“I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes,
When it wants to tell us about something that is on its mind,
But can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave,
And has to go about that way, every night, grieving.”
Mark Twain
There is a place I’ve visited in the northwood
That is haunted by The Banshee Of The Brook
They say she’s been here for hundreds of years
She’s the subject of many an old legend and book
Some say she is the spirit of a young Indian maiden
Whose father hid her here during a rival tribe’s attack
Some claim that she is a centuries old pioneer’s widow
Whose brave husband went hunting and never came back
Others have claimed that she’s the fiancée of a lumberjack
Some speculate, that her betrothed, is old Pine Needle Ned
They say that she has been waiting here forever, for his return
While he’s been off searching the vast northwood, for his head
Whoever she may be, my canines and I saw her one misty night
They began howling, as we watched her flutter about in the trees
But she never even seemed to notice us at all, as she began wailing
I couldn’t understand her eerie words, but I truly believe she grieves
I also believe there are many things, which we will never understand
And that both life and death, hold many truly extraordinary mysteries
I’ve seen and heard and experienced many unexplainable things in my life
Some of them are both chilling and sad, as is this tale of The Brook Banshee
©October 2012, Mr. Ed
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