Ghos' Stories.
By Flavia Rosser.
These nights 'r sort 'r gray an' still;
The frogs sing awful ahin' the hill,
'N' all the chil'ren in our end o' town
Jes' hurry their bread 'n' butter down,
'N'come to our ol' apple tree
Tuh tell ghos' stories, after tea.
Ef we get tuh stay till in the night,
We huddle all tuhgether tight—
Cos its shivery down your back, yuh know,
When th' leaves an' shadders wiggle so.
But we're alluz a-wishin' 'at we could see
Th' ghos' ccme from ahin' th' tree.
They never come—we've spells and things,
An' words tuh say, an' magic rings;
We say 'em, an' do 'em, an' talk, an' talk,
'N' if a cricket hollers under the walk,
Th' girls all squeal, an' then, yuh know,
We're afraid tuh stay, an' afraid tuh go.
I tol' ol' Mister Crooked Green,
Th' one wot walks with a stick, I mean,
About th' ghos' stories, an' he stopped at that,
An' patted me on top my hat.
He said we'd see 'em, when we're men,
An' wouldn't want 'em a-comin' then.
He talked a lot about spirits o' sin,
An' ghos'es o' things wot might o' been.
He said, a-comin' 'round every tree
Would be ghos'es o' things wot used tuh be.
I don't much believe thet he is right,
But it's a good un ??? tell th' boys tuh-night.
