Mother and child by James Boker. The tenants of Plimpton Hall had retired to
rest somewhat earlier than was their wont for it was the last night of November.
The old low rooms were in darkness, and all was silent as a
grave. For though the residents, unfortunately for themselves, were not asleep,
they held their breath and awaited in fear the first stroke of the hour from
the old clock in the kitchen. Suddenly the sound of hurried footsteps broke the
silence. But with sighs of relief, the terrified listeners found that the noise
was made by a belated wayfarer, almost out of his wits with fright,
but who was unable to avoid passing the hall, and who therefore ran by
the haunted building as quickly as his legs would carry him. The sensation of
escape, however, was of but short duration, for the hammer commenced to
strike, and no sooner had the last stroke of eleven startled the echoes,
than loud thuds as of a heavy object bumping upon the stairs were heard.
The quaking occupants of the chambers hid their heads beneath the bed clothes, for
they knew that an old fashioned oak chair was on its way down the noble
staircase, and was sliding from step to step, as though dragged along by
an invisible being who had only one hand at liberty. If any one had
dared to follow that chair across the wide passage and into the wainscoted parlor,
he would have been startled by the sight of a blazing in the grate.
Whence ere the servants retired, even the very embers had been removed, and
in the chair, the marvelous movement of which had so frightened all the inmates
of the hall, he would have seen a beautiful woman seated with an infant
at her breast. Year after year, on wild nights, when the snow
was driven against the diamond panes and the cry of the spirits of the storm
came up from the sea, the weird firelight shone from the haunted room,
and through the house sounded a mysterious crooning as the unearthly visitor softly sang a
lullaby to her infant. Lads grew into gray haired men in the old house,
and from youth to manhood. On the last night of each November,
they had heard the notes, but none of them, ever, had caught
even when custom had somewhat deadened the terror which surrounded the events of the much
dreaded anniversary. The words of the song the ghostly woman sang, The maids
too, had always found the grate as it was left before the visit.
Not a cinder or a speck of dust remained to tell of the strange fire,
and no one had ever heard the chair ascend the stairs. Chair and
fire, and child and mother, however, were seen by many a weary
wayfarer, drawn to the house by the hospitable look of the window, through
which a genial glow of the burning logs shone forth into the night, But
who, by tapping at the pane and crying for shelter, could not attract
the attention of the nurse, clad in a quaint old costume with lace,
ruff and ruffles, and singing a mournful and melodious lullaby to the child resting
upon her beautiful bosom. Tradition tells of one of these wanderers, a footsore
and miserable seafaring man on the tramp, who, attracted by the welcome glare,
crept to the panes, and, seeing the cozy looking fire, and
the madonna faced mother tenderly nursing her infant wrapped at the glass, and begged
for a morsel of food and permission to sleep in the hayloft, and,
finding his pleadings unanswered, loudly cursed the woman who could sit and enjoy warmth
and comfort and turn a deaf ear to the prayers of the homeless and hungry,
upon which the seated figure turned the weird light of his war wild eyes
upon him and almost changed him to stone. A laborer going to his daily
toil in the early morn, finding the poor wretch gazing fixedly through the window
against which his terror stricken face was closely pressed, his hair turned white by
fear, and his fingers convulsively clutching the casement and of Mother and Child by James Boker