"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old,
But something ails it now; the place is curst."


Far up the Potomac, in the shadow of the mountains, among the hundreds
of small islands which dot the river in that picturesque region, is
one which has the reputation of being haunted. It is but a few miles
above the ferry at the Point of Rocks, and is unknown to the thousands
of persons who are whirled past there every year in the railroad
trains.

This island is about fifty acres in extent, and is bordered with
stately oaks to the very river's edge--whose waters lave their roots;
its margin is paved with pearly pebbles, while the drooping branches
of the trees, festooned with tangled vines of every hue, hang down in
glorious clusters, toying with the blue stream which runs beneath. The
scenery here is truly enchanting. Islands of every size seem floating
in a charmed atmosphere; to pass one pleasing spot is but to disclose
another more beautiful than the last. Some are covered with a forest
growth; others cultivated, and waving in the summer breeze with yellow
ripening grain; and yet others are overgrown with varied shrubs,
filled with singing birds, and wild flowers breathing perfume.

I had been fishing--had fished the river from the ferry up above and
around the island. I was well satisfied with the day's sport, and was
sitting in the stern of the boat in a sort of day dream. Jasper, my
boatman, was gently guiding the little vessel to keep it from striking
the many projecting rocks, as well as to prevent it from gliding too
rapidly down the current. The river, changed to a dark green color,