moved, and at last came to himself. He was not hurt, but he seemed badly stunned.
There is nothing more. That is the end of my story. The carpenter carried out his scheme of running half a dozen four-inch screws through the door of one hundred and five, and if ever you take a passage in the Kamtschatka, you may ask for a berth in that stateroom. You will be told that it is engaged—yes—it is engaged by that dead thing.
I finished the trip in the surgeon’s cabin. He doctored my broken arm, and advised me not to “fiddle about with ghosts and things” any more. The captain was very silent, and never sailed again in that ship, though it is still running. And I will not sail in her either. It was a very disagreeable experience and I was very badly frightened, which is a thing I do not like. That is all. That is how I saw a ghost—if it was a ghost. It was dead, anyhow.
A Grave
By Lilla Poole Price
O, bury me under the soft, blue waves,
’Mid the swirl of the billows free;
Let me find sweet rest
’Neath their foam-tipp’d crest
In the depths of the murmuring sea.
No bell shall be toll’d with its mournful sound,
No funeral pall shall be spread,
But a solemn hush
And a soft, sad rush
As the waters close over my head.
A tangle of seaweed shall be my shroud,
And a mound of coral my bier;
The voice of the sea
Shall my requiem be,
And my sleep will be tranquil here.
No roses nor lilies may deck my grave,
Nor marble shall mark my rest,
But the wonderful flow’rs
Of the ocean bow’rs
Shall lovingly twine o’er my breast.
Then bury me under the sad sea waves,
Where the winds moan soft and low;
Let the tears that are shed
For the deep-cover’d dead
With the shimmering wavelets flow.
