You see that old farm house about two fields distant, shaded by the sycamore-tree:  that was the spot which the Boggart or Bar-gaist selected for his freaks; there he held his revels, perplexing honest George Cheetham—­for that was the farmer’s name—­scaring his maids, worrying his men, and frightening the poor children out of their seven senses, so that at last not even a mouse durst show himself indoors at the farm, as he valued his whiskers, five minutes after the clock had struck twelve.

It had long been remarked that whenever a merry tale was told on a winter’s evening a small shrill voice was heard above all the rest, like a baby’s penny trumpet, joining in with the laughter.

“Weel laughed, Boggart, thou’rt a fine little tyke, I’se warrant, if one could but just catch glent on thee,” said Robert, the youngest of the farmer’s sons, early one evening, a little before Christmas, for familiarity had made them somewhat bold with their invisible guest.  Now, though more pleasant stories were told on that night beside the hearth than had been told there for the three preceding months, though the fire flickered brightly, though all the faces around it were full of mirth and happiness, and though everything, it might seem, was there which could make even a Boggart enjoy himself, yet the small shrill laugh was heard no more that night after little Bob’s remark.

Robert, who was a short stout fellow for his age, slept in the same bed with his elder brother John, who was reckoned an uncommonly fine and tall lad for his years.  No sooner had they got fairly to sleep than they were roused by the small shrill voice in their room shouting out, “Little tyke, indeed! little tyke thysel’.  Ho, ho, ho!  I’ll have my laugh now—­Ho, ho, ho!”

The room was completely dark, and all in and about the house was so still that the sound scared them fearfully.  The concluding screech made the place echo again;—­but this strange laughter was not necessary to prevent little Robert from further sleep, as he found himself one moment seized by the feet and pulled to the bottom of the bed, and the next moment dragged up again on his pillow.  This was no sooner done, than by the same invisible power he was pulled down again, and then his head would be dragged back, and placed as high as his brother’s.

“Short and long won’t match,—­short and long won’t match,—­ho, ho, ho!” shouted the well-known voice of the Boggart, between each adjustment of little Robert with his tall brother, and thus were they both wearied for more than a hundred times; yet so great was their terror, that neither Robert nor his brother—­“Long John,” as he ever afterwards was called—­dared to stir one inch; and you may well suppose how delighted they both were when the first grey light of the morning appeared.

“We’st now ha’ some rest, happen,” said John, turning on his side in the expectation of a good nap, and covering himself up with the bed-clothes, which the pulling of Robert so often backwards and forwards had tumbled about sadly.