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. 



