This is one of those pages I started months ago and worked on here and there, never getting it right. This AM I finally decided just to finish it .

My mother used to recite this poem by James Whitcomb Riley to us. We lived in an old home and during the day we used to play and build forts in the third story attic. At night however, you couldn't have paid me to go up there. Partially due to this poem and partially due to my brother telling me that there were ghosts. I saw this poem a few years ago in a Lands End Christmas Catalog of all places, and it brought back lots of memories. I can still hear my mom reciting it to us. My sister has a pic of her reading a book to the three of us and she's sending it so I can do a companion page. TFL

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