Most of the Scotch children believe in ghosts, and some under peculiar conditions continue to believe in them all through life.  Grave ghosts are deemed particularly dangerous, and many of the most credulous will go far out of their way to avoid passing through or near a graveyard in the dark.  After being instructed by the servants in the nature, looks, and habits of the various black and white ghosts, boowuzzies, and witches we often speculated as to whether they could run fast, and tried to believe that we had a good chance to get away from most of them.  To improve our speed and wind, we often took long runs into the country.  Tam o’ Shanter’s mare outran a lot of witches,—­at least until she reached a place of safety beyond the keystone of the bridge,—­and we thought perhaps we also might be able to outrun them.

Our house formerly belonged to a physician, and a servant girl told us that the ghost of the dead doctor haunted one of the unoccupied rooms in the second story that was kept dark on account of a heavy window-tax.  Our bedroom was adjacent to the ghost room, which had in it a lot of chemical apparatus,—­glass tubing, glass and brass retorts, test-tubes, flasks, etc.,—­and we thought that those strange articles were still used by the old dead doctor in compounding physic.  In the long summer days David and I were put to bed several hours before sunset.  Mother tucked us in carefully, drew the curtains of the big old-fashioned bed, and told us to lie still and sleep like gude bairns; but we were usually out of bed, playing games of daring called “scootchers,” about as soon as our loving mother reached the foot of the stairs, for we couldn’t lie still, however hard we might try.  Going into the ghost room was regarded as a very great scootcher.  After venturing in a few steps and rushing back in terror, I used to dare David to go as far without getting caught.

The roof of our house, as well as the crags and walls of the old castle, offered fine mountaineering exercise.  Our bedroom was lighted by a dormer window.  One night I opened it in search of good scootchers and hung myself out over the slates, holding on to the sill, while the wind was making a balloon of my nightgown.  I then dared David to try the adventure, and he did.  Then I went out again and hung by one hand, and David did the same.  Then I hung by one finger, being careful not to slip, and he did that too.  Then I stood on the sill and examined the edge of the left wall of the window, crept up the slates along its side by slight finger-holds, got astride of the roof, sat there a few minutes looking at the scenery over the garden wall while the wind was howling and threatening to blow me off, then managed to slip down, catch hold of the sill, and get safely back into the room.  But before attempting this scootcher, recognizing its dangerous character, with commendable caution I warned David that in case I should happen to slip I would grip the rain-trough when I was going over the eaves