Washford Pyne.
“I am thy father’s spirit, and could a tale unfold.”
Country life has many attractions, magnificent scenery, rippling streams, winter torrents, scented clover, and pure air, yet it occasionally gets monotonous, and we sometimes say –
Oh! solitude, where are the charms / That sages have seen in thy face? / Better dwell in the midst of alarms / Than reign in this quiet old place.
But a change has come over the scene, our quietude has fled. A real ghost, or rather family of ghosts, have taken up their abode in a farm-house, and make night hideous with their queer noises. Sometimes it is a shrill whistle, then the amusement is varied by banging of doors, and finally a fearful row like a pack of hounds in full chase.
Some say, “Nonsense! ’tis a bewildered jackdaw or benighted partridge in the chimney.” But of course, they are only jealous because we have a real ghost all to ourselves.
Western Times, 8th November 1878.