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“Yes,” added the wagoner, “and their stories are often of a kind to make one shudder, for they talk about ghosts that walk the earth, goblins that create a hubbub in their rooms at night, and spirits that torment men and cattle.”

“They don’t entertain themselves very well then, I fear,” said the student. “For my part, I confess that there is nothing so displeasing to me as ghost stories.”

“I don’t agree with you at all,” cried the compass-maker. “I find a story that causes one to shudder very entertaining. It is just like a rain-storm when one is sheltered under the roof. He hears the drops tick-tack, tick-tack, on the tiles, and then run off in streams, while he lies warm and dry in bed. So when one listens to ghost stories in a lighted room, with plenty of company, he feels safe and at ease.”

“But how is it afterwards?” asked the student. “When one has listened who shares in this silly belief in ghosts, will he not tremble when he is alone again and in the dark? Will he not recall all the horrible things he has heard? I can even now work myself into quite a rage over these ghost stories, when I think of my childhood. I was a cheerful, lively boy, but perhaps somewhat noisier than was agreeable to my nurse, who could not think of any other means to quiet me than of giving me a fright. She told me all sorts of horrible stories about witches and evil spirits who haunted the house. I was too young then to know that all these stories were untrue. I was not afraid of the largest hound, could throw every one of my companions; but whenever I was alone in the dark, I would shut my eyes in terror. I would not go outside the door alone after dark without a light; and how often did my father punish me when he noticed my conduct! But for a long time I could not free my mind from this childish fear, for which my foolish nurse was wholly to blame.”

“Yes, it is a great mistake,” observed the huntsman, “to fill a child’s head with such absurdities. I can answer you that I have known brave, daring men, huntsmen, who did not fear to encounter several of their foes at once–who, when they were searching for game at night, or on the lookout for poachers, would, all of a sudden, lose their courage, taking a tree for a ghost, a bush for a witch, and a pair of fire-flies for the eyes of a monster that was lurking for them in the dark.”

“And it is not only for children,” said the student, “that I hold entertainment of that kind to be in the highest degree hurtful and foolish, but for every body; for what intelligent person could amuse himself with the doings and sayings of things that exist only in the brain of a fool? There is where the ghost walks, and nowhere else. But these stories do the most harm among the country people. Their faith in absurdities of this kind is firm and unwavering, and this belief is nourished in the inns and spinning rooms, where they huddle close together and in a timid tone relate the most horrible stories they can call to mind.”

“Yes,” responded the wagoner; “many a misfortune has occurred through these stories, and, indeed, my own sister lost her life thereby.”

“How was that? Through these ghost stories, did you say?” exclaimed the men, in surprise.

“Yes, certainly, by such stories,” continued the wagoner. “In the village where our father lived it was the custom for the wives and maidens to get together with their spinning on a Winter’s evening. The young men would also be there and tell many stories. So it happened that one evening when they were speaking about ghosts, the young men told about an old store-keeper who died ten years before, but found no rest in his grave. Every night he would throw up the earth, rise from his grave, steal slowly along to his store, coughing as was his wont in life, and there weigh out sugar and coffee, mumbling meanwhile: [bb]!!!! “Twelve ounces, twelve ounces, at dark midnight, Equal sixteen, in broad daylight. [bb] “Many claimed that they had seen him, and the maids and wives got quite frightened. But my sister, a girl of sixteen, wishing to show that she was less foolish than the others, said: ‘I don’t believe a word of that; he who is once dead never comes back!’ She said this, unfortunately, without a conviction of its truth, for she had been frightened many times herself. Thereupon one of the young people said: ‘If you believe that, then you would have no reason to be afraid of him; his grave is only two paces from that of Kate’s, who recently died. If you dare, go to the church-yard, pick a flower from Kate’s grave, and bring it to us; then we will begin to believe that you are not afraid of the store-keeper’s ghost. My sister was ashamed of being laughed at by the others, therefore she said: ‘Oh, that’s easy enough; what kind of a flower do you want?’ ‘The only white rose in the village blooms there; so bring us a bunch of those,’ answered one of her friends. She got up and went out, and all the men praised her spirit; but the women shook their heads and said: ‘If it only ends well!’ My sister passed on to the cemetery; the moon shone brightly, but she began to tremble as the clock struck twelve while she was opening the church-yard gate. She clambered over many mounds which she knew, and her heart beat faster and faster the nearer she came to Kate’s white rose bush and the ghostly store-keeper’s grave. At last she reached it, and kneeled down, trembling with fear, to pluck some roses. Just then she thought she heard a noise close by; she turned around, and saw the earth flying out of a grave two steps away from her, and a form straightened itself up slowly in the grave. It was that of an old, pale-faced man, with a white night-cap on his head. My sister was greatly frightened; she turned to look once more to make sure that she had seen aright; but when the man in the grave began to say, in a nasal tone: ‘Good evening, Miss! where do you come from so late?’ she was seized with a deathly terror, and collecting all her strength, she sprang over the graves, ran to the house she had just left, and breathlessly related what she had seen; then she became so weak that she had to be carried home. Of what use was it that we found out the next day that it was the grave-digger who was making a grave there, and who had spoken to my poor sister? Before she could comprehend this she had fallen into a high fever, of which she died three days afterwards. She had gathered the roses for her own burial wreath.”

A tear dropped from the wagoner’s eye as he concluded, while the others regarded him with sympathy.

“So the poor child died in this implicit faith,” said the young goldsmith. “I recollect a legend in that connection, which I should like to tell you, and that unfortunately is connected with such a tragedy.”

(next story is story 11)