on de ground, an' dat was de fust step.

An' de rain-dove say, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l black Mose he tuck anudder step.

An' de owl mourn out, "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l black Mose he tuck anudder step.

An' de wind sob out, "You-_you_-o-o-o!"

An' li'l black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoulder an' he shut he
eyes so tight dey hurt round de aidges, an' he pick up he foots an' run.
Yas, sah, he run right peart fast. An' he say: "Dey ain't no ghosts. Dey
ain't no ghosts." An' he run erlong de paff whut lead by de
buryin'-ground on de hill, 'ca'se dey ain't no fince eround dat
buryin'-ground at all.

No fince; jes de big trees whut de owls an' de rain-doves sot in an'
mourn an' sob, an' whut de wind sigh an' cry frough. An' bimeby somefin'
jes _brush_ li'l Mose on de arm, which mek him run jest a bit more
faster. An' bimeby somefin' jes _brush_ li'l Mose on de cheek, which mek
him run erbout as fast as he can. An' bimeby somefin' _grab_ li'l Mose
by de aidge of he coat, an' he fight an' struggle an' cry out: "Dey
ain't no ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts." An' dat ain't nuffin' but de wild
brier whut grab him, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de leaf ob a tree whut
brush he cheek, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de branch ob a hazel-bush whut
brush he arm. But he downright scared jes de same, an' he ain't lost no
time, 'ca'se de wind an' de owls an' de rain-doves dey signerfy whut
ain't no good. So he scoot past dat buryin'-ground whut on de hill, an'
dat cemuntary whut betwixt an' between, an' dat grabeyard in de hollow,
twell he come to de pumpkin-patch, an' he rotch down an' tek erhold ob
de bestest pumpkin whut in de patch. An' he right smart scared. He jes
de mostest scared li'l black boy whut yever was. He ain't gwine open he
eyes fo' nuffin', 'ca'se de wind go, "You-_you_-o-o-o!" an' de owls go,
"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' de rain-doves go, "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!"

He jes speculate, "Dey ain't no ghosts," an' wish he hair don't stand on
ind dat way. An' he jes cogitate, "Dey ain't no ghosts," an' wish he
goose-pimples don't rise up dat way. An' he jes 'low, "Dey ain't no
ghosts," an' wish he backbone ain't all trembulous wid chills dat way.
So he rotch down, an' he rotch down, twell he git a good hold on dat
pricklesome stem of dat bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an' he jes
yank dat stem wid all he might.

"_Let loosen my head!_" say a big voice all on a suddent.

Dat li'l black boy whut he name is Mose he jump 'most out