“Good-by, captain,” said Billy, leering, and lengthening his face to a supernatural degree. “I hope you won't meet any ghosts on your way.”
“Good-by, Billy,” replied Captain R——, a little nettled at this joke. “I hope you will not get into the state prison for playing the ghost.”
“I'll take care of that, sir; I've been in the state prison already, and you won't catch me there again, I warrant you.”
“What do you mean, Billy?”
“I mean, that there is little or no odds between a state ship and a state prison,” said Billy, with a face longer than ever, and a most expressive shrug.
Captain R—— proceeded on his way, reflecting on the singular story of Billy Morgan, whose pranks on board the frigate had convinced some hundreds of men of the existence of ghosts, and thrown the gloom of superstitious horror over the remainder of their existence. “Not a sailor,” thought he, “out of more than five hundred, with the exception of a single one, but will go to his grave in the full belief of the appearance of Billy Morgan's ghost. What an unlucky rencounter this of mine; it has spoiled one of the best-authenticated ghost stories of the age.”
THE
NYMPH OF THE MOUNTAIN.
In a certain corner of the Bay State there once stood, and we hope will continue to nourish long and happily, a snug town, now promoted to be a city, the name of which is not material to our purpose. Here in a great shingle palace, which would have been a very comfortable edifice had it only been finished, lived a reputable widow, well to do in the world, and the happy mother of a promising lad, a wonderful clever boy, as might be expected. In fact, Shearjashub (that was his name) was no bad specimen of the country lad. He was hardy, abstemious, independent, and _cute_ withal; and before he was a man grown, made a great bargain once out of a travelling merchant, a Scotchman, who chanced that way. Besides this, he was a mechanical genius; and, though far from being lazy, delighted in the invention of labour-saving machines, some of which were odd enough. He peeled all his mother's pumpkins by water, and spun her flax with a windmill. Nay, it was reported of him, that he once invented a machine for digging graves upon speculation, by which he calculated he should certainly have made his fortune, had not the people of the village all with one accord taken it into their heads to live for ever. The name of the family was Yankee, they having been the first that had intercourse with the Indians, who called them Yankee, because they could not say English.
The Widow Yankee was a right pious, meeting-going woman, who held it to be a great want of faith not to believe in everything; especially everything out of the way and impossible. She was a great amateur of demonology and witchcraft. Moreover, she was gifted with a reasonable share of curiosity, though it is recorded that once she came very near missing to get at the bottom of a secret. The story ran as follows:—
One day, as she was sitting at her window, which had a happy aspect for overlooking the affairs of the village, she saw a mysterious-looking man, with a stick in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, walking exactly three feet behind a white cow. The same thing happened precisely at the same hour in the same manner the next day, and so continued for some time. The first week the widow began to think it rather odd; the second she began to think it quite strange; the third it became altogether mysterious; and the fourth the poor woman took to her bed, of the disease of the man and the cow.