198 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



This was "death on the pale horse," and boys 

 used to band together and see one another home 

 through the darkness after looking at it. The 

 creature that pointed his fleshless arm at me from 

 the thicket was not that of the old time magic 

 lantern exhibit, but it reminded me of that im- 

 mediately, probably because it struck the same 

 formless shudder through my bones. Yet it was 

 only for a moment. I had seen such phosphor- 

 escent ghosts before and I had but to step boldly 

 forward and give the stub a kick to send the 

 spectre flying in fragments that dropped like huge 

 glowworms in chunks to the sodden ground. 

 Often in a northeast rain after long drought a 

 rotten birch stump will thus glow with phos- 

 phorescent fire producing a most formidable and 

 tradition-satisfying ghost. 



There is nothing to be feared in a phosphor- 

 escent birch stub, even with the drip of rain from 

 the leaves making stealthy, ghostly footfalls all 

 through the wood and the voice of the east wind 

 in the trees overhead beginning to take up a 

 querulous, wordless complaint that moved back 

 and forth with the footfalls. Foxfire is a com- 

 mon enough phenomenon. It is easy to explain 

 it all as I do now. The strange part of such 



