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An’ all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an’ dey canfabulate out loud erbout it, an’ de noise soun like de rain-doves goin’, “Oo-oo-o-o-o!” an’ de owls goin’, “Whut-whoo-o-o-o!” an’ de wind goin’, “You-you-o-o-o!” So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an’ no mistake.

So de king ob de ghosts, whut name old Skull-an’-Bones, he place he hand on de head ob li’l black Mose, an’ he hand feel like a wet rag, an’ he say:

“Dey ain’t no ghosts.”

An’ one ob de hairs whut on de head ob li’l black Mose turn white.

An’ de monstrous big ha’nt whut he name Bloody Bones he lay he hand on de head ob li’l black Mose, and he hand feel like a toadstool in de cool ob de day, an’ he say:

“Dey ain’t no ghosts.”

An’ anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li’l black Mose turn white.

An’ a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa’m place he hand on de head ob li’l black Mose, an’ he hand feel like ye yunner side ob a lizard, an’ he say:

“Dey ain’t no ghosts.”

An’ anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li’l black Mose turn white as snow.

An’ a perticklar bent-up hobgoblin he put hand on de head ob li’l black Mose, an’ he mek dat same remark, and dat whole convintion ob ghostes an’ spicters an’ ha’nts an’ yever-thing, which am more ‘n a millium, pass by so quick dey-all’s hands feel lak de wind whut blow outen de cellar whin de day am hot, an’ dey-all say, “Dey ain’t no ghosts.” Yas, sah, dey-all say dem wo’ds so fas’ it soun like de wind whin it moan frough de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An’ yevery hair whut on li’l black Mose’s head turn white. Dat whut happen whin a li’l black boy gwine meet a ghost convintion dat a-way. Dat’s so he ain’t gwine fergit to remimber dey ain’t no ghosts. ‘Ca’se ef a li’l black boy gwine imaginate dey is ghostes, he gwine be skeered in de dark. An’ dat a foolish thing for to imaginate.

So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de fog outen de holler whin de wind blow’ on it, an’ li’l black Mose he ain’ see ‘ca’se for to remain in dat locality no longer. He rotch down, an’ he raise up de pumpkin, an’ he perambulate right quick to he ma’s shack, an’ he lift up de latch, an’ he open de do’, an’ he yenter in. An’ he say:

“Yere’s de pumpkin.”

An’ he ma an’ he pa, an’ Sally Ann, whut live up de road, an’ Mistah Sally Ann, whut her husban’, an’ Zack Badget, an’ de school-teacher whut board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house, an’ all de powerful lot of folks whut come to de doin’s, dey all scrooged back in de cornder ob de shack, ‘ca’se Zack Badget he been done tell a ghost-tale, an’ de rain-doves gwine “Ooo-oo-o-o-o!” an’ de owls am gwine, “Whut-whoo-o-o-o!” and de wind it gwine, “You-you-o-o-o!” an’ yever’body powerful skeered. ‘Ca’se li’l black Mose he come a-fumblin’ an’ a-rattlin’ at de do’ jes whin dat ghost-tale mos’ skeery, an’ yever’body gwine imaginate dat de ghost a-fumblin’ an’ a-rattlin’ at de do’. Yas, sah. So li’l black Mose he turn he white head, an’ he look roun’ an’ peer roun’, an’ he say:

“Whut you all skeered fo’?”

‘Ca’se ef anybody skeered, he want to be skeered, too. Dat’s natural. But de school-teacher, whut live at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house, she say:

“Fo’ de lan’s sake, we fought you was a ghost!”

So li’l black Mose he sort ob sniff an’ he sort ob sneer, an’ he ‘low:

“Huh! dey ain’t no ghosts.”

Den he ma she powerful took back dat li’l black Mose he gwine be so upotish an’ contrydict folks whut know ‘rifmeticks an’ algebricks an’ gin’ral countin’ widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house knows, an’ she say: