GHOSTS OF THE NORTHEASTER 197 



Down the glade and along the swamp edge I 

 passed with the night falling fast. Twilight 

 lingers long in our latitude and the gray sky- 

 still lighted the path dimly, though the woods 

 were black on either side. The tranquillity of 

 the home-like hollow was with me yet, but I was 

 in for another panic shudder. A fitful gleam of 

 pale light showed just ahead of me through the 

 black thicket and I rounded a familiar curve in 

 the path to stand face to face with a most por- 

 tentous presence. A veritable ghost stood just 

 within the wood, seven feet tall, stretching out a 

 rattling bone of an arm and glowing from shape- 

 less head to formless foot with pale gleaming gar- 

 ments of bluish white. 



More years ago than I like to count up there 

 used to come to my town an old man with a 

 magic lantern. He would hire the audience 

 room in the ancient town hall for an evening, 

 hang up a sheet, charge ten cents admission and 

 show to a crowd of wondering and delighted 

 urchins pictures wonderful, humorous and start- 

 ling. He always wound up with one for which 

 he apologized, then showed it with much gusto, 

 saying that he did not believe in such things him- 

 self, but that some people liked to see them. 



