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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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