no time for to cogitate, it ain't no time
do nuffin' but tell de truth, an' de whole truth, an' nuffin but de
truth."

An' all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an' dey canfabulate out loud
erbout it, an' de noise soun like de rain-doves goin', "Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!"
an' de owls goin', "Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!" an' de wind goin',
"You-_you_-o-o-o!" So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an' no
mistake.

So de king ob de ghosts, whut name old Skull-an'-Bones, he place he hand
on de head ob li'l black Mose, an' he hand feel like a wet rag, an' he
say:

"Dey ain't no ghosts."

An' one ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black Mose turn white.

An' de monstrous big ha'nt whut he name Bloody Bones he lay he hand on
de head ob li'l black Mose, and he hand feel like a toadstool in de cool
ob de day, an' he say:

"Dey ain't no ghosts."

An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black Mose turn white.

An' a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa'm place he hand on de head ob
li'l black Mose, an' he hand feel like ye yunner side ob a lizard, an'
he say:

"Dey ain't no ghosts."

An' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l black Mose turn white
_as_ snow.

An' a perticklar bent-up hobgoblin he put hand on de head ob li'l black
Mose, an' he mek dat same _re_mark, and dat whole convintion ob ghostes
an' spicters an' ha'nts an' yever-thing, which am more 'n a millium,
pass by so quick dey-all's hands feel lak de wind whut blow outen de
cellar whin de day am hot, an' dey-all say, "Dey ain't no ghosts." Yas,
sah, dey-all say dem wo'ds so fas' it soun like de wind whin it moan
frough de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An' yevery hair
whut on li'l black Mose's head turn white. Dat whut happen whin a li'l
black boy gwine meet a ghost convintion dat a-way. Dat's so he ain't
gwine fergit to remimber dey ain't no ghosts. 'Ca'se ef a li'l black boy
gwine imaginate dey _is_ ghostes, he gwine be skeered in de dark. An'
dat a foolish thing for to imaginate.

So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de fog outen de holler
whin de wind blow' on it, an' li'l black Mose he ain' see 'ca'se for to
remain in dat locality no longer. He rotch down, an' he raise up de
pumpkin, an' he perambulate right quick to he ma's shack, an' he lift up
de latch, an' he open de do', an' he yenter in. An' he say:

"Yere's de pumpkin."

An' he ma an' he pa, an' Sally Ann, whut live up de road, an' Mistah
Sally Ann, whut her husban', an' Z