hat pleading, expostulant wailing,
That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter.
Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people;
That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter,
She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit
(Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a
chicken),
She changed all these folks into birds and shrieking with demoniac
venom:
"Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever,
Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos,
Crooning of Peter the fool who scouted at stories of witches.
Crying for Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"

This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend:
As I have told, so tell the folk and the legend,
That it is true I believe, for on the breeze of the morning
Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter;
Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers,
Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places--
Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming,
Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis.
Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden.
Always neglecting his chores--given to books and to reading,
Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief,
Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.

This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky
When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples,
Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon;
When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows,
When from the spring-house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard,
When from the redbud and gum and from redolent lilac,
When from the dirt roads and pikes comes that calling for Peter;
Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration
Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever!
This is the legend of old, told in the tumtitty meter
Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming
(My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon,)
Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended.

DIBDIN'S GHOST.

Dear wife, last midnight while I read
The tomes you so despise,
A specter rose beside the bed
And spoke in this