Dat li’l’ black boy whut he name is Mose he jump’ ’most outen he skin.  He open’ he eyes, an’ he ‘gin’ to shake like de aspen-tree, ’ca’se whut dat a-standin’ right dar behint him but a ’mendjous big ghost!  Yas, sah, dat de bigges’, whites’ ghost whut yever was.  An’ it ain’t got no head.  Ain’t got no head at all!  Li’l’ black Mose he jes drap’ on he knees an’ he beg’ an’ pray’: 

“Oh, ’scuse me!  ‘Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!” he beg’.  “Ah ain’t mean no harm at all.”

“Whut for you try to take my head?” ask’ de ghost in dat fearsome voice whut like de damp wind outen de cellar.

“’Scuse me!  ‘Scuse me!” beg’ li’l’ Mose.  “Ah ain’t know dat was yo’ head, an’ I ain’t know you was dar at all.  ’Scuse me!”

“Ah ‘scuse you ef you do me dis favor,” say’ de ghost.  “Ah got somefin’ powerful important to say unto you, an’ Ah can’t say hit ’ca’se Ah ain’t got no head; an’ whin Ah ain’t got no head, Ah ain’t got no mouf, an’ whin Ah ain’t got no mouf, Ah can’t talk at all.”

An’ dat right logical fo’ shore.  Can’t nobody talk whin he ain’t got no mouf, an’ can’t nobody have no mouf whin he ain’t got no head, an’ whin li’l’ black Mose he look’, he see’ dat ghost ain’t got no head at all.  Nary head.

So de ghost say’: 

“Ah come on down yere fo’ to git a pumpkin fo’ a head, an’ Ah pick’ dat ixact pumpkin whut yo’ gwine tek, an’ Ah don’t like dat one bit.  No, sah.  Ah feel like Ah pick yo’ up an’ carry yo’ away, an’ nobody see you no more for yever.  But Ah got somefin’ powerful important to say unto yo’, an’ if yo’ pick up dat pumpkin an’ sot in on de place whar my head ought to be, Ah let you off dis time, ’ca’se Ah ain’t been able to talk fo’ so long Ah right hongry to say somefin’.”

So li’l’ black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an’ de ghost he bend’ down, an’ li’l’ black Mose he sot dat pumpkin on dat ghostses neck.  An’ right off dat pumpkin head ‘gin’ to wink an’ blink like a jack-o’-lantern, an’ right off dat pumpkin head ‘gin’ to glimmer an’ glow frough de mouf like a jack-o’-lantern, an’ right off dat ghost start’ to speak.  Yas, sah, dass so.

“Whut yo’ want to say unto me?” inquire’ li’l’ black Mose.

“Ah want to tell yo’,” say’ de ghost, “dat yo’ ain’t need yever be skeered of ghosts, ’ca’se dey ain’t no ghosts.”

An’ whin he say dat, de ghost jes vanish’ away like de smoke in July.  He ain’t even linger round dat locality like de smoke in Yoctober.  He jes dissipate’ outen de air, an’ he gone intirely.

So li’l’ Mose he grab’ up de nex’ bestest pumpkin an’ he scoot’.  An’ whin he come’ to be grabeyard in de hollow, he goin’ erlong same as yever, on’y faster, whin he reckon’ he ’ll pick up a club in case he gwine have trouble.  An’ he rotch’ down an’ rotch’ down an’ tek’ hold of a likely appearin’ hunk o’ wood whut right dar.  An’ whin he grab’ dat hunk of wood——­