We are nigh unto the time when dead folks come out of their holes in the ground and creep about the houses.

Such wan and woeful things they are, we cats fear them not.  We help them in their hauntings.

I’ve writ of this before, when I was a young cat.

I’ve learnt much since.

All Hallow Even is the night men and women fear most, though they’re none too bold on any night. 

This is not to be wondered at, for they have eyes ill-made for seeing, and ears too small for hearing.  Their whiskers (if they have them) lie too close to their mouths to be of use.

In the dark they’re fools.  They trip and drop their silly lights, and knock into things any cat could see.  All the while swearing and blaspheming most horrible.

And if the poor dog they have with them for safety do but let a fart, they fear it’s a whiff of brimstone. 

They believe darkness is the kingdom of the devil.

In truth, what troubles them are the fruits of their foul fancies, their mad and melancholick imaginings, the corruptions of their consciences.

Few are cute [sharp] enough to glimpse a ghost, but on Hallow E’en most hide in their houses for fear they might.

We slip about soft-foot, and hear and see all.  On this wondrous night everywhere is ours.

We assembled at our Field to tell of all the merry tricks we know to strike terror in their timorous souls.

I made a verse that I gave out:

First, let’s knock down all the trenchers!
T’will affright the kitchen wenches
whisp’ring spells within their bed,
seeking dreams of dolts they’ll wed.

Next, beneath the windows lie!
Wail and waul till babes do cry!
Then across the rooves we’ll leap;
none below will dare to sleep.

On to churchyard dank and drear,
climb the yew tree, there to hear
boastful braggarts, bold with booze,
walk for wager – which they’ll lose.

Drop behind them, claw their breeches!
See them flee, and hark their screeches!

The cats liked my verse so well they called for Nero to lead all in singing it.

Then they arrkst me if I would tell of horrid monsters when next we met.

I could scarce believe mine ears.  I feigned unwillingness.

Not long since, they scorned my poetick fictions, and wished to hear me slander great folks.

But now many young cats say they’ve never heard my famous Teasel Puss and the Man-Bull.  Or Purrsa, Purrsie and the Petrifying Witch.

It seems my tales may be in fashion again.

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And here we’ll leave Gib for a while, looking forward to Hallowe’en and a new audience at the Cats’ Field.

His humble editor is taking a break, so there’ll be no posts for a month or so.  I’ll try to keep up with your blogs, but may not be able to leave comments, or reply to comments on this one.