'The Capt'n's been ridin' the devil's own pace,' said Dalton the coachman.

The raft got stuck in midstream.

You know those movies where the goofy housemate reads a book of spells on Halloween and hijinxs ensue?

How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp, / My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp, / Where the real effigy of midnight hags, / With tawny smoked flesh and tatter'd rags, / Uncouth-brimm'd hat, and weather-beathen cloak, / 'Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak, / Along the greensward uniformly pricks / Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks; […]