the cause of friction, And leave the rest to Fate.”

We did, and on the morrow The postman brought us news.

Miss WHITE expressed her sorrow At having to refuse.

Of all her many reasons This seemed to me the pith: Six months before (or rather more) She'd married Mr. SMITH.

THE HAUNTED TRAM

Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange, The Court, Ghosts of the Castle Keep.

Ghosts of the finicking, ”high-life” sort Are growing a trifle cheap.

But here is a spook of another stamp, No thin, theatrical sham, But a spectre who fears not dirt nor damp: He rides on a London tram.

By the curious glance of a mortal eye He is not seen. He's heard.

His steps go a-creeping, creeping by, He speaks but a single word.

You may hear his feet: you may hear them plain, For--it's odd in a ghost--they crunch.

You may hear the whirr of his rattling chain, And the ting of his ringing punch.

The gathering shadows of night fall fast; The lamps in the street are lit; To the roof have the eerie footsteps pa.s.sed, Where the outside pa.s.sengers sit.

To the pa.s.senger's side has the spectre paced; For a moment he halts, they say, Then a ring from the punch at the unseen waist, And the footsteps pa.s.s away.

That is the tale of the haunted car; And if on that car you ride You won't, believe me, have journeyed far Ere the spectre seeks your side.

Ay, all unseen by your seat he'll stand, And (unless it's a wig) your hair Will rise at the touch of his icy hand, And the sound of his whispered ”Fare!”

At the end of the trip, when you're getting down (And you'll probably simply fly!) Just give the conductor half-a-crown, Ask who is the ghost and why.

And the man will explain with bated breath (And point you a moral) thus: ”'E's a pore young bloke wot wos crushed to death By people as fought As they didn't ought For seats on a crowded bus.”

STORIES

WHEN PAPA SWORE IN HINDUSTANI