From the New York Tribune, October 31, 1912. Ah! What a night was Halloween At our home up the state! The night we told ghost stories, Huddled close about the grate. Odd taps came on the window pane, Queer creakings on the stair; You never knew what minute You would get an awful scare. On Halloween, in our old home, We daren’t raise the shades For fear we’d see a pumpkin head, With eyes and nose ablaze. But here in town we raise the shade, And all that we can see Is ‘cross the shaft, a table set And people having tea. At our old home on Halloween The gate would disappear And hide itself behind the barn. That couldn’t happen here. Our home is in a Harlem flat, Up five flights, down the hall; We have no gate, no yard, no barn; Just doors and stairs and wall. On Halloween, in our old home, We had a feast of grub; We ate our fill of nuts and ducked For apples in a tub. But here we play no tricks at all; No ghosts are heard or seen. New York’s a lonely place to be On dear old Halloween!
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