From WANTED ~ A WITCH'S CAT
Wanted ~ a witch's cat.
Must have vigor and spite,
Be expert at hissing,
And good in a fight,
And have balance and poise
On a broomstick at night.
Shelagh McGee
WHO LIVES IN THIS HAUNTED HOUSE?
Who lives in this haunted house?
"I do!" I do!" says the mouse
"See my aunts and all my cousins
scamper through it by the dozens."
Who else might be living here?
"Spiders, spiders, yes my dear!
Our webs grow bigger by the day
No broom or mop sweeps them away."
Who likes this haunted house the most?
"I do!" I do!" says the ghost.
"I can float from room to room,
having fun while spreading gloom.
This haunted house has stairs that creak.
Windows rattle. Hinges squeak.
It's such a lovely place to be
for someone who's a ghost like me!"
Bobbi Katz
LOOK AT THAT!
Look at that!
Ghosts lined up
at the laundromat,
all around the
block.
Each has
bleach
and some
detergent.
Each one seems to
think it
urgent
to take a spin
in a
washing machine
before the
clock
strikes
Halloween!
Lilian Moore
MONSTER STEW
If you are getting tired
Of plain old witches' brew,
Next time you have a party
Try gourmet monster stew.
Put on an old black apron
Borrowed from a witch;
Then scoop in murky water
From a brackish ditch.
Pond slime is the next thing,
A bucketful or two;
But if you don't have pond slime,
Some moldy soup will do.
Now measure in an owl-hoot,
Two grumbles and a groan.
To make it really tasty,
Add an eerie moan.
Now if your guest are monsters,
You cackle while they eat.
They'll say your stew is gruesome,
A most delightful treat!
Judith Kinter
SONG OF THE WITCHES
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and bling-worms sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
Macbeth: IV.i. 10-19; 35-38
William Shakespeare
THE LITTLE GHOST
I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high--higher than most--
And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone--
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown's white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do--and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled--there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.
And where the walk is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused--then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the rossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries-kind' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below-the clover overhead!-
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' s over, and your wimmern-foks is through
I don't know how to tell it-but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me-
I'd want to 'commodate 'em-all the whole-indurin' flock-
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
James Whitcomb Riley
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