As upon the sound I pondered, what the deuce it was I
Wondered;
Could it be my ear had blundered, as at times it had
Before?

But scarce again was I reseated, ere I heard the sound repeated,
The same dull patter that had greeted me from out the
Closet door;
The same dull patter that had greeted me from out the closet door;
A gentle patter, nothing more.

Then my rage arose unbounded,--"What," cried I, "is
This confounded
Noise with which my ear is wounded—noise I’ve never
Heard before?
If’t is presage dread of evil, if’t is made by ghost or devil,
I call on ye to be more civil—" stop that knocking at the
Door!’
Stop that strange mysterious knocking there, within my closet door;
Grant me this, if nothing more."

Once again I seized the candle, rudely grasped the
Latchet’s handle,
Savage as a Goth or Vandal, that kicked up rumpuses of
Yore,--
"What the dickens is the matter," said I, "to produce
this patter?"
To Mrs. P, and looked straight at her. "I don’t know,"
Said she, "I’m shore;
Lest it be a pesky rat, or something, I don’t know, I’m
Shore."
This she said, and nothing more.

Still the noise kept on unceasing; evidently ‘t was increasing;
Like a cart-wheel wanting greasing, wore it on my nerves
Full sore;
Patter, patter, patter, patter, the rain the while made noisy clatter,
My teeth with boding ill did chatter, as when I’m troubled
By a bore—
Some prosing, dull, and dismal fellow, coming in but just
To bore;
Only this, and nothing more.

All night long it kept on tapping; vain I laid myself for
Napping,
Calling sleep my sense to wrap in darkness till the night
Was o’er;
A dismal candle, dimly burning, watched me as I lay
There turning,
In desperation wildly yearning that sleep would visit me
Once more;
Sleep, refreshing sleep, did I most urgently implore;
This I wished, and nothing more.

With the day I rose next morning, and, all idle terror
Scorning,
Went to finding out the warning that annoyed me so
Before;
When straightway, to my consternation, daylight made
the revelation
of a scene of devastation that annoyed me very sore,
such a scene of devastation as annoyed me very sore;
that it was, and nothing more:

The rotten roof had taken leaking, and the rain, a passage
Seeking,
Through the murky darkness sneaking, found my hat-box
On the floor;
There, exposed to dire disaster, lay my bran-new Sunday
Castor,
And its hapless, luckless master ne’er shall see its beauties
More—
Ne’er shall see its glossy beauty, that his glory was before;
It is gone, forevermore!

CONTINUE TO "Ballad of the Piscataqua" & More