An’ dat whut all dat s’prise-party ‘low:  dey ain’t no ghosts.  An’ dey ‘low dey mus’ hab a jack-o’-lantern or de fun all sp’iled.  So dat li’l’ black boy whut he name is Mose he done got to fotch a pumpkin from de pumpkin-patch down de hollow.  So he step’ outen de shanty an’ he stan’ on de door-step twell he get’ he eyes pried open as big as de bottom ob he ma’s wash-tub, mostly, an’ he say’, “Dey ain’t no ghosts.”  An’ he put’ one foot on de ground, an’ dat was de fust step.

An’ de rain-dove say’, “Oo-oo-o-o-o!”

An’ li’l’ black Mose he tuck anudder step.

An’ de owl mourn’ out, “Whut-whoo-o-o-o!”

An’ li’l’ black Mose he tuck anudder step.

An’ de wind sob’ out, “You-you-o-o-o!”

An’ li’l’ black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoulder, an’ he shut he eyes so tight dey hurt round de aidges, an’ he pick’ up he foots an’ run.  Yas, sah, he run’ right peart fast.  An’ he say’:  “Dey ain’t no ghosts.  Dey ain’t no ghosts.”  An’ he run’ erlong de paff whut lead’ by de buryin’-ground on de hill, ’ca’se dey ain’t no fince eround dat buryin’-ground at all.

No fince; jes de big trees whut de owls an’ de rain-doves sot in an’ mourn an’ sob, an’ whut de wind sigh an’ cry frough.  An’ byme-by somefin’ jes brush’ li’l’ Mose on de arm, which mek’ him run jes a bit more faster.  An’ byme-by somefin’ jes brush’ li’l’ Mose on de cheek, which mek’ him run erbout as fast as he can.  An’ byme-by somefin’ grab’ li’l’ Mose by de aidge of he coat, an’ he fight’ an’ struggle’ an’ cry’ out:  “Dey ain’t no ghosts.  Dey ain’t no ghosts.”  An’ dat ain’t nuffin’ but de wild brier whut grab’ him, an’ dat ain’t nuffin’ but de leaf ob a tree whut brush’ he cheek, an’ dat ain’t nuffin’ but de branch ob a hazel-bush whut brush he arm.  But he downright scared jes de same, an’ he ain’t lose no time, ‘ca’se de wind an’ de owls an’ de rain-doves dey signerfy whut ain’t no good.  So he scoot’ past dat buryin’-ground whut on de hill, an’ dat cemuntary whut betwixt an’ between, an’ dat grabeyard in de hollow, twell he come’ to de pumpkin-patch, an’ he rotch’ down an’ tek’ erhold ob de bestest pumpkin whut in de patch.  An’ he right smart scared.  He jes de mostest scared li’l’ black boy whut yever was.  He ain’t gwine open he eyes fo’ nuffin’, ’ca’se de wind go, “You-you-o-o-o!” an’ de owls go, “Whut-whoo-o-o-o!” an’ de rain-doves go, “Oo-oo-o-o-o!”

He jes speculate’, “Dey ain’t no ghosts,” an’ wish’ he hair don’t stand on ind dat way.  An’ he jes cogitate’, “Dey ain’t no ghosts,” an’ wish’ he goose-pimples don’t rise up dat way.  An’ he jes ‘low’, “Dey ain’t no ghosts,” an’ wish’ he backbone ain’t all trembulous wid chills dat way.  So he rotch’ down, an’ he rotch’ down, twell he git’ a good hold on dat pricklesome stem of dat bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an’ he jes yank’ dat stem wid all he might.

“Let loosen my head!” say’ a big voice all on a suddent.