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Updated: June 12, 2025
"I didn't see anything," said Hortense. "I heard something, but it was probably only a rat." She spoke bravely, quite like Grandfather. "'Twan't no rat," muttered Aunt Esmerelda gloomily, shaking her head. "It's a ha'nt or a ghos'. Dey's ha'nts and ghos's all 'roun dis place." Hortense began to feel quite brave after she had arrived safely in the cheerful dining room.
Armatage, when the party had overtaken the Northern man. "The dogs are the best leaders. Bobo has got a scent for any kind of trail. Come on!" The negroes shouted and swung their torches. Perhaps they made so much noise and had so many lights because they somewhat feared the "ha'nts" that many of them talked about and believed in. But the two white men were not thinking of ghosts.
Some days I 'most get holt of it again I thought I could, on the organ, but I can't, not the hull of it. Someway I've lost it it's pretty hard. It ha'nts me if you ever be'n ha'nted, you know how bad it is." No, the girl who was leaning on the fence had never been ha'nted, but her eyes were wide with pity for the old soul who had marched through Georgia and forgotten the tune.
They had hoped that their signs put up at the site of the burned cabin would have satisfied Mammy June that her son would come up to the big house whenever, or if ever, he returned to his old home. Now the Bunker children were not so sure. When Russ and Rose told Philly Armatage what they had done she said: "Mebbe he'll think the writing is just to keep ha'nts away. He can't read writing.
But of course we don't!" "No-o," said Rose thoughtfully. "Just the same I wouldn't like to think of ha'nts if I was alone in the woods at night. Would you, Russ?" Russ dodged that question. He said: "I don't mean to be alone in the woods around here at night. And neither do you, Rose Bunker."
En eben now, fifty yeahs sence, long atter ole Dan has died en dried up in de woods, his ha'nt en Mahaly's hangs 'roun' dat piece er low groun', en eve'body w'at goes 'bout dere has some bad luck er 'nuther; fer ha'nts doan lack ter be 'sturb' on dey own stompin'-groun'." The air had darkened while the old man related this harrowing tale.
Hit takes a bee fer ter git de sweetness out'n de hoar-houn' blossom. Ha'nts don't bodder longer hones' folks, but you better go 'roun' de grave-yard. De pig dat runs off wid de year er corn gits little mo' dan de cob. Sleepin' in de fence-cornder don't fetch Chrismus in de kitchen. De spring-house may freeze, but de niggers 'll keep de shuck-pen warm.
Hit tored up de groun' all 'roun', en de dogs, dey rush up, but dey wa'n't no rabbit dar; but bimeby Mars Jeems, he seed de dogs tuckin' der tails 'tween der legs, en he look up, en dar wuz de rabbit caperin' 'roun' on a toom stone, en wid dat Mars Jeems say he sorter feel like de time done come w'en yo' gran'ma was 'specktin' un him home, en he call off de dogs en put out. But dem wuz ha'nts.
"And do you agree to stick it out, you and I shoulder to shoulder, town or no town, ha'nts or no ha'nts; and win out?" "Yes!" said I. Wire from The Author, New York City, to Miss S. Smith, Hyndsville, South Carolina: Photos received. Furniture noted. It's pretty, but is it art? Wire from Miss Smith to The Author: What is Art? Wire from The Author: Sometimes an invention of the devil.
You can't make dis yeh nigger think a winkin' fire-bug of a fly-by-night ship ain't a ha'nt." "Ha'nts," said Kipping mildly, "ha'nts is bad things for niggers, but they don't hurt white men." "Lemme tell you, you Kipping, it ain't gwine pay you to be disrespectable to de cook." Frank stuck his angry face in front of the mild man's. "Ef you think ha!"
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