An’ li’l’ black Mose he ’low’ he gwine wait a bit. He ’low’ he gwine jes wait a li’l’ bit. He ’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 de 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! [Illustration] [Illustration: A GLIMPSE OF THE GABLED HOUSETOPS OF NEMOURS] NEMOURS: A TYPICAL FRENCH PROVINCIAL TOWN BY ROGER BOUTET DE MONVEL WITH PICTURES BY BERNARD B. DE MONVEL It is only a little provincial town, like many others in France. It has no famous monument, and the immediate neighborhood is neither imposing nor celebrated. And yet this little town, with its quiet streets, its modest houses, its limpid river, and its Champs de Mars, where in fine weather the prominent citizens come to discuss the events of the day, has a tranquil and intimate charm of its own, and the country thereabouts is so rich in smiling, changing views,--moist fields along the water’s-edge, wild heaths, and villages bathed in sunlight,--that the whole makes a picture that wins one’s heart at first sight. Nemours lies in the department of Seine-et-Marne, that old part of France which used to be called La Brie, on the road leading from Fontainebleau to Montargis. As you approach the outlying houses, you come upon the first bridge that crosses the canal, on the sluggish waters of which glide unwieldy boats, heavily laden with wood, blocks of stone, or fine sand, and towed by mules or donkeys. Once over the bridge, to the right lies the main street, the Rue de Paris--naturally, for what town of the provinces is without its Rue de Paris? And what Rue de Paris has not, on one side, a window with a tempting display of delicacies, and on the other, the shops of the haberdasher, the grain-seller, the ironmonger, the harness-maker, and the barber, who, in his shirt-sleeves, stands at his door waiting for customers; and last, the Café du Progrès, where, gathered about little tables, the men drink, and hold forth on the future of France. Then you cross a second stream, bordered with old lime-trees and overshadowed by the high walls of the convent. Here is the Hôtel de l’Ecu, which still has the royal arms on its worn façade, and in front of which the mail-coaches used to stop; here is the market-place; the church, which dates from the thirteenth century; and, before the church, the statue of the great man of the neighborhood, Etienne Bezout, the distinguished mathematician.