“Come on, chillun, I ain’ gwine stay hyah an’ let dat ole chicken conjur me.”
“I don’t want to go, Mammy, I want to stay and feed the chickens,” protested Willis.
“I want to see him eat off the barrel some more,” pleaded Mary Van.
“Dat rooster ain’t no chicken, I tell yer, ’tain’ nuthin’ in dis worl’ but er hant.”
This closed the argument, for they felt the mysterious influence of “hants” that was upon Phyllis, hence they followed like the meekest of lambs until she stopped at her own room in the yard. After stirring some embers to a flickering sort of blaze, she looked insinuatingly about her and broke into an excited whisper: “Whinsomev’r yer sees enything right shiny black, widout er single white speck on hit nowhar, you kin jes put hit down in yo’ mine, dats er hant! ’Tain’ no use ter argufy erbout it; dem’s de creeturs dat speerets rides whin dey comes back ter dis worl’. An’ ’twas one er dem same black, biggity Langshans dat ole man Gully’s hant come back inter.” Phyllis had taken her seat by this time, and the children had scrambled into her lap. “Sakes erlive! You all mos’ claw me ter death. How yer ’speck erbody ter be hol’in’ two growd up fokes like youall is?” But the children continued to climb, one on each knee. Phyllis put out her foot and dragged a chair in front of her. “Hyah stretch yer foots out on de cheer, an’ mebby ef yer sets still, I kin make out ter hole yer.”
“Mammy, where do hants stay?” asked Willis.
“Hants is ev’r whars,” she looked about her; “dis hyah room right full uv ’em now.”
Mary Van’s head was immediately buried on the old woman’s shoulder, while Willis’s arms locked tightly around her neck.
“Yas,” she continued, in low mysterious tones, “dis whole wurl’s pack’d full uv ’em, but ’tain’ no use ter git skeer’d, long es dey ain’ got no bisnes’ wid you. De time ter git skeer’d is whin you sees ’em!” (A scream from Mary Van answered by a tremor from Willis.) “Some fokes doan git skeer’d den, kaze dey knows ’tain’ no use ter git skeer’d er good speerets—hit’s jes dese bad hants dat does de damage.”
“Tell us about a good, good spirit, Mammy,” came in muffled tones from Mary Van.