“Well, time fo’ a li’l’ black boy whut he name is Mose to be gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed.”

An’ li’l’ black Mose he ‘low’ he gwine wait a bit.  He ‘low’ he gwine jes wait a li’l’ bit.  How ‘low’ he gwine be no trouble at all ef he jes been let wait twell he ma she gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed, too.  So he ma she say’: 

“Git erlong wid yo’!  Whut yo’ skeered ob whin dey ain’t no ghosts?”

An’ li’l’ black Mose he scrooge’, and he twist’, an’ he pucker’ up he mouf, an’ he rub’ he eyes, an’ prisintly he say’ right low: 

“I ain’ skeered ob ghosts whut am, ‘ca’se dey ain’ no ghosts.”

“Den whut am yo’ skeered ob?” ask he ma.

“Nuffin’,” say’ de li’l’ black boy whut he name is Mose; “but I jes feel kinder oneasy ’bout de ghosts whut ain’t.”

Jes lak white folks!  Jes lak white folks!

FOOTNOTE: 

[K] Copyright, 1913, by The Century Company.

SOME REAL AMERICAN GHOSTS

THE GIANT GHOST

(Philadelphia Press, Sept. 13, 1896)

A case in point is the Benton, Indiana, ghost, which is attracting much attention.  It has been seen and investigated by many people with reputations for intelligence and good sense, but so far no explanation of the strange appearance has been found.

A farmer named John W. French and his wife were the first to see this apparition.  They live in the country near Benton, and were driving home one night from a neighbor’s.  The road passed an old church, moss-covered and surrounded by a graveyard, overgrown with shrubbery and filled with the bones of hundreds who once tilled the soil in the locality.  Ten years ago an aged man who lived alone not far from the old church and visited the graveyard almost daily to pray over the resting place of some relative was foully murdered for the store of gold he was supposed to have hidden about his hermit abode.  The robbers and murderers escaped justice, and the luckless graybeard was buried in the graveyard where he spent so much time.  Just as French and his wife drew within sight of the white headstones in the churchyard the horses reared back on their haunches and snorted in terror.  French was alarmed, and suspecting highwaymen had been scented by the horses, he reached for a shotgun which lay in the bottom of the wagon for just such an emergency.  But before his hand touched it he was startled by a scream from his wife.  Clutching his arm she pointed straight ahead and gasped:  “Look, John, look!”