You know they's an awful wicked man buried down
there in the woods, an' the sperrits of them he's inju'ed ha'nts the
thicket every night. There isn't anybody, that I know of, that 'ud go
down there aftah dark for anything on this livin' yearth."
"Then who sees 'em?" asked John Jay, with a skeptical grin.
"Who sees 'em?" repeated Mammy wrathfully, angry because of the doubt
implied by his question and his face. "Who sees 'em? They've been seen
by generations of them as is dead and gone. Who is you, I'd like to
know, standin' up there a-mockin' at me so impident and a-askin' 'Who
sees 'em?'"
She turned to begin her dish washing, with a scornful air that seemed to
say that he was beneath any further notice. Still, no sooner had she
piled the dishes up in the pan than she turned to him again, with her
hands on her hips.
"Go down and ask Uncle Mose," she said, still indignant. "He can tell
you tales that'll send cole chills up an' down yo' spine. He saw an
awful thing in there once with his own eyes. 'Twan't a gandah, but
somethin' long an slim flyin' low in the bushes--he reckoned it was
twenty feet long.
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