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THE GHOST OF BIS LEDUC. !…

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THE GHOST OF BIS LEDUC. I By MARTIN S. HILL. And were'n there any ghosta when you were a child, mamma V asked tl*e smallest of the five girls. Well," said mamma, as she folded her spectacles and laid aside the book she had been reading, when I was a little girl. far > away in France,for that is the way the story should begin, I suppose, our little village of Bois-le-Duc had a. ghost that was a complete mystery to the good townsfolk, and for a long time kept us children close indoors after night had fallen. Jfc was the only ghost I ever really saw, and was such a strange one that I have never forgotten about it. Bois-le-Duc was a very little village con- taining scarcely more than the three essen- tials of a tov/n—an inn. a church, and a burial ground. All the houses in the place stood on one long winding street, so that although the town was small it was a long walk from the market at one end to the graveyard at the Dther. Our own home was fairly outside the village, for it stood a good quarter of a mile beyond this graveyard and had been the chateau where the Duke of the province lived before the days of the revolution. There were no houses between ours and the village except that of the sexton, which stood close beside the stone wallof the ceme- tery, and Jean Moulin's. Jean was our gardener and the village toper, and he lived in a little brown cottage only a few steps from our door. Now the ghost of Bois-le-Duc about which I started to tell you was a grave- yard ghost, and as we often passed the graveyard after dark in coming from visits to playmates in the town we had more chances than anyone slse to become acquainted with it in fact, we had more chances of that kind than we cared for. We were no braver than most girls of 10 and 12, and we had no brothers } to make us appear more bold than we felt, by poking fun at us, 44 It was my sister, ,;usanne, who first saw the ghost. She had been sent on an errand to the house of the cure one bright summer evening, and was loitering near the grave- yard on her way home look:g for berries among the tangled vines tha beside the footpath. Suddenly ?he heard a strange low sound. like the crying of a tired child, and jumping to her feet she saw something big and white standing on a fallen tombstone in the middle of the burial ground. What- ever the thing was it did not move, but simply stood there white and still, looking at her." (Jo, oo said the smallest girl with a shiver, drawing the stool on which she sat closer to mamma's knee. Susanne'ij short legs could not fly fast enough to carry her the rest of the way home. She never looked back or stopped an instant, and when she burst in at our kitchen door her hat was gone and her brown curls were flying all about her face. As almost any other little girl would have done, she began to cry, and it was a long time before she got breath enough to tell us what she had seen. Mother petted her until she had stopped crying, and then she laughed at Susanne's terror. Fie. tie, my child,' said she, it was thy fancy there are no ghosts in our quiet churchyard.' Never- theless both Susanne and I believed that it was a ghost that she had seen. When we went upstairs to bed she told me all about the big white thing again, and we drew the covers over our heads until we went to deep. It was a long time before we got up courage to pass the graveyard again at night, but after a while our desire to attend some of the little parties that our friends in the village were always getting up got the better of our fear of the gnosts, and we began to go out again in the evening. We had done this several times when we next saw the ghost. We were together that night, and we both saw it at the same moment, simply a dim white object moving about among the grassy mounds. I can still remember the cold shiver that went over me when I saw it, and the way my heart thump d against my ribs as we bounded along the path toward home. Again mother had to dry our tears, but this time she did not laugh at us. After this we were certain about the ghost we could not both have been mis- taken. For the next few times when we went out father walked with us, but, strangely enough, we saw nothing, although he looked carefully along the graveyard wall, while we clung to his hands and tried to look as bold as he did. Then father, too. laughed at us. You have been reading too many fairy tales,' he said the daughters of a soldier should be more brave.' But it was not long before others saw onr graveyard ghost, and the whole town began to believe in it. The ghost was always white and silent, but except for that no two stories about it agreed. Gaston Four, the miller, saw an old man with a long white beard leaning against the stone wall and looking over as he passed one night, and he was sure that it looked exactly like old Pierre Gabay, who had fallen from the church scaffold and broken his Deck. Old Gabrielle, our laundress, saw the object very plainly, too, and she was equally certain that it was a woman in a white shroud with two plumes in her head. In Gabrielle's opinion the ghost was that of an old dame who lived near the edge of the forest close by, and who had been called a witch. Others did not agree with either Gaston or Gabnelle, but had a separate theory of their own. 41 Whoever or whatever the ghost was it did not seem inclined to leave the grave- yard, and so when Susanne and I wanted very much to visit the village we ventured to repeat our evening trips. But always, when we came near the burial ground, we threw our aprons over our heads and ran as fast as we could till we were well past. And in the eyes of our girl friends we were very brave to pass the ghost, even that way. Of ail who did not believe in the ghost or pretended not to believe in it, nobody scoffed so loudly at our fears as Pierre Moulin.. I should like to meet your ghost,' Mid Pierre boisterously. I would say, Hold, my fine fellow, here's your and offer him a drink from my flask. We hardly believed that Pierre would dare to do this if he actually met the ghosc, but we thought he must be terribly brave to dare think of such a thing. Certain it was that fear of the ghost did not keep him from making his nightly visit to the inn to drink a glass of brandy and fill his flask, but we learned afterwards that with all his boasting Pierre was really more afraid of the lonely occupant of the churchyard than we were, for he did not pass along the road, but made a wide detour through the fields till he got beyond the burial ground. Oddly enough, though, it was through Pierre Moulin that we finally learned just who and what the ghost really was. 44 It was on Christmas eve, and Pierre had stayed longer than usual at the village inn. He had had many a glass of wine, and it was almost midnight when he finally rose to go. As he took bis flask from the inn-keeper's hand he said in a half-tipsy voice. This is Christmas eve. when all should be of good cheer. To-night if I meet the ghost of Bois-le-Duc he shall have a sip from my flagon, I promise you.' The wine had made Pierre bold, and he decided that he was not afraid of any ghost. As he came opposite the churchyard he stopped and looked about. All was silent and still in the cold moonlight, there was no moving thing in sight. Pierre drew the flask from his pocket and held it up in one hand. Monsieur Ghost! cried he, will you eip good cheer with me on Christ- mas eve ?' Even as he spoke a white figure seemed to rise from beneath one of the laurel trees that stood among the mounds, and came slowly toward the place where Pierre stood. Evidently the ghost was going to accept his invitation. 44 For an instant Pierre stood still, frozen with terror, but his fright, like a dash of cold water, sobered him. He forgot his boast at the inn, his flask fell to the ground with a crash, and Pierre himself dashed down the road like one pursued, for as he looked over his shoulder he saw the white thing enter the road through an opening in the stonl wall and come running along behind him. Pierre was no longer young, and, run as he could, the white thing kept getting nearer and nearer. In story books ghosts make no noise as they travel, but Pierre could hear this ono clattering along the hard road, and the sound kept him going, even after he was hadJ to drop for want of breath. "The thing was close behind as Pierre turned ihto the little gateway to the cottage. A light was shining through the window, and Pierre knew that his wife was sitting z, up for him, but he could not wait tor her to undo the door there was no time for that. The white object was almost upon him and Pierre even fancied that he could feel its cold breath as he ran. He made straight for the lighted window, and with a last effort hurled himself through it, falling- I z!1 glass, sash, and all—in a heap on the floor. 44 Pierre's wife was as frightened as she could possibly have been, and her shrieks reached the ears of my father, who sat read- ing in his study with the window open to let in the cool night air. Father lushed down to the brown cottage. What is it ? Madame iVioulin,' he cried: 'what is the matter ?' Pierre still lay on the floor gasp- ing for breath, and rolling his eyes as though in a fit. 4 The ghost, ¡ he managed to stam- mer, 'it was almost upon me it is there,' I pointing towards the window. "Father threw open the window and looked out. The white object was standing calmly in Pierre's front yard. Father strode up to it and dragged it to where the lamplight shone full upon it. Then he went inside and gave Pierre a kick that brought him to his feet. Get up, you hero,' he cried, 4 and look upon your ghost. It is the sexton's goat, lonely for company, though why he should desire the companionship of a fool I know not,' and father marched back to his study as though he was very angry, though really he was laughing to himself all the time." There was a sigh of relief from the smallest girl, and a cry of disappointment from the others. Mamma smiled. 44 So that was the end the ghost of Bois le-Buc," she said. 44 the only one I ever knew. The sexton's goat still cropped I the grass and leaves among the graves, but after that we never put our aprons over our heads in passing by. As for Pierre, when- ever his friends at the inn wished to stop his boasting they would ask him to tell how he drank with the graveyard ghost on Christmas eve." Weekly Inter Ocean.

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