Ghost Stories and Mysteries by Ernest Favenc Page A

interrupted him as blandly and politely as I could, “Excuse me; one moment. That promises to be a most interesting tale, but you will be tired and hoarse if you go on reading without pause. Now just to give you a spell I’ll sing you a song.”
    “A what!” he said.
    “A song—a carol. A Christmas carol .”
    “You daren’t,” he said; but the blow had gone home I could see.
    “No trouble at all, my dear fellow, just the reverse, and it’s one of my own composing too,” I added boldly, for I thought that I could see victory ahead.
    I have no more voice than an alligator with a cold in its head, and scarcely know one tune from another, but without more ado I struck up:—
Come, your hands entwine, for this toast is mine,
A health to Christmas bold.
Round his head the leaves of the holly shine,
In his arms he does earth enfold.
    “Patience! Grant me patience,” muttered the Spirit; but he seemed to clench his teeth firmly, as if with a determination to sit it out. I went on, and hurled the next verse at him like a boomerang:—
When over the ground he spreads around
The snow that he so does love,
The robin comes out, and he looks about—
    With one wild yell of anguish that made every sheet of iron in the roof ring like a bullock bell, the Spirit of Christmas started from the chair.
    “Man! man! You have conquered. I forego my revenge. That robin is too much for me. Live unharmed by me; but,” and here his voice softened into a tone of beseeching pathos, “as you have some charity in your disposition, as you may stand in need of consideration and forbearance yourself some day, do not add to the heavy woes of a tortured Spirit by casting your additional stone. Do not ever again attempt to write a Christmas story.”
    I was deeply touched, there was such a look of heartfelt anguish on his face.
    “You promise?” he asked.
    “I do.”
    “Then, we part friends; but, ah! that robin,” and, waving me a parting salute, he stepped out into the glaring sunshine, and passed away.

THE MEDIUM
    (1876)
    Chapter I
    The end of a dry season; the roads foot deep in dust; the grass, what was left of it, as brown as grass could be; the waterholes dwindled down into puddles of liquid mud—in fact, everything looking just as it always does after an Australian drought, as though it only wanted a fire-stick put into it to burn the whole concern up, and forestall the last day.
    It was just sundown one day, during this desirable period of the year, when a traveller came cantering along the road leading to the Stratford station. On he went, raising as much dust as a marching regiment would in any other country, until he pulled up at the slip rails, dismounted, let himself and horse in, and wended his way up to the homestead.
    The house he was approaching was the usual style of thing in the bush: two or three rooms, and verandah, with smaller huts scattered around. A very tall man was leaning against one of the verandah posts, smoking. He turned as he heard the horse’s tread, and welcomed the horseman by the name of Jackson. They shook hands, Jackson unsaddled his horse, and they went inside.
    The tall man’s name was Starr, and he was the owner of the place.
    Jackson handed him a couple of letters, remarking as he did so that he heard he was mustering, and had come down to look after his cattle if it was the case. “No,” said Starr, as he broke the envelopes, “I was only getting some fat cattle for Blatherskyte; I start to-morrow with them.”
    “The beggers told me you were mustering down here, so I’ve had my ride for nothing. Luckily I am not very busy, for one can’t do much till we get some rain.”
    “Well, I’m glad to see you down here. Tea will be in directly.”
    “I will just rinse some of the dust off,” said Jackson, stepping into one of the bedrooms.
    A trampling was just then heard outside. Starr went out, and was immediately greeted by name by one of the new comers—a young and good-looking man. The