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“Bienvenu,” said little White, “don’t shivaree old Poquelin to-night; he’s”–

“My fwang,” said the swaying Bienvenu, “who tail you I goin’ to chahivahi somebody, eh? Yon sink bickause I make a little playfool wiz zis tin pan zat I am dhonk?“

“Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you’re all right. I was afraid you might not know that old Poquelin was sick, you know, but you’re not going there, are you?”

“My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah dhonk as de dev’. I am shem of you. I ham ze servan’ of ze publique. Zese citoyens goin’ to wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the Ursuline’ two hondred fifty dolla'”–

“He quoi!” cried a listener, “Cinq cent piastres, oui!”

“Oui!” said Bienvenu, “and if he wiffuse we make him some lit’ musique; ta-ra ta!” He hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning, added: “Old Poquelin got no bizniz dhink s’much w’isky.”

“But, gentlemen,” said little White, around whom a circle had gathered, “the old man is very sick.”

“My faith!” cried a tiny Creole, “we did not make him to be sick. W’en we have say we going make le charivari, do you want that we hall tell a lie? My faith! ‘sfools!”

“But you can shivaree somebody else,” said desperate little White.

“Oui” cried Bienvenu, “et chahivahi Jean-ah Poquelin tomo’w!”

“Let us go to Madame Schneider!” cried two or three, and amid huzzas and confused cries, among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for drinks, the crowd again began to move.

“Cent piastres pour l’hopital de charite!”

“Hurrah!”

“One hongred dolla’ for Charity Hospital!”

“Hurrah!”

“Whang!” went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and Pandemonium gaped again. They were off at a right angle.

Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantle-clock.

“Well, if it isn’t away after midnight.”

The hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot. She raised a sash and listened. For a moment there was silence. Some one came to the door.

“Is that you, White?”

“Yes.” He entered. “I succeeded, Patty.”

“Did you?” said Patty, joyfully.

“Yes. They’ve gone down to shivaree the old Dutchwoman who married her step-daughter’s sweetheart. They say she has got to pay a hundred dollars to the hospital before they stop.”

The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. She was awakened by her husband snapping the lid of his watch.

“What time?” she asked.

“Half-past three. Patty, I haven’t slept a wink. Those fellows are out yet. Don’t you hear them?”

“Why, White, they’re coming this way!”

“I know they are,” said White, sliding out of bed and drawing on his clothes, “and they’re coming fast. You’d better go away from that window, Patty. My! what a clatter!”

“Here they are,” said Mrs. White, but her husband was gone. Two or three hundred men and boys pass the place at a rapid walk straight down the broad, new street, toward the hated house of ghosts. The din was terrific. She saw little White at the head of the rabble brandishing his arms and trying in vain to make himself heard; but they only shook their heads laughing and hooting the louder, and so passed, bearing him on before them.

Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, away from the dim oil lamps of the street, out into the broad starlit commons, and enter the willowy jungles of the haunted ground. Some hearts fail and their owners lag behind and turn back, suddenly remembering how near morning it is. But the most part push on, tearing the air with their clamor.

Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-darkened way there is–singularly enough–a faint, dancing light. It must be very near the old house; it is. It has stopped now. It is a lantern, and is under a well-known sapling which has grown up on the wayside since the canal was filled. Now it swings mysteriously to and fro. A goodly number of the more ghost-fearing give up the sport; but a full hundred move forward at a run, doubling their devilish howling and banging.