{414}
A do’ant know as a unnerstan’ what tha me’an by “ghostis”. Ef tha spe’aks o’ bogles, na’ow, or corps or such? Ooh—! De’ad fo’ak as wa’alk’s? A’ve heerd un ca’alled Bogles an’ Fetches, an’ a’ve heerd on he’aps, but a can’t sa’ay as a seed ony masel’. Theer’s a red wummin {415} as wa’alks i’ th’ spinney nigh wheer a dool, an’ theer wor a lad wi’ ne’er a he’ad on un ’at ma mother seed, whan a wor a maid. An o’ Yule, ther’s a loight as is car’t aba’out th’ ta’own, on’y none can’t see th’ han’ as car’s it; an’ ef ’t stops at a doorsil’, summun ’ll die i’ that ha’ouse afore th’ year’s a’out.
Theer’s lots o’ ta’ales ’ba’out bogles o’ that sort, but th’ aren’t purty, th’ aren’t creepy, loike th’ Moon ta’ale ’s a towd tha on. A likes th’ creepy wans, do’ant thou? An’ a can’t sort o’ min’ they so’t; they’s nobbut wimmen an’ loights an’ things, an’ no sense in ’em. But theer, a’d rawther not meet wi’ ’m fur ahl that! A guess they be fearsome to see, ef ther nobbut silly to yarken to.
Ay, a mind wan ta’ale ’ba’out a de’ad man, but t’aint much; but ef thou loike—
It’s mebbe on’y a ta’ale, fur a guess fo’ak do’an’t know ’s what ’ll coom to ’s when we’r’ de’ad; leastwise, ’cep’ what th’ pa’asson says, an’ that’s mebbe true!
Annywa’ays, tha towd ma as theer wor a lad—gran’ther ca’alled un Sam’l—as wor brunt to de’ath, an’ all gan’ to ashes, an’ mebbe cinders. But mebbe ’n while, a got oop—th’ inside o’ un, a me’an (thou unnerstan’?) an’ gin ’sel’ a sha’ake, an’ thowt what a mun do nex’, fur nat’rally a worn’t used to things, an’ a wor kin’ o’ stra’ange loike. An’ ’twould be so’t o’ quare, a reckon—lots o’ bogles an’ things all ’ba’out un. Mebbe a wor a bit fe’ared-loike to fust. Wall, by-’n’-by, suthin’ said to ’n:
“Thou mun goo in th’ yarth-pla’ace, an’ tell th’ Big Wo’m ’s thou’s de’ad, ’n’ axe un fur to hev tha ate oop, or thou’ll niver rest i’ tha mools.”
“Mun a?” says th’ lad. “Wal’, a’m willin’.”
So a gan’ on, axin’ ’s wa’ay, an’ rubbin’ showthers wi’ ahl th’ horrid things ’s glowered roun’ ’ba’out ’im.
An’ by-’n’-by a coom to a gra’at pla’ace wheer ’t wor da’ark, wi’ glimmerin’ loights crossin’ ’t, an’ full o’ a yarthy smell loike th’ mools o’ spring, an’ whiffs o’ a ahful stink, as ’d to’n un sick ’n’ feared; an’ unnerfoot wor creepin’ {416} things, an ’ara’ound wor crawlin’ flutterin’ things, an’ th’ air wor hot an’ moocky; an’ at th’ en’ o’ th’ pla’ace wor a horrid gra’at wo’m, co’led oop ’n a flat sto’on, wi’ ’s slimy he’ad movin’ and swingin’ f’um side to side ’s if a wor smellin’ fur’s dinner.
A reckon Sam’l wor main feared when a heer’d ’s ne’am ca’alled, an’ th’ wo’m shot a’out ’s horrid he’ad reet in ’s fa’ace.
“Thou, Sam’l? So thou’re de’ad an’ buried, an’ food fur th’ wo’ms, be tha? Wal’, wheer’s tha body?”
“Ple’ase, yer wushup”—Sam’l didn’t want fur t’ anger ’n, natrally—“A’m ahl here.”
“No’a,” said th’ wo’m, “does thou think as we can ate thou? Th’ art de’ad, ma lad; mun fot tha corp, ef tha wants to rest i’ th’ mools.”
“But wheer is ’t? Ma corp?” said Sam’l, scratch’n’ ’s head.
“Wheer is ’t buried?” said th’ wo’m.
“’Tain’t buried; that’s jist it!” said Sam’l. “T’is ashes; a wor brunt oop.”
“Hi!” said th’ wo’m, “that’s bad; thou’ll ta’aste no’on so good. Niver fret; go fot th’ ashes, an’ bring ’m here, an’ wer’ll do ahl wer can.”
Wal’, Sam’l want back, an’ a looked an’ looked, an’ by-’n’-by a got ahl th’ ashes together ’s a cu’d see, an’ tuk ’m off in a sack to th’ gra’at wo’m.
An’ a opened th’ sack, an’ th’ wo’m cra’alled da’oun an’ smelt ’m an’ to’ned ’m over ’n’ over.
“Sam’l,” says he, by-’n’-by, “suthin’s missin’,” says he. “Thou’st no’on ahl here. Sam’l, wheer’s th’ rest on tha? Thou’ll hev to seek it.”
“A’ve brung all a cu’d fin’,” said Sam’l, shakin’ ’s head.
“Nay!” said the wo’m, “theer’s an arm missin’.”
“Ooh! thats so!” said Sam’l, noddin’. “A’d los’ ’n arm, a had: cut off, ’t wor.”
“Thou mun fot it, Sam’l.”
“Wal’, a’ve no’on idee wheer th’ doctor put her, but a’ll gan’ see.”
{417} So off a want age’an, an’ looked here an looked theer, an’ by-’n’-by a got it.
Back a want to th’ wo’m.
“Here’s th’ arm,” says he.
An’ the wo’m to’ned it o’er.
“No’a, theer’s summat still, Sam’l,” says a. “Had thou los’ annythin’ else?”
“Lemme see,” says Sam’l, thinkin’; “a’d los’ a nail, an’ ’t niver grow’d age’an.”
“That’s ’t, a reckon,” says the wo’m. “Thou’s got to fot it, Sam’l.”
“A reckon a’ll niver fun’ that, then, me’aster,” says Sam’l, “but a’m willin’ to try.”
An’ off a want.
But a nail’s an aisy matter to loss, seest tha, an’ a ha’ard thing to fin’, an’ thoff a so’t an’ a so’t, a cu’d’nt fin’ nuthin’, so to las’ a want back to th’ wo’m.
“A’ve so’t an’ a’ve so’t, an’ a’ve fun’ nowt,” says he. “Thou mun tak’ ma wi’out ma nail—its no gra’at loss, a’m thinkin’. Can’t ’ee mak’ shift wi’out it?”
“No’a!” said th’ wo’m, “a can’t; an’ ef thou can’t fin’ it—are thou sartain-sure thou can’t, Sam’l?”
“Sartain, wuss luck!”
“Thou’ll mun wa’alk th’ yarth while thou do fin’ it, then!”
“But ef a can’t niver?”
“Then thou’ll mun wa’alk ahl th’ toime! A’m main sorry fur tha, Sam’l, but thou’ll hev lots o’ compiny!”
An’ ahl th’ crepin’ things an’ th’ crawlin’ things tuk ’n’ to’ned Sam’l a’out; ’n’ iver sence, ef a’s not fun’ ’s nail, a’s wa’alkin’ ’ba’out seekin’ fur ’t.
That’s ahl; gran’ther tell ’t ma wan da’ay ’s a wor axin’ wheer ahl th’ bogles coom f’um. ’T’s not much on a ta’ale, but a can’t min’ anuther to na’ow, and it’s so’t o’ funny, ain’t it?
{418}
What’s ghost?—bogles?—corps?—“Oh, dead folk walks.” Call them bogles and fetches—heard of lots—seen none—Red woman in spinney at home. Lad—headless—seen by mother when maid. Light at Yule—invisible hand—if stop at door, someone dies. Not pretty or creepy—prefer creepy tales, like “Moon”. No sense in these. Don’t want meet bogles—fearsome to see—stupid to tell of. One tale of dead man—mebbe not true—don’t know what’ll come when dead. Lad called Sam’l—burnt—gets up—shakes self. Not used—feels queer—bogles round him. Something says, “Go to great worm—tell you’re dead—ask to be eaten—then you’ll rest in grave.” “I’ll go.” Asks way—comes to place—dark—flickering lights—smell of earth—bad smells—creeping and crawling things—great worm on flat stone—slimy—waving head—Sam’l’s name called. “Want to be eaten.” “Where’s body?” “Here.” “No—corpse—fetch it.” Sam’l says, “Burnt.” “Taste bad—fetch ashes.” Sam’l gets them—in sack—worm smells them. “Not all here—arm missing.” “Lost arm—cut off.” “Must fetch it.” “Don’t know where doctor put it.” Sought and sought—got it—took it worm—worm looks at it. “Not all here yet. Lost anything more?” “Yes; nail.” “Must fetch it.” “I’ll never find that. Nail easy to lose, hard to find.” Seeks everywhere. “Found nothing. Can’t you do without?” “No. Sure can’t find?” “Yes.” “Then must walk till you do.” “But if never?” “Then walk all time—plenty of company.” Creeping and crawling things turn him out. If he’s not found nail, walking yet.
Grandmother told me tale—I asked where bogles come from. Can’t mind another. “So’t o’ funny.”