"But what of those who scold at us When we would read in bed? Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books instead? And what of those who've dusted not Our motley pride and boast,-- Shall they profane that sacred spot?" Says I to Dibdin's ghost. "Oh, no! they tread that other path, Which leads where torments roll, And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul. Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, That saveth such as we, They wallow in that dreadful place," Says Dibdin's ghost to me. "To my dear wife will I recite What things I've heard you say; She'll let me read the books by night She's let me buy by day. For we together by and by Would join that heavenly host; She's earned a rest as well as I," Says I to Dibdin's ghost. THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN. THE Hawthorne children, seven in all, Are famous friends of mine; And with what pleasure I recall How, years ago, one gloomy fall I took a tedious railway line, And journeyed by slow stages down Unto that soporiferous town (Albeit one worth seeing) Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, And Beatrix and Gwendolen, And she that was the baby then,-- These famous seven, as aforesaid, Lived, moved, and had their being. The Hawthorne children gave me such A welcome by the sea That the eight of us were soon in touch, And, though their mother marvelled much, Happy as larks were we. Egad, I was a boy again With Henry, John, and Gwendolen; And oh the funny capers I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! And oh the pranks we children played; And oh the deafening noise we made-- 'Twould shock my family if they read About it in the papers! The Hawthorne children all were smart: The girls, as I recall, Had comprehended every art Appealing to the head and heart; The boys were gifted, all. 'Twas Hildegarde who showed me how To hitch a horse and milk a cow And cook the best of suppers; With Beatrix upon the sands I sprinted daily, and was beat; 'Twas Henry trained me to the feat Of walking round upon my hands Instead of on my uppers.