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’l 1 GHOST STORY.
* *
*• only true ghost 'ton I
is t lie story oft 'lioker-- gho- 1 .
, is a positive fact well attest
.All the neighbors know what
r‘iied. All the neighbors
1 that was to be seen. All
'-.♦glibois saw how it began ;
• s it is the 'ton of < ’linker's
-t it eon hi not have begun
‘ 'lioker died.
hokc*r"he had been called
'.%<•'(! many years- before he
Ily was ohkffn! should sup
but heypait ki. very queer
Ikrtiey would Ik; in no luiV.' 1 1,1 1
w do you think I !>),,.
i 15 roi|
failed tJ
r
-. f'.-'/h lunl
ulll Ymhl
ilVfti Oj{ h 1 . v ßn tir t ill
oi 'Viingei "n ( .'l - b
PH'.v lie had adopted
C lie w as luild or because
3! how lie earned
Warn* rfite
y®*Hfcread w u* .
b; ('lk.i- if iis i range- Ui_ .( ral*
Ln and bought a/ouid iie.ind a
L farm there. J name
Biy Choker. [ '
r*Hl was all that "Strtyone knew
except thiit he had the
U’hefP* *° be s l (, r miles
Pyever went to church, and
Lu-hpttcd to a neighbor.
Bt* luicw anything again-t
BToliey knew nothing, they
Keeled ii great ileal; and when
Rif-t he was round dead one
Horning, tin* bottled iij > curiosity
Hopped out a- champagne doe*
when it is uncorked.
K very body went to •■♦• e him
where he lay.
Even body attended the inquest
nnd everybody went in the fum -
ml.
11l was decided that he died ot
.ujilexy.
I There were no relationb tosee
_ o him, but there would probably
be plenty lelt to pay lor his fun
era I; so there was no difficulty
about that.
, The clergy man- aid a doubtful
I mi ot good word for him. and as
be wa dead no one contradicted
it.
i And IVggy Kinder, who said
she wasn't afraid of anything,
was put into the house to take
euro of it.
She knew old Chokei very well,
having done hi- washing for him
for live years.
That night, the weather being
i hilly spring weather, die made
up a good lire in the kitchen and
lept on an old lounge there.
Once in the night she woke up
and thought she heard the clump,
clump, clump of a wooden leg
overhead, but though die fell a
chill run up her backbone at the
thought, she made up her mind
it was all nonsense and went to
sleep again.
At • she was up and had put
more coal on the lire, and was
tilling the kettle, when positively
—no fancy about it this time
she did hear that clump, clump
again across tin* room upstairs,
half a dozen times, then down
the stairs.
The sound ol ('linker's wooden
leg, and nothing else; and as she
turned about, shaking and trem
Iding, she saw (’linker himself at
the door in his big (lowered dres*
ing gown, with the black patch
over hi* eye and the hrnwit vvijt
on.
“l.unl have mercy on us!" cried
IVggy.
Then as Choker nodded cheer
fully, and said:
“Breakfast ready yet?" she grew
bewildered.
taJidlsi-'** l* l '** ll having a horrid
JJow. sir” she said, getting away
■>fan*ii J figure though, as she
nnstaiK “and its as natural as life.
Hbnt'umed you was dead, sir. 1
jdr. but it was -o
(feet uis. u <igh a bhoker.
whosenmiat 11111 all die.
tfi t"on’ ‘ ,l ‘*
,and buried too,” aid
>‘i know that,” said Peggy.
“Only all of us wont stay bu
said Choker, putting his
his nose.
l at that Peggy, nevet wait
W for her bonnet, bolted
taLwi'iyiise. and came turn
r daughter's half an
shaking with fright,
ndic had *-eeu (’linker's
lie daughter wa nearly as
h frightened as the mother.
and the news spread, but nobody
believed it.
At least every one said it was
ridiculous, and that Peggy must
have been drinking.
She did drink more than was
grind lor her, now and then; and
at last the undertaker himself, ae
coinpaiiied by the Coroner the
two men of the village who were
supposed to be the least nervous
on the subject of ghosts, and be
ides, who had a thorough know
ledge <il the matter of Choker’s
death and hurial—went to the
house together, accompanied by
a train of admirers, who kept a
respectful distance as they knock
ed iit I he door.
tn.'There was no answer to the
lust knock, but having knocked
again, clump, dump, clump came
wooded leg across the passage,
• v d there, in the door, -lond old
~( rh oker.
Every one knew him.
I He wore his old dressing gown,
he had the hlaek patch over his
eye, his wig set a little on one
side as usual.
•‘Walk in, walk in, gentlemen,”
lie said. -‘I believe, Mr. Underta
ker, I owe you a small hill. You
are prompt in calling for it ; hut
never mind, never mind. Let me
se the amount, and I'll settle it ;
if not today, some other day.”
The two men drew hack.
*•1 have no hill sir," said the
undertaker; hut hearing a report
that -that”
“That Peggy had seen my ghost,
1 suppose,” said Choker. “Very
well, sir, draw your own conclu
sions; but you deserve to be paid.
You buried me very respectably,
very respectably, indeed; and
your jury gave a correct verdict,
Mr. Coroner. It was apoplexy.
Ah, well, don't go; don't he in a
hurry.”
Hut his visitors had retreated.
“Ii is Choker," said the under
taker to the Coroner; “yet I bu
ried him and he was a dead man
then."
“It’s Choker, tint he was dead
w hen I held an inque l over him,”
said the Coroner.
They hurried away and the
crowd hurried away too.
That day the grave was exam
ined.
It wa empty; even Choker'*
coffin was gone.
Aftei that every one believed
the story but the clergyman and
a scientific gentleman.
The former declared that it was
wicked to believe in ghosts; the
latter, that there were no such
things a' ghosts.
“Choker is not at the house at
all," he said, “and his body is in
tin* grave; but vour imagina
tions have been so worked upon
that you fancied you saw him in
the house, and you believed that
you did not see him in his grave.
When a man is dead and buried
that's an end of him.”
“Hut go to the house and see
for yourself,” said someone.
“ Alive or dead. Choker is there.”
“Sir," said the scientific gentle
man, “neither alive nor dead, can
lie lx* there. A body cannot
burst its coffin lid, arise through
the turf, and walk about the town
as before. Il l should see Mr.
Choker 1 should not believe I saw
him. My common sense tells me
that 1 cannot see him, and I never
allow my senses to contradict my
common sense. The liousts is
empty. There is no one there.—
It is all imagination.”
However that may have been,
every one else in Gruhtown saw
him, sooner or later.
The lamp burned bright in his
window at night.
The garden prospered under
his ghostly tillage. He drew his
money at the bank as usual.
Asa ghost, liis silent, reserved
conduct seemed very suitable to
his condition.
Asa ghost, it seemed very pro
per that he should have no friends
and no kindred.
People avoided his house of
nights, and bovs ran callipering
away when they saw him plod
ding along lonely lanes by moon
light, and old folks shook their
heads and said it was curiou ; but
there was Choker, a fact to every
one hut the scientific gentleman,
who. when he passed him, mut
tered to himself, “Optical illu
ion," and whether he was a ghost,
or a man endowed with the pow
er of defying deiith and the un
dertaker, no one felt prepared to
answer.
He wa known sometimes as
“Choker'* ghost" and sometimes
a “Choker that come too," but no
one doubted for a moment that
somehow he was Choker, and the
very Choker they had seen dead,
subjected to an inquest and bu
lied; and all this went on for ten
good year and people had grown
I tic well:
|C nn/eilfaM
■Uiell.
THE FIELD AND FIRESIDE.
used to it, when one cold winter
morning a small note was brought
tothedoctor. bearing these words:
Come to me. I'm ill.
Cuokkr.
-Don’t go. dear." said the doc
tor's wife.
“i must." said the duel or, ami
went accordingly.
He found the door of Choker's
house open, and the popular ghost
himself wrapped in a blanket by
the fireside.
••Come in," he said, gasping for
breath- ”1 wasn't sure you'd
come. I've been feeling the in
convenience of being supernatu
ral since I've been too ill to make
myself a cup of tea. J ust see
what is thematter with me, will
you? I think it's serious, whatev
er it is."
The Doctor did his best.
His private opinion was that
Choker, whoever he might be. had
not long to live.
Whether he had ever been dead
before or not, he was certainly
going to die now.
**lt is as I thought," said Cho
ker, looking into his face. “I
knew the malady was incurable
years ago. Hut the end is at
hand now, eh?"
“In the ease of any other man,
I should say‘yes,” said the doc
tor, “but I examined you once
when you were certainly a dead
man, and I can’t judge for you.—
I don't ask your confidence, Mr.
Choker, but that affair is a puzzle
tome, though, of course, I've nev
ef taken you for a ghost.”
“I think I’ll confide in you doc
tor,” said Choker, “only you must
promise to keep my secret while
I iive. The night before you held
the inquest on old Choker I came
into Grablown. l ? d been an ao
tor once, then a soldier; lost a leg,
and come home to starve or beg.
“The door of this house stood
open, and in it stood a man. I
went up to him.
“ ‘Sir,’ said I, ’they say fellow
feeling makes us wondrous kind.
You’ve got a wooden leg, and,
perhaps, know it i n’t just the
thing to slump over the country
all night with.'
“It was old Choker l spoke to,
and what he said was
“ ‘I don't understand about your
poetry, or Scripture, or whatever
it is, but 1 do know jjbout wooden
leg*. Come In.'
“I went in, aTid lie'*'gave me a
supper and a bed in the garret.
We both Saw that we looked con
siderably alike, and laughed over
it. That night 1 slept in the gar
ret, and when 1 awoke in the
morning 1 found my host was dead
and the house full of neighbors.
“I fell that, as the death was
sudden, it might be best for me to
keep out of sight. I was as sorry
for it as a stranger could be, but
mv being there might be suspi
cious. 1 kept hidden up in a gar
ret, in a great lumber closet and
heard poor Choker's affairs talked
over and learned his habits.
“Some of his cloths were up iu
the garret, and an old wig and one
of the patches he had worn over
his eye was there too ; and there
was an old dressing-glass in the
corner. I tried on the wig and
the patch and saw how like old
Choker they made me look, only
I was not so brown. Then I took
some walnuts that lay on the
tloor and rubbed the juice into
my skin. It increased the resem
blance, so did whitening my eye
bfrwys with a bit of clialk. And
I sat altd looked at myself, and
the plan I afterwards carried out
came into my head. 1 would play
old Choker, as I knewlcould.
**l'd studied his voice and move
ments well. and. a*- I told you, had
once been an actor, so 1 should"
step into a decent home ami com
fortable means without hurting
anyone. The night after he was
buried I came out of the garret and
went to the graveyard, and not
to enter into details you'll find
Choker’s coffin in the old vault
beyond his grave. Then 1 went
back and tried the effect of my
disguise on poor old Peggy Kin
der. It satisfied me. I havn’t
led a merry life, though 1 knew
it would not be a long one.
••Hut I've been very eomlorta
ble, and shan't die a dog's death
out of doors, as I once expected.
I’ve never been afraid that Oho
kerreally would haunt me. though
I'm a tr'iiie supersiiiious, for i
think he couldn't find much fault
with me, as he had no relations,
never made a will and couldn't
take either his bank-book or his
house and farm into the other
world with him.
••And now you have the story,
and you've promised to keep my
secret until the last. You can see
now, perhaps, that Choker and I
were really only a good deal alike
I'm four inches taller than he
was, for one thing, and my nose is
higher. Hut there’s a good ileal
in make up.”
These were almost the last
words Choker's ghost ever spoke,
for his end was very near, and ii
was not until
Death had taught him more
Thun tliU melancholy world doth know,
that the doctor lei Grabtown
know the sequal of its ghost storv.
| .V. V. World.
SAVED HY A FLASH OK
UOHTMNO.
My name is Hunt. Yes, sir;
Anthony Hunt. lam a settler
and drover on this Western pra
rie. Wilds? Yes, sir; its little
else than wilds now, but you
should have seen it when I and
my wife first moved up here.—
There was not a house within
sight for miles. Even now we
have not many neighbors; but
those we have are downright good
ones. To appreciate your neigh
bors as you ought, sir, you m\st
live in these lonely places, so far
removed from the haunts of man.
What 1 am about to tell of hap
pened ten years ago. I was go
ing to the distant town, or sett le
nient to sell some fifty head of
cattle—fine creatures, sir, as ever
you saw. The journey was a
more rare event with me then
than it is now; and my wife had
always plenty of commissions to
charge me with in the shape of
dry goods and groceries and such
like things.
Our youngest child wasasweet
little gentle thing, who had been
named after her aunt, Dorothy.—
We called the child Dolly. This
time my commission included
one for her—a doll. She had
never had a real doll; that is, a
bought doll; only the rag bun
dles her mother made for her.—
For some days before my depar
tore the child could talk of noth
ing else—or w r e either, for the
matter of that—-for she was a
great pet, the darling of us all.
It was to be a big, big doll, with
golden hair and blue eyes. I shall
never forget the child’s words
the morning 1 was starting, as
she ran after me to the gate, or
the pretty picture she made.—
There are some children sweeter
and prettier than others, sir, as
you can’t but have noticed, and
Dolly was one.
**A very great big doll, please,
daddy,” she called out after me ;
••and please bring it very soon.”
I turned to nod a yes to her as
she stood in her clean whitey
brown pinafore against the gate,
her nut-brown hair falling in
curls about her neck, and the
light breeze stirring them.
••A brave doll,” 1 answered,
“for my little one—almost as big
as Dolly."
Nobody would believe, i dare
say, how full my thoughts were
of that promised doll, as 1 rode
along, ot what a nice one 1 meant
to buy. It was not often 1 spent
money in what my good thrifty
wife would have called waste; but
Dolly was Dolly, and I meant to
do it now.
The cattle sold, I went about
my purchases, and soon had no
end of parcels to be packed in
the saddle-bags. Tea, sugar, rice,
candles—but I need not weary,
you sir, with telling of them, to
gether with the calico for shirts
and nightgowns, and the delaine
for the children’s new frocks.—
Last of all, I went about the doll
—and found a beauty. It was
not as big as Dolly, or half as big;
but it had fiaxen curls and sky
blue eyes; and by dint of pulling
a wire you could open or shut the
eves at will.
“Do it up carefully,” I said to
the storekeeper. “My little
daughter would cry sadly if any
harm came to it.”
The day wa* pretty well ended
before all my work was done ; and
just for a moment or two 1 hesi
fated whether l should not stay
in the town and start home in
the morning. It would have been
the more prudent course. But 1
thought of poor Dolly’s anxiety
to get her treasure, and of my
own happiness in w atching the
rapture in her delighted eyes.—
So with my parcels packed in the
best way they couid be, I mount
ed my horse and started.
It was as good and steady a
horse as you ever rode, sir; but
night began to set in before I was
well a mile away from the town ;
it seemed as if it were going to
be an ugly night, too. Again the
thought struck me—should I turn
back and wait till morning? I
had the price of the cattle, you
-ee. sir; in my breast pocket; and
robberies, aye, and murders also,
were not quite unknown things
on the prairie. But 1 had my
brace of -ure pistols w ith me and
decided to press onward*.
The night came on a- dark as
pitch, and part of the way my
road would be pitch dark besides.
Bijt on that score 1 had no fear;
1 knew the road well, every inch
of if, though 1 could not ride so
fa*t a- 1 should have done in the
light. 1w as about six miles from
home. 1 suppose, and 1 knew the
time must be close upon mid
night, when the storm which had
been brewing broke. The thun
der roared, the rain fell in tor
rents; the best 1 could do was to
press onwards in it.
All at once, as 1 rode on. a cry
startled me ; a faint wailing sound
like theory of a child. Reining
up, I sat still and listened. Had I
been mistaken? No, there it was
again. Hut in what direction 1
could not tell. I couldn’t see a
thing. It was. as I have said, as
dark as pitch, (retting off mv
horse. 1 fell about, but could find
nothing. And while 1 was seek
ing the erv came again—the faint
moan of a child in, pain. Then l
began to wonder. lam not su
perstitious, but 1 asked myself
how it was possible that a child
could be out on the prairie at such
an hour and in such a night. No;
| a real child it could not be.
Upon that, came another
thought—one less welcome: Was
it a trap to hinder me on my way
and ensnare me ? There might
be midnight robbers who would
easily hear of my almost certain
ride home that night, and of the
money I should have about me
I don’t think, sir, J am more
timid than other people; not as
much so, perhaps,s some; but 1
confess the idea made me uneasy.
My best plan was to ride on as
fast as l could, and get out of
the mystery into safe quarters.—
I Just here was about the darkest
1 bit of road in all the route.—
Mounting my horse, 1 was about
to urge him on, when the cry
came again. It did sound like a
child’s; the plaintive w ail of a
child nearly exhausted.
“God guide me I said!” 1 said,
undecided what to do. And as
1 sat another moment listening, I
once more heard the cry, fainter
and more faint. 1 threw myself
off my horse with an exclamation.
“He it ghost or be it robber,
Anthony Hunt is not one to a
bandon a child to die without
trying to save it.”
Hut how was 1 to save it?—how
find it? The more 1 searched
about, the less could my hands
light on anything, save the slop
p.v earth. The voice had quite
ceased now , so 1 had no guide
from that. While I stood trying
to peer into the darkness, all my
ears alert, a flood of sheet light
nings suddenly illumined the
plain. At a little distance,, just
beyond a kind of ridge or gentle
hill, 1 caught a glimpse of some
| thing white. It was dark again
in a moment, but 1 made my way
with unerring instinct. Sure
enough, there lay a poor little
child. Whether boy or girl I
could not tell. It seemed to be
three parts insensible now, as I
| took it up, dripping with wet from
the sloppy earth.
“My poor little, thing!” 1 said
|as I hushed it to me. “We'll go
and find mammy. You are all
! safe now."
And, in answer, the child just
put out its feeble hand, moaned
once and nestled close to me.
IV itli the child hushed to my
! breast I rode on. And sir I
thanked God that lie had let me
\ save it, and 1 thought how grate
j fulsome poor mother would be!
But I was full of wonder for all
that, wondering what extraordi
nary fate had taken any young
child to that solitary spot.
Getting in sight of home, lsaw
all the windows alight. Debo
rah had done it for me, 1 thought,
to guide me home in safety
through the darkness. But pres
ently I knew that something must
be the matter for the very few
neighbors we had w ere collected
there. My heart stood still with
fear. 1 thought of some calamity
to one or other of the children.
I had saved a like one from per
ishing, but what might not have
happened to my own ?
Hardly daring to lift the latch,
while my poor tired horse stood
i-till and mute outside, 1 went
slowly in, the child in my arms
covered over with the flap of my
long coat. My wife was weeping
bitterly.
“What’s amiss?" 1 asked in a
faint voice. And it seemed that
a whole chorus of voices answered
me.
••Dolly's lost.”
Dolly lost! Just for a moment
my heart turned sick. Then
some instinct, like a ray of light
and hope, seized uponine. Pull
ing the coat oft' the face of the
child I held. I lifted the little
sleeping thing to the light, and
>aw Dolly!
t V es -ir. The child 1 had saved
was no other than mv own—mv
little Dolly. And 1 knew that
God’s good angels had guided me
to save her. and that the first flash
of the summer lightning had
shone just at the right moment
to show me where she lay. It
was her white -nn bonnet that
had caught my eve. My darling
it was, and none other, that 1 hail
picked up on the drenched road.
Dolly, anxious for her doll, had
wandered out unseen to meet me
in the afternoon. For some hours
she was not
that my Iwo older girls nad gone
over to om%nearest neighbors,
and mv wife, missing the child
just afterwards, took it for gran
ted she was with them. The lit
tie one had come on and on, un
til night and the storm overtook
her., when die fell down frighten
ed and utterly exhausted. 1
thanked Heaven aloud before
them all, sir; as 1 said that none
but God and hi* holy angels had
guided me to her. It’s not much
of a story to listen to, sir; i am
aw are of that. Hut I often think
of it in the long nights, lying
awake; and ask myself how 1
could bear to live ori now, had 1
run away from the poor little cry
:in the road, hardly louder than a
squirrel's chirp, and left my child
to die.
Yes, sir, you are right; that’s
Dolly out yonder w ith her mother,
picking fruit; the little trim light
figure in pink—with just the same
sort ot white sun-bonnet on her
head that she wore that night
ten years ago. She i~ a girl that
was worth saving, sir, though 1
say it; and God knows that as
long as mv life lasts I shall be
tlianklul that 1 came on home
i that night instead of staying in
the town.—-iF. J'. World.
Bom. Dust may be applied di
reetly in the hill to corn or pota
toes, or composted with loam be
fore it is used, as you please. If
mixed with about twice its bulk
ot loam, perhaps it would be the
best way to apply it. About one
i tablespoonlull of pure bone is e
nough to the hill.
THE FIELD Ail FIRESIDE.
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