ied treasures continues even to the present day.

There is a legend which differs somewhat from the ordinary run of these
stories, and it is told about a little island on the coast of Cape Cod,
which is called Hannah Screecher's Island, and this is the way its name
came to it.

Captain Kidd while sailing along the coast, looking for a suitable place
to bury some treasure, found this island adapted to his purpose, and
landed there with his savage crew, and his bags and boxes, and his gold
and precious stones. It was said to be the habit of these pirates,
whenever they made a deposit on the coast, to make the hole big enough
not only to hold the treasure they wished to deposit there, but the body
of one of the crew,--who was buried with the valuables in order that his
spirit might act as a day and night watchman to frighten away people who
might happen to be digging in that particular spot.

The story relates that somewhere on the coast Captain Kidd had captured
a young lady named Hannah, and not knowing what to do with her, and
desiring not to commit an unnecessary extravagance by disposing of a
useful sailor, he determined to kill Hannah, and bury her with the
treasure, in order that she might keep away intruders until he came for
it.

It was very natural that when Hannah was brought on shore and found out
what was going to be done with her, she should screech in a most
dreadful manner, and although the pirates soon silenced her and covered
her up, they did not succeed in silencing her spirit, and ever since
that time,--according to the stories told by some of the older
inhabitants of Cape Cod,--there may be heard in the early dusk of the
evening the screeches of Hannah coming across the water from her little
island to the mainland.

Mr. James Herbert Morse has written a ballad founded upon this peculiar
incident, and with the permission of the author we give it here:--

THE LADY HANNAH.

"Now take my hand," quoth Captain Kidd,
"The air is blithe, I scent the meads."
He led her up the starlit sands,
Out of the rustling reeds.

The great white owl then beat his breast,
Athwart the cedars whirred and flew;
"There's death in our handsome captain's eye"
Murmured the pirate's crew.

And long they lay upon their oars
And cursed the silence and the chill;
They cursed the wail of the rising wind,
For no man dared be still.

Of ribald songs