Life — December 31, 1891 — page 44: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A REAL PROVOCATION. FELT like a boy who holds a peach, And hesitates where to bite ; Such dimples, curves and blushes! And cach Would soften an anchorite. I poised a moment above her lips, But her cheek was soft and red ; Her neck was white as the snow that slips To earth at the squirrel’s tread. “Otake it, [tis easily done!” She said with a little shrug ; “The mistletoe gives you only onc, And—it doesn't include a hug!" I cursed the inventor of such stuff, For a low-born British churl. Perhaps onc English kiss is enough ; But she was a New York girl. Harry Romaine. A CHRISTMAS GHOST. T is Christmas Eve, and—- “Ahem!” I start—I look about me into every corner of my attic room. Nothing—absolutely nothing is to be seen. “Ahem! Very discreetly, very politely, yet unmistakably intentional is its enunciation, I turn and see a shadowy form, seated complacently, just above a gold dragon on my huge Japanese screen. It is a strange thing to be doing, but ghosts must be ghosts. “Why do you sit there?” I ask. “ Because you occupy the only chair.” “ True,” | murmur. s there anything I can do for you?” “Yes. Tell me why you killed me.” And tears trickle out of his empty eye-sockets while his bones rattle softly—or perhaps it is the hail. “kill you! / commit a murder!” I exclaim. This ghost has apparently escaped from some asylum devoted to lunatic ghosts. I must humor him. Come to think of it—so I did. But where are you stopping “ With Az" he answers laconically. “ And your apartment——” comicbooks.com