It was Jennie, the house-girl, and Uncle Ned, a man of all work —­apparently acquired with the improved prospects—­who were in real charge of the children and supplied them with entertainment.  Wonderful entertainment it was.  That was a time of visions and dreams, small. gossip and superstitions.  Old tales were repeated over and over, with adornments and improvements suggested by immediate events.  At evening the Clemens children, big and little, gathered about the great open fireplace while Jennie and Uncle Ned told tales and hair-lifting legends.  Even a baby of two or three years could follow the drift of this primitive telling and would shiver and cling close with the horror and delight of its curdling thrill.  The tales always began with “Once ’pon a time,” and one of them was the story of the “Golden Arm” which the smallest listener would one day repeat more elaborately to wider audiences in many lands.  Briefly it ran as follows: 

“Once ‘Pon a time there was a man, and he had a wife, and she had a’ arm of pure gold; and she died, and they buried her in the graveyard; and one night her husband went and dug her up and cut off her golden arm and tuck it home; and one night a ghost all in white come to him; and she was his wife; and she says: 

“W-h-a-r-r’s my golden arm?  W-h-a-r-r’s my golden arm?  W-h-a-r-r’s my g-o-l-den arm?”

As Uncle Ned repeated these blood-curdling questions he would look first one and then another of his listeners in the eyes, with his bands drawn up in front of his breast, his fingers turned out and crooked like claws, while he bent with each question closer to the shrinking forms before him.  The tone was sepulchral, with awful pause as if waiting each time for a reply.  The culmination came with a pounce on one of the group, a shake of the shoulders, and a shout of: 

“You’ve got it!’ and she tore him all to pieces!”

And the children would shout “Lordy!” and look furtively over their shoulders, fearing to see a woman in white against the black wall; but, instead, only gloomy, shapeless shadows darted across it as the flickering flames in the fireplace went out on one brand and flared up on another.  Then there was a story of a great ball of fire that used to follow lonely travelers along dark roads through the woods.

“Once ’pon a time there was a man, and he was riding along de road and he come to a ha’nted house, and he heard de chains’a-rattlin’ and a-rattlin’ and a-rattlin’, and a ball of fire come rollin’ up and got under his stirrup, and it didn’t make no difference if his horse galloped or went slow or stood still, de ball of fire staid under his stirrup till he got plum to de front do’, and his wife come out and say:  ’My Gord, dat’s devil fire!’ and she had to work a witch spell to drive it away.”

“How big was it, Uncle Ned?”

“Oh, ’bout as big as your head, and I ’spect it’s likely to come down dis yere chimney ’most any time.”