playing my Irish harp softly, I felt the chill of my old freind, the reaper. Mrs. Blatland must have been aware of something, for she poured me a second cup of tea and set it at my left, where the empty chair was.

Good to see you agin, Owen. Still having trouble with your eyes? No matter, you see better than most folks who have two good ones. I rather enjoyed that last tune. Play something else, would you please? Something relevent!" Reaper spoke softly, only I could hear, though Mrs. Blatand must have know he was present, since she suddenly began to glow. Drat that woman! Well, must be going, old chap! -- play something nice won't you?" the presence of the reaper was gone, and Mrs. Blatland's glow faded into the obsure mists that cloud my sight.

I hadn't even realized I had started a new tune until the words came spilling from my mouth, first in Welsh, then I repeated them in English. The discordant notes weave themselves with the melody to produce something haunting. Darn Reaper, he did this on purpose!

Dancing thourgh the ebon night
Banshee call that gives souls fright
and shivers give, and hopes blight
worry not 'tis only the wind
around your feet dead leaves whirl
the sanp and crack of banners unfurled
the keening that makes neck hairs curl
worry not, 'tis only the wind!

The rattle of the window pane
the moan that echoes up the lane
and makes you wonder if you are sane
worry not, 'tis only the wind
The whistle fails upon your lips
confidence from you, slowly slips
I remember something 'bout sinking ships?
worry not, 'tis only the wind!

The gobblins clatter on the roof
blow down the chimney, dumping soot
and howl to shake you crown to root!
Worry not 'tis only the wind
Skeletons scrabble at the glass
and vampyres -- shadows do not cast
glibbering, you wait for the night to pass.
worry not, 'tis only the wind!

This time I do not hear the gay laughter that followed my last song.