us broke the oddly strained silence. "I left Victor where he fell, I think, and paddled to one of the fishing camps on the lake. Mr. McDonald happened to be there, and he consented to take me back with him. I guess, gentlemen, that is all my story. Do you think I am mad, as Mr. McDonald does, I am sure, or do you think that I know what I saw?"
With a pitiful eagerness he glanced from one face to another.
George was the first to speak.
"I think, Doctor, that you have had a most unusual experience," he said thoughtfully. "And I think Shakespeare was indeed right in saying that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy of most of us."
I nodded. "That is undoubtedly so, Doctor," was the only remark I could think of, although I knew in my heart, of course, that the doctor was a madman.
It was not until after the doctor had retired that I learned the rest of the story. It was McDonald who threw the last light on the strange tale the doctor had told.
"The funny thing about it," remarked McDonald, as we were smoking a last pipe around the fire, "is that when I went back to the doctor's camp, Victor had two bullet holes in his body; one through the leg and one through the head, and the one through the leg was tightly bandaged with a blood-soaked handkerchief—and to the wound were sticking a number of black and yellow hairs—wolf hairs!"
George said nothing, and I said nothing. There are lots of things in the woods of the far north that man is foolish to attempt to explain.
An Old House
Bathed in mystery and moonlight,
Wistfully it stands
At the end of a lonely, winding road
Where cobwebs hang in strands
Of dusty lace an old ghost hung
Before a sagging door—
And winds go moaning through the rooms
With fog from down the moor.
Never a light—nor sound, nor laugh—
Never a footfall—wait!
What was that?—did I hear a step
Down by the creaking gate?
Echoes resounding in empty halls—
Shadows that spring like cats—
Sudden drafts that seem like breaths,
And a fluttering of bats.
Eery tenants—ghosts of old—
Loves and griefs—and tears—
Underneath a leaking roof
Haunting mildewed years.
Straggling roses climb the porches
Hiding broken panes,
Though their roots be dry and fainting
Waiting for the rains.
Bathed in silent, moonlit fragrance,
I hear the old ghosts talk—
Must be wind in that old maple
Down the lonely walk.
Bats, and broken, paneless windows—
Creaking shutters—weeds—
Loneliness and sobbing wind ghosts,
Wait for the friend it needs.
