“The guizards,” said Miss Ailie, looking down upon her in the lobby light with a smile she could not see. “Did you never hear of the guizards, Bud?”
Bud had never heard of the guizards; that was one thing, surely, her father had forgotten. She had heard of Hallowe'en, she said, when further questioned. Wasn't it the night for ducking into tubs for apples? The Pilgrim widow had told her Hallowe'en was coming, and it was for Hallowe'en she had sold so many nuts and apples; but the widow said she felt ashamed to do it, for Hallowe'en was not approved of by the Mission, being idolatrous and gay. “Is it very gay?” asked Bud, anxiously.
“So I used to think it,” said her aunt.
“Then I s'pose it must be wicked,” said the child, regretfully. “I'd have expected you'd have Hallowe'en right here in the house if it hadn't been very bad. That widow did me a lot of good, showing me what a heap of happy things are full of sin. She knew them all! I s'pose she got them in the tracts. Yes, she did me a lot of good; I—I almost wish I hadn't met that widow.”
“Do you feel wicked when you're gay?” asked Miss Ailie.
“Mercy on us! not a mite!” said Bud. “I feel plumb full of goodness when I'm gay; but that's my youth and innocence. The widow says it is, and I guess what she says goes.”
“Still, do you know, my dear, I'd risk a little gayety now and then,” said Auntie Ailie. “Who knows? The widow, though a worthy lady, is what in Scotland we call an old wife, and it's generally admitted that old wives of either sex have no monopoly of wisdom. If you're wanting pious guidance, Bud, I don't know where you'll get it better than from Auntie Bell; and she fairly dotes on Hallowe'en and the guizards. By-and-by you'll see the guizards, and—and—well, just wait and we'll find what else is to be seen. I do wish your uncle Dan would hurry.”
The street was quite deserted, but did not show its vacancy until the clouds for a moment drifted off the moon that rolled behind the steeple. Then the long, gray stretch of tenements came out unreal and pale on the other side of the street, their eaves and chimneys throwing inky shadows, their red-lit windows growing of a sudden wan. Over them hung the ponderous kirk, the master shadow, and all—the white-harled walls, the orange windows, the glittering cold, and empty street—seemed like the vision of a dream. Then the clouds wrapped up the moon again, and the black was the black of Erebus. But as it fell, the dull drums seemed to come nearer, and from the head of the street, the windy corner where Uncle Dan had his office, small moons came, purple and golden, fantastically carved. They ran from house to house, and grouped in galaxies, or singly fell apart, swinging and giddy orbs. For a moment Bud looked at them bewildered, then gave a happy scream.
“The lanterns! the lanterns! Look at the lanterns, Auntie. Is that Hallowe'en?”
“That's part of it, at least,” said her aunt; “these are the guizards, with their turnip lanterns; they're going round the houses singing; by-and-by we'll hear them.”