“Mammy, less go over to Mary Van’s and get m’ Jack-my-Lantern,” coaxed Willis, as Phyllis directed the way toward the nursery.
“Nor, yer doan need hit tell dark. Jack-my-Lanterns doan come out ’cep’in’ at night. Leastways fokes doan see em.”
“Jack-my-Lanterns ain’t anything but big old pumpkins, are they, Mammy Phyllis?” Mary Van asked to reassure herself.
“Dat dey is,” the old nurse’s expression grew fearful and cunning. “Dey’s de wuss sorter hants—dat’s whut dey is.”
This ended the contention of going to Mary Van’s.
“You memb’rs,” she began after an ominous silence, “ole man Gully’s hant, doan yer?”
“Old Langshan rooster, Mammy?” Willis whispered.
“Dat’s de ve’y hant—yas suh—ole lady Gully ain’t skeercely in her grave ’fo’ dat rooster hant start ter gwine down in de cellar—an’ peckin’ ’roun’ like he huntin’ fur sumthin’.
“Abe tell de boys he seen de ole man take er bag er gole down dar onct, an’ he ’speck old Langshan know whar he berry hit—but howsumev’r dat is—one thing wus sho’—dat rooster peck in one cornder er dat celler, tell dem boys pis’n him.”
The children moved closer to Phyllis. “Mammy, did he come back in another rooster?”