of the wind in the pines far off in
the hollow, then as it moves toward the burying ground it changes to
that of low moaning voices.

You feel Molly's arm trembling against your own.

"Listen!" she whispers fearfully, all her courage gone. "It's Devil Anse
and his boys. Look yonder!"--she tugs at your sleeve--"See for yourself
they're going down to the waters of baptism!"

Following the direction of the woman's quick trembling hand you strain
forward.

At first there seems to be a low mist rolling over the burying ground
and then suddenly, to your amazement, the mist or cloud dissolves itself
into shafts or pillars of the height of the white figure of Devil Anse
above the grave. They form in line and now one figure, the taller, moves
ahead of all the rest. Six there were following the leader. You see
distinctly as they move slowly through the crumbling tombstones, down
the mountain side toward the creek.

"Devil Anse and his boys," repeats the trembling Molly, "going down into
the waters of baptism. They ever do of a foggy night in the falling
weather. And look yonder! There's the ghost too of Uncle Dyke Garrett
a-waiting at the water's edge. He's got the Good Book opened wide in his
hand."

Whether it is the giant trunk of a tree with perhaps a leafless branch
extended, who can say? Or is nature playing a prank with your vision?
But, surely, in the eerie moonlight there seems to appear the figure of
a man with arm extended, book in hand, waiting to receive the seven
phantom penitents moving slowly toward the water's edge.

After that you don't lose much time in being on your way. And if anyone
should ask you what of interest is to be seen along Main Island Creek,
if you are prudent you'll answer, "The marble statue of Capt. Anderson
Hatfield." And if you knew him in life you'll add, "And a fine likeness
it is too."

THE WINKING CORPSE

On the night of June 22, 1887, the bodies of four dead men lay wrapped
in sheets on cooling boards in the musty sitting room of an old boarding
house in Morehead, Rowan County, Kentucky. Only the bullet-shattered
faces, besmeared with blood, were exposed. Their coffins had not yet
arrived from the Blue Grass. No friend or kinsman watched beside the
bier that sultry summer night; they had prudently kept to their homes,
for excitement ran high over the battle that had been fought that day in
front of the old hostelry which marked, with the death of t