"'Hallo!' says I to myself, 'what in natur is all this
hubbub about? Can this here confounded old house be
harnted? Is them spirits that's jabbering gibberish there,
or is I wide awake or no?' So I sets right up on my hind
legs in bed, rubs my eyes, opens my ears and listens
agin, when whop went every shutter agin, with a dead
heavy sound, like somethin' or another thrown agin 'em,
or fallin' agin 'em, and then comes the unknown tongues
in discord chorus like. Sais I, 'I know now, it's them
cussed navigators. They've besot the house, and are a
givin' lip to frighten folks. It's regular banditti.'

"So I jist hops out of bed, and feels for my trunk, and
outs with my talkin' irons, that was all ready loaded,
pokes my way to the winder--shoves the sash up and outs
with the shutter, ready to let slip among 'em. And what
do you think it was?--Hundreds and hundreds of them nasty,
dirty, filthy, ugly, black devils of rooks, located in
the trees at the back eend of the house. Old Nick couldn't
have slept near 'em; caw caw, caw, all mixt up together
in one jumble of a sound, like "jawe."

"You black, evil-lookin', foul-mouthed villains,' sais
I, 'I'd like no better sport than jist to sit here, all
this blessed day with these pistols, and drop you one
arter another, _I_ know.' But they was pets, was them
rooks, and of course like all pets, everlastin' nuisances
to every body else.

"Well, when a man's in a feeze, there's no more sleep