"You have never heard of one, self-taught, with a real love of music in this country?"
"Never: such do not exist among us."
The parish churchwarden was walking along the road on his way to his farmhouse, and the road passed under the churchyard wall.
As he walked along the way—with a not too steady step, for he was returning from the public-house—he was surprised and frightened to hear music proceed from among the graves.
It was too dark for him to see any figure then, only the tombstones loomed on him in ghostly shapes. He began to quake, and finally turned and ran, nor did he slacken his pace till he reached the tavern, where he burst in shouting: "There's ghosts abroad. I've heard 'em in the churchyard making music."
The revellers rose from their cups.
"Shall we go and hear?" they asked.
"I'll go for one," said a man; "if others will go with me."
"Ay," said a third, "and if the ghosts be playing a jolly good tune, we'll chip in."