200 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



Here again, like the deer-frequented hollow, was 

 a homelike and friendly spot. Even when I 

 faced the street I found nothing disquieting in 

 the sudden gleams of reflected light on the wet 

 headstones. These should have been far more 

 terrifying than any foxfire. Recent traditions 

 of the race make the cemetery a place of ghosts, 

 and here within its bounds were gnome lights that 

 sprang into being, flared brightly for a second, 

 then flashed out of sight as I walked. The long 

 row of lights seemed to give almost every stone 

 its turn, and the dancing gnome lanterns flared 

 and vanished behind and before. As I neared 

 the street puddles in the path caught up the 

 flashes fitfully till all the quiet acre of the dead 

 seemed full of goblins bobbing up from below 

 with lanterns, taking a hasty look about, then 

 pulling the lid down upon themselves with an un- 

 heard slam. It should have been disquieting, but 

 it was not. We easily discount the petty super- 

 stitions that tradition and the frills of literature 

 have made for us. That that grows out of the 

 foxfire in the swamp has its roots too far back 

 in the inheritance of the race to be discounted. 

 The cemetery ghosts made only a friendly illumi- 

 nation for the last stages of a pleasant trip. 



