Oft, in the silence of the night, When the lonely moon rides high, When wintry winds are whistling, And we hear the owl's shrill cry, In the quiet, dusky chamber, By the flickering firelight, Rising up between two sleepers, Comes a spirit all in white. A winsome little ghost it is, Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye; With yellow curls all breaking loose From the small cap pushed awry. Up it climbs among the pillows, For the "big dark" brings no dread, And a baby's boundless fancy Makes a kingdom of a bed. A fearless little ghost it is; Safe the night seems as the day; The moon is but a gentle f