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“Oh, ‘scuse me! ‘Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!” he beg. “Ah ain’t mean no harm at all.”

“Whut for you try to take my head?” as’ de ghost in dat fearsome voice whut like de damp wind outen de cellar.

“‘Scuse me! ‘Scuse me!” beg li’l Mose. “Ah ain’t know dat was yo’ head, an’ I ain’t know you was dar at all. ‘Scuse me!”

“Ah ‘scuse you ef you do me dis favor,” say de ghost. “Ah got somefin’ powerful important to say unto you, an’ Ah can’t say hit ‘ca’se Ah ain’t got no head; an’ whin Ah ain’t got no head, Ah ain’t got no mouf, an’ whin Ah ain’t got no mouf, Ah can’t talk at all.”

An’ dat right logical fo’ shore. Can’t nobody talk whin he ain’t got no mouf, an’ can’t nobody have no mouf whin he ain’t got no head, an’ whin li’l black Mose he look, he see dat ghost ain’t go no head at all. Nary head.

So de ghost say:

“Ah come on down yere fo’ to git a pumpkin fo’ a head, an’ Ah pick dat ixact pumpkin whut yo’ gwine tek, an’ Ah don’t like dat one bit. No, sah. Ah feel like Ah pick yo’ up an’ carry yo’ away, an’ nobody see you no more for yever. But Ah got somefin’ powerful important to say unto yo’, an’ if yo’ pick up dat pumpkin an’ sot it on de place whar my head ought to be, Ah let you off dis time, ‘ca’se Ah ain’t been able to talk fo’ so long Ah’m right hongry to say somefin’!”

So li’l black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an’ de ghost he bent down, an’ li’l black Mose he sot dat pumpkin on dat ghostses neck. An’ right off dat pumpkin head ‘gin to wink an’ blink like a jack-o’-lantern, an’ right off dat pumpkin head ‘gin to glimmer an’ glow frough de mouf like a jack-o’-lantern, an’ right off dat ghost start to speak. Yas, sah, dass so.

“Whut yo’ want to say unto me?” inquire li’l black Mose.

“Ah want to tell yo’,” say de ghost, “dat yo’ ain’t need yever be skeered of ghosts, ‘ca’se dey ain’t no ghosts.”

An’ whin he say dat de ghost jes vanish away like de smoke in July. He ain’t even linger round dat locality like de smoke in Yoctober. He jes dissipate outen de air, an’ he gone intirely.

So li’l Mose he grab up de nex’ bestest pumpkin an’ he scoot. An’ whin he come to de grabeyard in de hollow, he goin’ erlong same as yever, on’y faster, whin he reckon, he’ll pick up a club in case he gwine have trouble. An’ he rotch down an’ rotch down, an’ tek hold of a lively appearin’ hunk o’ wood whut right dar. An’ whin he grab dat hunk of wood. . . .

“Let loosen my leg!” say a big voice all on a suddent.

Dat li’l black boy ‘most jump outen he skin, ‘ca’se right dar in de paff is six ‘mendjus big ghosts, an’ de bigges’ ain’t got but one leg. So li’l black Mose jes natchully handed dat hunk of wood to dat bigges’ ghost, an’ he say:

“‘Scuse me, Mistah Ghost; Ah ain’t know dis your leg.”

An’ whut dem six ghostes do but stand round an’ confabulate? Yas, sah, dass so. An’ whin dey do so, one say:

“‘Pears like dis a mighty likely li’l black boy. Whut we gwine do fo’ to reward him fo’ politeness?”

“Tell him whut de truth is ’bout ghosts.”

So de bigges’ ghost he say:

“Ah gwine tell yo’ somethin’ important whut yever’body don’t know: Dey ain’t no ghosts.”

An’ whin he say dat, de ghosts jes natchully vanish away, an’ li’l black Mose he proceed up de paff. He so scared he hair jes yank at de roots, an’ when de wind go “Oo-oo-oo-o-o,” an’ de owl go, “Whut-whoo-o-o-o!” an’ de rain-doves go, “You-you-o-o-o!” he jes tremble an’ shake. An’ bimeby he come to de cemuntary whut betwixt an’ between, an’ he shore is mighty skeered, ‘ca’se dey is a whole comp’ny of ghostes lined up along de road, an’ he ‘low he ain’t gwine spind no more time palaverin’ wid ghostes. So he step offen de road fo’ to go round erbout, an’ he step on a pine-stump whut lay right dar.