ck and forth in his bones the old, pale terror of primitive man
in the presence of such things. Science has veneered us with
knowledge of phosphorus and the chemic action of fungi and the
effects of darkness and of light, but a half hour's tramp into the
wet woods while a northeaster blows through the darkness takes all
the gloss off that. We may go boldly on our way with undiminished
front, but something always stirs uneasily within us and looks out
at the back of the neck to see if that scattered glow has not
reassembled and followed us.

Soon the path led me up out of the swamp, the sooner perhaps for
the glowing eyes of foxfire now far behind, and I caught the
beckoning gleam of electric light through the quiver of the rain.
From the brow of cemetery hill the country below rose from velvety
blackness of complete night to a gray sky that was somehow
comforting and friendly. Through it, far down the road toward Blue
Hill, the street lamps glowed yellow through the gloom, showing
the route to the invisible hill. The wind crooned in the pines,
and the swish of sheeted rain seemed a lullaby. Here again, like
the deer-frequented hollow, was a homelike and friendly spot. Even
when I faced the street I found nothing disquieting in the sudden
gleams of reflected light on the wet headstones. These should have
been far more terrifying than any foxfire. Recent traditions of
the race make the cemetery a place of ghosts, and here within its
bounds were gnome lights that sprang into being, flared brightly
for a second, then flashed out of sight as I walked. The long row
of lights seemed to give almost every stone its turn, and the
dancing gnome lanterns flared and vanished behind and before. As I
neared the street puddles in the path caught up the flashes
fitfully till all the quiet acre of the dead seemed full of
goblins bobbing up from below with lanterns, taking a hasty look
about, then pulling the lid dawn upon themselves with an unheard
slam. It should have been disquieting, but it was not. We easily
discount the petty superstitions that tradition and the frills of
literature have made for us. That that grows out of the foxfire in
the swamp has its roots too far back in the inheritance of the
race to be discounted. The cemetery ghosts made only a friendly
illumination for the last stages of a pleasant trip.

CHAPTER XVI

JOTHAM STORIES

Almost daily in our hottest season the east wind brings coolness
and refres