“‘Author!” said I, “thing of peril――of paper, ink and ferrel, By that Public which looks over us――by that Fame we both adore, Tell this head with furies laden if, within the distant trade-en It shall find in man or maiden one to read its pages o’er, And yet the chorus of your melody is ‘Read it o’er――read it o’er.’ Quoth the Author, ‘Nothing more!’” “Be that word our sign of parting, Author, Fiend, ‘I shrieked upstarting, Get thee back unto the HARPERS on Cliff Street’s Plutonian shore, Leave no blank page as a token of that word thy tongue has spoken, Leave my murky thoughts unbroken――quit the threshold of my door, Take thy Manuscript ‘out’ with thee and take thyself from out my door.’ Quoth the Author, ‘Read it o’er!’” “And the Author never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting On a bust of pallid Manuscripts just above my chamber door; And his pen has all the seeming of an engine ever teeming, And the smoke that’s from it streaming throws his shadow on the floor And the only words this engine repeats is ‘Read it o’er, Read it o’er,’ And nothing more.” ――――:o:―――― THE GOBLIN GOOSE. A CHRISTMAS NIGHTMARE. ONCE, it happened I’d been dining, on my couch I slept reclining, And awoke with moonlight shining brightly on my bedroom floor; It was in the bleak December, Christmas night as I remember, But I had no dying ember, as Poe had; when near the door, Like a gastronomic goblin just beside my chamber door, Stood a bird,――and nothing more. And I said, for I’m no craven, “Are you EDGAR’S famous raven, Seeking as with him a haven――were you mixed up with LENORE?” Then the bird uprose and fluttered, and this sentence strange he uttered―― “Hang LENORE,” he mildly muttered; “you have seen me once before, Seen me on this festive Christmas, seen me surely once before. I’m the Goose,”――and nothing more. Then he murmured, “Are you ready?” and with motion slow and steady, Straight he leapt upon my bed. I simply gave a stifled roar; And I cried, “As I’m a sinner, at a Goose Club I was winner, ’Tis a mem’ry of my dinner, which I ate at half-past four; Goose well stuffed with sage and onions, which I ate at half-past four.” Quoth he hoarsely, “Eat no more!” Said I, “I’ve enjoyed your juices, breast and back; but tell me, Goose, is This revenge, and what the use is of your being such a bore? For goose-flesh I will no more ‘ax’ if you’ll not sit on my thorax. Go, try honey mixed with borax, for I hear your throat is sore; You speak gruffly though too plainly, and I’m sure your throat is sore.” Quoth the nightmare, “Eat no more!”