“Oh, yes; we know all that goes on above ground, that is if it interests us enough to make us care to take the trouble to learn. We each find out what we most care about, much as you who are not dead do, and we talk it over at our hour of release.” “And that I suppose is between the hours of twelve and one?” “My young friend, you are behind the age. There was a time when people believed that ghosts could walk only at the hour you mention, but there is one night when we can walk from sunset to one o’clock, which you see brings us into another day. We can walk, run, dance or do anything we like, within certain limitations. You have happened here on the only night in the year when we can do this. We have been going the rounds below ever since the sun went down and now we are coming up as you see. We leave our coffins and go about—and in short—you shall see it all tonight.” Here the ghost gave a sniff of disgust and anger, and pointing at a headstone, said: “Now, just look at that! They have gone and ‘restored’ that headstone and had all that fulsome epitaph recut in it. And, they thought they were doing a meritorious action, and that will give that poor fellow no end of trouble to get it out again. And, he cannot get his passport until he does. And here is another similar case. See this stone? Well, only today the descendants of this man—take notice that I say who has slept, for he is wide awake enough now and hopping mad—came and gave orders that the inscription be restored. Poor fellow! He has been at that trying to scrub it out ever since 1796. It seems that some of the families who have so little to be proud of in this generation try to make it up by piling more misery on their dead ancestors, just to show that they had ancestors with such very flattering records. Bah!” “He must be rather old?” hazarded the reporter with a desire to learn something besides the opinion of the ghost regarding the inscriptions, whereupon the ghost turned sharply around and said with some little show of asperity: “He was only about forty and he is the same now. Ghosts cannot grow older, for there is nothing for them to grow with. Here is the grave of Alexander Hamilton. Later I shall show you what he looks like now.” Saying this the ghost seemed to be absorbed in reflection for a few moments. Suddenly he spoke: “What a pity that you have no more whiskey. There are several persons here tonight who would so enjoy a good snifter. The worst feature about our banquets is that all our food and drink are as unsubstantial as we are.” “I could go across the way and get some, if you will wait for me,” said the young man eagerly, for it occurred to him that he would like to see the effect of a generous allowance of real whiskey on the ghosts, and there were apparently legions of them now strolling around among the graves and through the church.