TRADITIONAL LORE. 21T 
Sandy Bay takes its name from a beach of gray 
sand guarded by volcanic rocks, lined with tropical 
vegetation; at its northern end was a single cocoa 
palm leaning over a thatched hut used as a boat- 
house. Beneath this hut I encountered some of my 
Indian neighbors, dividing their spoils from the sea; 
there were fish of every color: “parrot fish,” “ butter 
fish,” and “ silver fish,” radiant with all the hues of the 
rainbow. To each man Captain George laid aside 
his portion, and from each little heap took a fish for 
the stranger sojourning among them. This done, he 
retired with me to a log beneath the thatch, and over- 
hauled his store of traditional Indian lore. The seas 
came up with white crests, reaching far up the strand; 
the sun was down behind the volcano, leaving a long, 
cool twilight, to which the leeward shore is a stranger. 
Our conversation turned upon ghosts and those evil 
spirits called by the negroes, and by the Indians, 
jumbies, or jombies. “I have saw jumbie not more 
than three times,” said the old Indian. “ Once time; 
I runned away from Rabaca, an’ when I reach de 
dry ribah, walkin’ along, swingin’ my bundle, I see 
man, high so, as a hoss, an’ he point me back; but I 
keep on. When I come to cross de ribah I see big 
bull-calf to come down de bank; he tail up, an’ he 
come fo’ me an’ swing roun’ an’ roun’ an’ bawl, an’ 
then he run back. It to make my har stan’ up, so; 
an’ when I make to meet him at nex’ ribah I was 
want to cross, an’ he came fo’ me an’ bawl, I say, 
‘Oh, good Massa, keep jumbie away;’ an’ he no 
come no mo’. 
* A young man, he courtin’ he sweetheart; he say, 
‘You lub me?’ He sweetheart say, ‘Yes.’ He say, 
