Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  Such is the true story of the Cock Lane ghost. Since its time the great high court of appeal — the world that reads — has been in a general way satisfied that it was then finally settled. But was it settled?

  Undoubtedly the little girl was caught in a trick, but does that prove that the noises heard before were made by a like trick? Even those adverse witnesses, with all their bias against the ghostly nature of the phenomena, acknowledged that the noises she then made “were not like those which used to be made”; and even went so far as to suggest that the poor little wretch, terrified by the threats fulminated against her, resorted to this last shift to imitate a sound which she had at one time made somehow else. Before, when she had been examined and had been put to bed by the committee of ladies, the record as given says: “They first thoroughly examined the bed, bedclothes, etc., and being satisfied that there was no visible appearance of deceit,” etc., “yet when the child with its sister was put into bed,” it “was found to shake extremely by the gentleman who had placed himself at the foot of it.” Apart from the strange shaking of the bed, is it not likely that if she had concealed about her a piece of board four inches long and six broad, those ladies would have found it upon her?

  Again, there is a palpable incongruity about the whole affair that has never been explained. If the child were merely a mischievous, cunning, tricky little imp, and her father the low, drunken, vulgar cheat we have been taught to believe, is it likely that they would have been so very short-sighted, so very stupid and dull of wits, as to pretend that the ghost that haunted their house was the ghost of that very Miss Fanny who had one time heard these sounds with her living ears?

  Now, unless it was all planned for the sake of revenge, is it possible to conceive what was to be gained by the whole affair, the sinister result of which, to their own undoing and ruin, seems to have been very plain to the whole Parsons family long before its final collapse?

  So maybe, in view of all the evidence, it is not safe to say positively that the secret of the Cock Lane ghost was finally discovered, Lord Mansfield and his verdict to the contrary notwithstanding.

  THE END

  The Short Stories

  Pyle took a few lessons at the Art Students League of New York, though altogether he had very little formal training.

  List of Short Stories in Chronological Order

  THE SKILLFUL HUNTSMAN

  CLAUS AND HIS WONDERFUL STAFF

  HOW DAME MARGERY TWIST SAW MORE THAN WAS GOOD FOR HER

  CLEVER PETER AND THE TWO BOTTLES

  HANS HECKLEMANN’S LUCK

  FARMER GRIGGS’S BOGGART

  THE BIRD IN THE LINDEN TREE

  THE APPLE OF CONTENTMENT

  BEARSKIN

  THE WATER OF LIFE

  HOW ONE TURNED HIS TROUBLE TO SOME ACCOUNT

  HOW THREE WENT OUT INTO THE WIDE WORLD

  THE CLEVER STUDENT AND THE MASTER OF BLACK ARTS

  THE PRINCESS GOLDEN HAIR AND THE GREAT BLACK RAVEN

  COUSIN GREYLEGS, THE GREAT RED FOX AND GRANDFATHER MOLE

  ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

  THE WHITE BIRD

  HOW THE GOOD GIFTS WERE USED BY TWO

  HOW BOOTS BEFOOLED THE KING

  THE STEP-MOTHER

  MASTER JACOB

  PETERKIN AND THE LITTLE GREY HARE

  MOTHER HILDEGARDE

  WHICH IS BEST?

  THE SIMPLETON AND HIS LITTLE BLACK HEN

  THE SWAN MAIDEN

  THE THREE LITTLE PIGS AND THE OGRE

  THE STAFF AND THE FIDDLE

  HOW THE PRINCESS’S PRIDE WAS BROKEN

  HOW TWO WENT INTO PARTNERSHIP

  KING STORK

  THE BEST THAT LIFE HAS TO GIVE

  THE STOOL OF FORTUNE

  THE TALISMAN OF SOLOMON.

  ILL-LUCK AND THE FIDDLER.

  EMPTY BOTTLES.

  GOOD GIFTS AND A FOOL’S FOLLY.

  THE GOOD OF A FEW WORDS.

  WOMAN’S WIT.

  WHEN MAN’S STRENGTH FAILS, WOMAN’S WIT PREVAILS.

  A PIECE OF GOOD LUCK.

  THE FRUIT OF HAPPINESS.

  NOT A PIN TO CHOOSE.

  MUCH SHALL HAVE MORE AND LITTLE SHALL HAVE LESS.

  WISDOM’S WAGES AND FOLLY’S PAY.

  THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

  ALL THINGS ARE AS FATE WILLS.

  WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME.

  THE SALT OF LIFE.

  THE PRICE OF BLOOD

  WITH THE BUCCANEERS

  TOM CHIST AND THE TREASURE-BOX

  THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND

  A TRUE HISTORY OF THE DEVIL AT NEW HOPE

  FOREWORD

  PREFACE

  BUCCANEERS AND MAROONERS OF THE SPANISH MAIN

  THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND

  WITH THE BUCCANEERS

  TOM CHIST AND THE TREASURE BOX

  JACK BALLISTER’S FORTUNES

  BLUESKIN, THE PIRATE

  CAPTAIN SCARFIELD

  THE RUBY OF KISHMOOOR

  TO THE SOIL OF THE EARTH!

  IN TENEBRAS

  THE DIE OF FATE

  THE EVIL EYE

  HUNTFORD’S FAIR NIHILIST

  A LIFE FOR A LIFE

  A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

  THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD

  BARTRAM AND HIS GARDEN

  THE COCK LANE GHOST

  PREFACE

  THE DEACON’S MASTERPIECE

  HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET

  THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN

  List of Short Stories in Alphabetical Order

  A LIFE FOR A LIFE

  A PIECE OF GOOD LUCK.

  A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

  A TRUE HISTORY OF THE DEVIL AT NEW HOPE

  ALL THINGS ARE AS FATE WILLS.

  BARTRAM AND HIS GARDEN

  BEARSKIN

  BLUESKIN, THE PIRATE

  BUCCANEERS AND MAROONERS OF THE SPANISH MAIN

  CAPTAIN SCARFIELD

  CLAUS AND HIS WONDERFUL STAFF

  CLEVER PETER AND THE TWO BOTTLES

  COUSIN GREYLEGS, THE GREAT RED FOX AND GRANDFATHER MOLE

  EMPTY BOTTLES.

  FARMER GRIGGS’S BOGGART

  FOREWORD

  GOOD GIFTS AND A FOOL’S FOLLY.

  HANS HECKLEMANN’S LUCK

  HOW BOOTS BEFOOLED THE KING

  HOW DAME MARGERY TWIST SAW MORE THAN WAS GOOD FOR HER

  HOW ONE TURNED HIS TROUBLE TO SOME ACCOUNT

  HOW THE GOOD GIFTS WERE USED BY TWO

  HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET

  HOW THE PRINCESS’S PRIDE WAS BROKEN

  HOW THREE WENT OUT INTO THE WIDE WORLD

  HOW TWO WENT INTO PARTNERSHIP

  HUNTFORD’S FAIR NIHILIST

  ILL-LUCK AND THE FIDDLER.

  IN TENEBRAS

  JACK BALLISTER’S FORTUNES

  KING STORK

  MASTER JACOB

  MOTHER HILDEGARDE

  MUCH SHALL HAVE MORE AND LITTLE SHALL HAVE LESS.

  NOT A PIN TO CHOOSE.

  ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

  PETERKIN AND THE LITTLE GREY HARE

  PREFACE

  PREFACE

  THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD

  THE APPLE OF CONTENTMENT

  THE BEST THAT LIFE HAS TO GIVE

  THE BIRD IN THE LINDEN TREE

  THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN

  THE CLEVER STUDENT AND THE MASTER OF BLACK ARTS

  THE COCK LANE GHOST

  THE DEACON’S MASTERPIECE

  THE DIE OF FATE

  THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

  THE EVIL EYE

  THE FRUIT OF HAPPINESS.

  THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND

  THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND

  THE GOOD OF A FEW WORDS.

  THE PRICE OF BLOOD

  THE PRINCESS GOLDEN HAIR AND THE GREAT BLACK RAVEN

  THE RUBY OF KISHMOOOR

  THE SALT OF LIFE.

  THE SIMPLETON AND HIS LITTLE BLACK HEN

  THE SKILLFUL HUNTSMAN

>   THE STAFF AND THE FIDDLE

  THE STEP-MOTHER

  THE STOOL OF FORTUNE

  THE SWAN MAIDEN

  THE TALISMAN OF SOLOMON.

  THE THREE LITTLE PIGS AND THE OGRE

  THE WATER OF LIFE

  THE WHITE BIRD

  TO THE SOIL OF THE EARTH!

  TOM CHIST AND THE TREASURE BOX

  TOM CHIST AND THE TREASURE-BOX

  WHEN MAN’S STRENGTH FAILS, WOMAN’S WIT PREVAILS.

  WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME.

  WHICH IS BEST?

  WISDOM’S WAGES AND FOLLY’S PAY.

  WITH THE BUCCANEERS

  WITH THE BUCCANEERS

  WOMAN’S WIT.

  Works Illustrated by Pyle

  Florence, Italy — Pyle and his family went to Italy in 1910, where he planned to study the Old Masters. After one year in the country, he suffered a kidney infection and died in Florence at the age of 58.

  Grandmother’s Story of Bunker Hill Battle (1874) by Oliver Wendell Holmes

  Illustrated by Howard Pyle

  ‘T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one remembers

  All the achings and the quakings of “the times that tried men’s souls;”

  When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Rebel story,

  To you the words are ashes, but to me they’re burning coals.

  I had heard the muskets’ rattle of the April running battle;

  Lord Percy’s hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats still;

  But a deadly chill comes o’er me, as the day looms up before me,

  When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of Bunker’s Hill.

  ‘T was a peaceful summer’s morning, when the first thing gave us warning

  Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the shore:

  “Child,” says grandma, “what’s the matter, what is all this noise and clatter?

  Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us once more?”

  Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of all my quaking,

  To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to roar:

  She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and the pillage,

  When the Mohawks killed her father with their bullets through his door.

  Then I said, “Now, dear old granny, don’t you fret and worry any,

  For I’ll soon come back and tell you whether this is work or play;

  There can’t be mischief in it, so I won’t be gone a minute” —

  For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong day.

  No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grimacing;

  Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to my heels;

  God forbid your ever knowing, when there’s blood around her flowing,

  How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet household feels!

  In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was the stumping

  Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that wooden leg he wore,

  With a knot of women round him, — it was lucky I had found him,

  So I followed with the others, and the Corporal marched before.

  They were making for the steeple, — the old soldier and his people;

  The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creaking stair,

  Just across the narrow river — oh, so close it made me shiver! —

  Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was bare.

  Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who stood behind it,

  Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stubborn walls were dumb:

  Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon each other,

  And their lips were white with terror as they said, The hour has come!

  The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we tasted,

  And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons’ deafening thrill,

  When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode sedately;

  It was Prescott, one since told me; he commanded on the hill.

  Every woman’s heart grew bigger when we saw his manly figure,

  With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so straight and tall;

  Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for pleasure,

  Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked around the wall.

  At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats’ ranks were forming;

  At noon in marching order they were moving to the piers;

  How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked far down, and listened

  To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted grenadiers!

  At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed faint-hearted),

  In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on their backs,

  And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight’s slaughter,

  Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood along their tracks.

  So they crossed to the other border, and again they formed in order;

  And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, soldiers still:

  The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and fasting, —

  At last they’re moving, marching, marching proudly up the hill.

  We can see the bright steel glancing all along the lines advancing —

  Now the front rank fires a volley — they have thrown away their shot;

  For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above them flying,

  Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer not.

  Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear sometimes and tipple), —

  He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French war) before, —

  Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were hearing, —

  And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry floor: —

  “Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George’s shillin’s,

  But ye’ll waste a ton of powder afore a ‘rebel’ falls;

  You may bang the dirt and welcome, they’re as safe as Dan’l Malcolm

  Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you’ve splintered with your balls!”

  In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation

  Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh breathless all;

  Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety belfry railing,

  We are crowding up against them like the waves against a wall.

  Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer, — nearer, — nearer,

  When a flash — a curling smoke-wreath — then a crash — the steeple shakes —

  The deadly truce is ended; the tempest’s shroud is rended;

  Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud it breaks!

  Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke blows over!

  The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes his hay;

  Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd is flying

  Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into spray.

  Then we cried, “The troops are routed! they are beat — it can’t be doubted!

  God be thanked, the fight is over!” — Ah! the grim old soldier’s smile!

  “Tell us, tell us why you look so?” (we could hardly speak, we shook so), —

  “Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are they beaten?”— “Wait a while.”

  Oh the trembling and the terror! for too soon we saw our error:

  They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven them back in vain;

  And the columns that were scattered, round the colors that were tattered,

  Toward the sullen, silent fortress turn their belted breasts again.

  All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of Charlestown blazing!

  They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it will be down!


  The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire and brimstone round them, —

  The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a peaceful town!

  They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see each massive column

  As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting walls so steep.

  Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless haste departed?

  Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they palsied or asleep?

  Now! the walls they’re almost under! scarce a rod the foes asunder!

  Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earthwork they will swarm!

  But the words have scarce been spoken, when the ominous calm is broken,

  And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance of the storm!

  So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards to the water,

  Fly Pigot’s running heroes and the frightened braves of Howe;

  And we shout, “At last they’re done for, it’s their barges they have run for:

  They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle’s over now!”

  And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old soldier’s features,

  Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we would ask:

  “Not sure,” he said; “keep quiet, — once more, I guess, they’ll try it —

  Here’s damnation to the cut-throats!” — then he handed me his flask,

  Saying, “Gal, you’re looking shaky; have a drop of old Jamaiky; I’m afeard there’ll be more trouble afore the job is done;” So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt and hollow, Standing there from early morning when the firing was begun.