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     The S‘u'n',"Thu’rs‘da‘y Sam. 29", 17977.. Page 7 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
         
     
        
     
    
   
   
    
     m 
     
    
   
   
    
     y ‘5 'r ‘ . n a 
     
     it was once a happy place to be; A volley rang - tne sn0ts were sure, 
     
     It had a smile in every room- \ , Where the bullets hit they shattered, 
     
     But now it stands, haunting, deserted, Then the quickly running demon 
     
     \\ Radiating gloom. _ _ Into the darkness clattered. 
     
    
   
   
    
     All that happened in the house that night, 
     
    

    
     No one really knows, ' ‘ 
     
    

    
     But there are skeletons in the round tower... 
     
     \Or so the story goes. ” 
     
    
   
   
    
     it once had children run its halls 
     
    

    
     And climb-the oaks outside, 
     
    

    
     And then take refuge in the round tower 
     
     When the lonely grey clouds cried. 
     
     Sealed within a hidden door, 
     
    

    
     They've been there since that night, 
     
     Doomed forever to the tower-tomb, 
     
    

    
     With its shutters closed to the light. 
     
    
   
   
    
     But seldom did the tears appear; 
     
     The days were mostly fine,. 
     
     Purged by showers now and then, 
     
     And then the sun would shine. 
     
    
   
   
    
     There were parties loud with laughter- 
     
     They sang into the dawn... 
     
    

    
     Then came that fearful, fateful night 
     
     When companionship was gone. 
     
    
   
   
    
     No more do voices fill the halls - 
     
     A deadly silence waits 
     
    

    
     Any who'll tread the cobblestones 
     
     And risk the wrought-iron gates. 
     
     It was an autumn years ago, 
     
     ‘When the barren trees did moan, 
     
     And every footstep in the night 
     
     Clattered on cobblestone. ' 
     
    
   
   
    
     The homestead, though, was warm that night 
     
     From the family's friendly talk- 
     
    

    
     Then crept the dreaded stranger 
     
    

    
     Cold upon the walk. ’ 
     
    
   
   
    
     / Every autumn the old Oaks creak ,, 
     
     For want of childrens' play, 
     
    

    
     And never more the petals spring 
     
    

    
     From the grey, dry clay. 
     
    
   
   
    
     But sometimes at,the Martinmas, 
     
     One will hear laughter and talk, 
     
     That suddenly stops when footsteps 
     
     Are heard upon the walk. ‘ 
     
    
   
   
    
     Valerie Moore