Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/182

174 curious eyes of all present, making them admire the neat hole in it. The bullet itself he took out of his waistcoat pocket, and holding it towards Beppo, asked, "Hadn't it a mark?"

"Yes, sir, I cut a cross on it," replied the abashed climber of olive-trees; "and by all the Saints, there it is still! Pasqualina, my girl," turning to her, "your uncle's ghost will turn out to be somebody."

"Bravo! Beppo," cried the Doctor.

"Knowing what you know by experience, suppose you hint to any one inclined to spectre-shooting, that he runs the risk of killing a live man, and having two ghosts on his hands,—the ghost of the poor devil shot, and one of himself hanged for murder. As for you, young girls, remember that when you go forth to meet the perils of dark mornings, you are more likely to encounter dangers from flesh and blood than from spirits."

are the trees; their purple branches

Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral

Rising silent

In the Red Sea of the winter sunset.

From the hundred chimneys of the village,

Like the Afreet in the Arabian story,

Smoky columns

Tower aloft into the air of amber.

At the window winks the flickering fire-light;

Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer,

Social watch-fires,

Answering one another through the darkness.

On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,

And, like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree,

For its freedom

Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.

By the fireside there are old men seated,

Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,

Asking sadly

Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.

By the fireside there are youthful dreamers,

Building castles fair with stately stairways,

Asking blindly

Of the Future what it cannot give them.