But she, with many tears and moans, Besought him not to mock her. Said 'twas too much for flesh and bones To marry mortgages and loans, That fathers' hearts were stocks and stones. And that she'd go, when Mrs. Jones, To Davy Jones's locker; 140 Then gave her head a little toss That said as plain as ever was, If men are always at a loss Mere womankind to bridle-- To try the thing on woman cross Were fifty times as idle; For she a strict resolve had made And registered in private, That either she would die a maid, Or else be Mrs. Doctor Slade, 150 If a woman could contrive it; And, though the wedding-day was set, Jenny was more so, rather, Declaring, in a pretty pet, That, howsoe'er they spread their net, She would out-Jennyral them yet, The colonel and her father. Just at this time the Public's eyes Were keenly on the watch, a stir Beginning slowly to arise 160 About those questions and replies. Those raps that unwrapped mysteries So rapidly at Rochester, And Knott, already nervous grown By lying much awake alone. And listening, sometimes to a moan, And sometimes to a clatter, Whene'er the wind at night would rouse The gingerbread-work on his house, Or when some, hasty-tempered mouse, 170 Behind the plastering, made a towse About a family matter, Began to wonder if his wife, A paralytic half her life. Which made it more surprising, Might not, to rule him from her urn, Have taken a peripatetic turn For want of exorcising. This thought, once nestled in his head, Erelong contagious grew, and spread 180 Infecting all his mind with dread, Until at last he lay in bed And heard his wife, with well-known tread, Entering the kitchen through the shed, (Or was't his fancy, mocking?) Opening the pantry, cutting bread, And then (she'd been some ten years dead) Closets and drawers unlocking; Or, in his room (his breath grew thick) 189 He heard the long-familiar click Of slender needles flying quick, As if she knit a stocking; For whom?--he prayed that years might flit With pains rheumatic shooting, Before those ghostly things she knit Upon his unfleshed sole might fit, He did not fancy it a bit, To stand upon that footing: At other times, his frightened hairs 199 Above the bedclothes trusting, He heard her, full of household cares, (No dream entrapped in supper's snares, The foal of horrible nightmares, But broad awake, as he declares), Go bustling up and down the stairs, Or setting back last evening's chairs, Or with the poker thrusting The raked-up sea-coal's hardened crust-- And--what! impossible! it must! He knew she had returned to dust, 210 And yet could scarce his senses trust, Hearing her as she poked and fussed About the parlor, dusting!