An’ a perticklar bend-up hobgoblin he put’ he hand on de head ob li’l’ black Mose, an’ he mek’ dat same _re_mark, an’ dat whole convintion ob ghostes an’ spicters an’ ha’nts an’ yiver’thing, which am more ’n a millium, pass by so quick dey-all’s hands feel lak de wind whut blow outen de cellar whin de day am hot, an’ dey-all say, “Dey ain’t no ghosts.” Yas, sah, dey-all say dem wo’ds so fas’ it soun’ like de wind whin it moan frough de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An’ yivery hair whut on li’l’ black Mose’s head turn’ white. Dat whut happen’ whin a li’l’ black boy gwine meet a ghost convintion dat-a-way. Dat’s so he ain’ gwine forgit to remimber dey ain’t no ghostes. ’Ca’se ef a li’l’ black boy gwine imaginate dey _is_ ghostes, he gwine be skeered in de dark. An’ dat a foolish thing for to imaginate. So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de fog outen de holler whin de wind blow’ on it, an’ li’l’ black Mose he ain’ see no ’ca’se for to remain in dat locality no longer. He rotch’ down, an’ he raise’ up de pumpkin, an’ he perambulate’ right quick to he ma’s shack, an’ he lift’ up de latch, an’ he open’ de do’, an’ he yenter’ in. An’ he say’: “Yere’s de pumpkin.” An’ he ma an’ he pa, an’ Sally Ann, whut live up de road, an’ Mistah Sally Ann, whut her husban’, an’ Zack Badget, an’ de school-teacher whut board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house, an’ all de powerful lot of folks whut come to de doin’s, dey all scrooged back in de cornder ob de shack, ’ca’se Zack Badget he been done tell a ghost-tale, an’ de rain-doves gwine, “Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!” an’ de owls am gwine, “Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!” and de wind it gwine, “You-_you_-o-o-o!” an’ yiver’body powerful skeered. ’Ca’se li’l’ black Mose he come’ a-fumblin’ an’ a-rattlin’ at de do’ jes whin dat ghost-tale mos’ skeery, an’ yiver’body gwine imaginate dat he a ghost a-fumblin’ an’ a-rattlin’ at de do’. Yas, sah. So li’l’ black Mose he turn’ he white head, an’ he look’ roun’ an’ peer’ roun’, an’ he say’: “Whut you all skeered fo’?” ’Ca’se ef anybody skeered, he want’ to be skeered, too. Dat’s natural. But de school-teacher, whut live at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house, she say’: “Fo’ de lan’s sake, we fought you was a ghost!” So li’l’ black Mose he sort ob sniff an’ he sort ob sneer, an’ he ’low’: “Huh! dey ain’t no ghosts.” Den he ma she powerful took back dat li’l’ black Mose he gwine be so uppetish an’ contrydict folks whut know ’rifmeticks an’ algebricks an’ gin’ral countin’ widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house knows, an’ she say’: “Huh! whut you know ’bout ghosts, anner ways?” An’ li’l’ black Mose he jes kinder stan’ on one foot, an’ he jes kinder suck’ he thumb, an’ he jes kinder ’low’: “I don’ know nuffin’ erbout ghosts, ’ca’se dey ain’t no ghosts.”