THE GHOSTS OF THE LIPSEY HOUSE 
I 
Vi ERAL miles out from the city of 
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, on a little- 
used road, there lies a small abandoned 
farm known as the Lipsey place. The old house 
stands back from the road about two hundred 
feet. Weeds and bushes have grown up about 
it and, so far as I know, no one ever crosses the 
threshold. All the glass in the windows was 
long since broken or carried away. The roof 
sags, and the chimney leans as if about to topple 
over. All in all, there could hardly be in all the 
state a more forlorn, neglected-looking place. 
Some people think this is a very dreary spot; 
but when I visited it one morning late in May 
I found it full of interest. A phoebe had built 
her nest of mud and feathers on a support 
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