The Washington times., 1936-08-27

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The White House surely echoes
with SighS and SobS.
Bewildered Presidents and their
worried families must have charged
its atmosphere permanently.
Sensitive ears today may hear
the sounds made by Abraham
Lincoln's slippered feet as sleep
less and worried on troubled civil
war nights, he walked the halls in
his dressing gown, reading from
o volume Of poetry.
The ghost of John Quincy
Adams has been seen hurTying
through the gardens in the very
early mornings for a quick jump
into the swimming hole of the
Potomac.
The notes Of the wedding march
sometimes reverberate through
the Blue Room, where pretty Fran
ceS Folsom married that old bache-
lor, Grover Cleveland.
And a woman we know insists
that last winter during a lull in
one of the after-dinner concerts
in the East Room, she heard the
flapping of washing on the line.
Abigail Adams, you know, used to
dry Johns nightshirts and things,
in what is now the gliStening
state chamber,
The Octagon House on New York
Avenue, were James and Dolly
Madison fled when the English
fired on the White House in 1914,
quivers with mysterious night
noises.
One of its ghosts is white kit
ten. The kitten is seen sometimes
asleep on the top stair. Just as it
slept the night a mistress of the
mansion tripped over her pet and
rolled to the bottom of the steps
with broken neck.
An architect (Octagon House is
now owned by the American Instl-
tute of Architects) declares that
while he works over blue prints
that he sometimes smells the frag-
rance Of burning pine.
It's the scent lingering from
Dolly Madison'S most famous lie
vee," he says. The one she gave
in honor of Andrew Jackson'S vic
tory at New Orleans. Then "the
whole grand mansion was illuml-
mated from cellar to garret by pine
torches held aloft by slaves"
The Decatur House probably
has many ghosts in its history.
It's long blind face on H Street,
its dark slave quarters, suggest
even to a hurrying motoriSt that
inside it's gloomy walls have been
more tears than laughter.
Soon after the mansion was
built Commodore Decatur was
carried dying past the lanterns
Of it's solemn front door. He
had been mortally wounded in a
duel with Barron.
Two other owners of Decatur
House were sensational dueliStS.
England cherished her ghosts.
I, myself, once saw a ghost in
sussex. During a weekend in an
old Abbey I was awakened dur
ing a storm and became sud-
denly conscious of the face Of
an old woman. She seemed to
be hanging on the wall like a
portrait. Around her was a glow
Of light.
There were no portraits in this
room last night, I thought. Pos
sibly I was mistaken. The room
had been as chilly as only English
bedrooms can be when the crate
fire is burned down. had un-
dressed quickly.
Quite likely I had missed the
portrait, I concluded. Pulling the
eiderdown up around my ears, I
was soon contentedly asleep.
At the breakfast in the morning
over the limp toast and kipperS
native to the British Isles, my
hostess asked:
did you by any chance see
old Mrs. McTavish last night?"
'"MrS. McTaviSh!"
eyes. She's our ghost. She
was Archie's greatgreat-grand-
fathers hOuSekeeper. She killed
herself one bitter night because
the master wouldn't make an
honorable woman of her."
Have you a Mrs. McTavish or
any sort of a h'ant in your life?
Write and tell me quickly,
please. -
Vim (1onrno CoI,nhu