1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
|
<!DOCTYPE html
PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" />
<title>Present at a Hanging, by Ambose Bierce</title>
<style type="text/css">
/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */
<!--
P { margin-top: .75em;
margin-bottom: .75em;
}
P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;}
P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; }
.GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; }
H1, H2 {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 2em;
margin-bottom: 2em;
}
H3, H4, H5 {
text-align: center;
margin-top: 1em;
margin-bottom: 1em;
}
BODY{margin-left: 10%;
margin-right: 10%;
}
table { border-collapse: collapse; }
table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;}
td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;}
td p { margin: 0.2em; }
.blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */
.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;}
.pagenum {position: absolute;
left: 92%;
font-size: small;
text-align: right;
font-weight: normal;
color: gray;
}
img { border: none; }
img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; }
p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; }
div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; }
div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;}
div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%;
border-top: 1px solid; }
div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%;
border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;}
div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%;
margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid;
border-bottom: 1px solid; }
div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%;
margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid;
border-bottom: 1px solid;}
div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%;
border-top: 1px solid; }
.citation {vertical-align: super;
font-size: .5em;
text-decoration: none;}
span.red { color: red; }
body {background-color: #ffffc0; }
img.floatleft { float: left;
margin-right: 1em;
margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
img.floatright { float: right;
margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em;
margin-bottom: 0.5em; }
img.clearcenter {display: block;
margin-left: auto;
margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em;
margin-bottom: 0.5em}
-->
/* XML end ]]>*/
</style>
</head>
<body>
<pre>
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Present at a Hanging, by Ambose Bierce
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
Title: Present at a Hanging
and Other Ghost Stories
Author: Ambose Bierce
Release Date: August 5, 2019 [eBook #4387]
[This file was first posted on January 20, 2002]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESENT AT A HANGING***
</pre>
<p>Transcribed from the 1918 Boni and Liveright’s
“Can Such Things Be?” edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<a href="images/cover.jpg">
<img alt=
"Public domain cover"
title=
"Public domain cover"
src="images/cover.jpg" />
</a></p>
<h1>PRESENT AT A HANGING AND OTHER GHOST STORIES</h1>
<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">By</span><br
/>
Ambrose Bierce</p>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<table>
<tr>
<td colspan="2"><p>THE WAYS OF GHOSTS</p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span
class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Present at a Hanging</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page327">327</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">A Cold Greeting</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page331">331</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">A Wireless Message</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page335">335</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">An Arrest</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page340">340</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="3"><p>SOLDIER-FOLK</p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">A Man with Two Lives</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page345">345</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Three and One are One</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page350">350</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">A Baffled Ambuscade</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page356">356</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Two Military Executions</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page361">361</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td colspan="2"><p>SOME HAUNTED HOUSES</p>
</td>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">The Isle of Pines</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page369">369</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">A Fruitless Assignment</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page377">377</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">A Vine on a House</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page383">383</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">At Old Man Eckert’s</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page389">389</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">The Spook House</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page393">393</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">The Other Lodgers</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page400">400</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">The Thing at Nolan</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page405">405</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">The Difficulty of Crossing a
Field</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page415">415</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">An Unfinished Race</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page419">419</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><p> </p>
</td>
<td><p><span class="smcap">Charles Ashmore’s
Trail</span></p>
</td>
<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a
href="#page421">421</a></span></p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<h2><a name="page324"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 324</span>THE
WAYS OF GHOSTS</h2>
<p><a name="page325"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 325</span><i>My
peculiar relation to the writer of the following narratives is
such that I must ask the reader to overlook the absence of
explanation as to how they came into my possession</i>.
<i>Withal</i>, <i>my knowledge of him is so meager that I should
rather not undertake to say if he were himself persuaded of the
truth of what he relates</i>; <i>certainly such inquiries as I
have thought it worth while to set about have not in every
instance tended to confirmation of the statements made</i>.
<i>Yet his style</i>, <i>for the most part devoid alike of
artifice and art</i>, <i>almost baldly simple and direct</i>,
<i>seems hardly compatible with the disingenuousness of a merely
literary intention</i>; <i>one would call it the manner of one
more concerned for the fruits of research than for the flowers of
expression</i>. <i>In transcribing his notes and fortifying
their claim to attention by giving them something of an orderly
arrangement</i>, <i>I have conscientiously refrained from
embellishing them with such small ornaments of diction as I may
have felt myself able to bestow</i>, <i>which would not only have
been impertinent</i>, <i>even if pleasing</i>, <i>but would have
given me a somewhat closer relation to the work than I should
care to have and to avow</i>.—<i>A. B.</i></p>
<h3><a name="page327"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
327</span>PRESENT AT A HANGING</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">An</span> old man named Daniel Baker,
living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected by his neighbors of
having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission to pass the
night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling was
more common in the Western country than it is now, and was
attended with considerable danger. The peddler with his
pack traversed the country by all manner of lonely roads, and was
compelled to rely upon the country people for hospitality.
This brought him into relation with queer characters, some of
whom were not altogether scrupulous in their methods of making a
living, murder being an acceptable means to that end. It
occasionally occurred that a peddler with diminished pack and
swollen purse would be traced to the lonely dwelling of some
rough character and never could be traced beyond. This was
so in the case of “old man Baker,” as he was always
called. (Such names are given in the western
“settlements” only to elderly persons who are not
esteemed; to the general disrepute of social unworth is affixed
the special reproach of age.) A peddler came to his house
and none went away—that is all that anybody knew.</p>
<p>Seven years later the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister
well known in that part of the country, was driving by
Baker’s farm one night. It was not very dark: there
was a bit of moon somewhere above the light veil of mist that lay
along the earth. Mr. Cummings, who was at all times a
cheerful person, was whistling a tune, which he would
occasionally interrupt to speak a word of friendly encouragement
to his horse. As he came to a little bridge across a dry
ravine he saw the figure of a man standing upon it, clearly
outlined against the gray background of a misty forest. The
man had something strapped on his back and carried a heavy
stick—obviously an itinerant peddler. His attitude
had in it a suggestion of abstraction, like that of a
sleepwalker. Mr. Cummings reined in his horse when he
arrived in front of him, gave him a pleasant salutation and
invited him to a seat in the vehicle—“if you are
going my way,” he added. The man raised his head,
looked him full in the face, but neither answered nor made any
further movement. The minister, with good-natured
persistence, repeated his invitation. At this the man threw
his right hand forward from his side and pointed downward as he
stood on the extreme edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings
looked past him, over into the ravine, saw nothing unusual and
withdrew his eyes to address the man again. He had
disappeared. The horse, which all this time had been
uncommonly restless, gave at the same moment a snort of terror
and started to run away. Before he had regained control of
the animal the minister was at the crest of the hill a hundred
yards along. He looked back and saw the figure again, at
the same place and in the same attitude as when he had first
observed it. Then for the first time he was conscious of a
sense of the supernatural and drove home as rapidly as his
willing horse would go.</p>
<p>On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family,
and early the next morning, accompanied by two neighbors, John
White Corwell and Abner Raiser, returned to the spot. They
found the body of old man Baker hanging by the neck from one of
the beams of the bridge, immediately beneath the spot where the
apparition had stood. A thick coating of dust, slightly
dampened by the mist, covered the floor of the bridge, but the
only footprints were those of Mr. Cummings’ horse.</p>
<p>In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose, friable
earth of the slope below it, disclosing human bones already
nearly uncovered by the action of water and frost. They
were identified as those of the lost peddler. At the double
inquest the coroner’s jury found that Daniel Baker died by
his own hand while suffering from temporary insanity, and that
Samuel Morritz was murdered by some person or persons to the jury
unknown.</p>
<h3><a name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 331</span>A
COLD GREETING</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">This</span> is a story told by the late
Benson Foley of San Francisco:</p>
<p>“In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H.
Conway, a resident of Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting
San Francisco for his health, deluded man, and brought me a note
of introduction from Mr. Lawrence Barting. I had known
Barting as a captain in the Federal army during the civil
war. At its close he had settled in Franklin, and in time
became, I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a
lawyer. Barting had always seemed to me an honorable and
truthful man, and the warm friendship which he expressed in his
note for Mr. Conway was to me sufficient evidence that the latter
was in every way worthy of my confidence and esteem. At
dinner one day Conway told me that it had been solemnly agreed
between him and Barting that the one who died first should, if
possible, communicate with the other from beyond the grave, in
some unmistakable way—just how, they had left (wisely, it
seemed to me) to be decided by the deceased, according to the
opportunities that his altered circumstances might present.</p>
<p>“A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway
spoke of this agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down
Montgomery street, apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep
thought. He greeted me coldly with merely a movement of the
head and passed on, leaving me standing on the walk, with
half-proffered hand, surprised and naturally somewhat
piqued. The next day I met him again in the office of the
Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the disagreeable
performance of the day before, intercepted him in a doorway, with
a friendly salutation, and bluntly requested an explanation of
his altered manner. He hesitated a moment; then, looking me
frankly in the eyes, said:</p>
<p>“‘I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any
longer a claim to your friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to
have withdrawn his own from me—for what reason, I protest I
do not know. If he has not already informed you he probably
will do so.’</p>
<p>“‘But,’ I replied, ‘I have not heard
from Mr. Barting.’</p>
<p>“‘Heard from him!’ he repeated, with
apparent surprise. ‘Why, he is here. I met him
yesterday ten minutes before meeting you. I gave you
exactly the same greeting that he gave me. I met him again
not a quarter of an hour ago, and his manner was precisely the
same: he merely bowed and passed on. I shall not soon
forget your civility to me. Good morning, or—as it
may please you—farewell.’</p>
<p>“All this seemed to me singularly considerate and
delicate behavior on the part of Mr. Conway.</p>
<p>“As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign
to my purpose I will explain at once that Mr. Barting was
dead. He had died in Nashville four days before this
conversation. Calling on Mr. Conway, I apprised him of our
friend’s death, showing him the letters announcing
it. He was visibly affected in a way that forbade me to
entertain a doubt of his sincerity.</p>
<p>“‘It seems incredible,’ he said, after a
period of reflection. ‘I suppose I must have mistaken
another man for Barting, and that man’s cold greeting was
merely a stranger’s civil acknowledgment of my own. I
remember, indeed, that he lacked Barting’s
mustache.’</p>
<p>“‘Doubtless it was another man,’ I assented;
and the subject was never afterward mentioned between us.
But I had in my pocket a photograph of Barting, which had been
inclosed in the letter from his widow. It had been taken a
week before his death, and was without a mustache.”</p>
<h3><a name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>A
WIRELESS MESSAGE</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the summer of 1896 Mr. William
Holt, a wealthy manufacturer of Chicago, was living temporarily
in a little town of central New York, the name of which the
writer’s memory has not retained. Mr. Holt had had
“trouble with his wife,” from whom he had parted a
year before. Whether the trouble was anything more serious
than “incompatibility of temper,” he is probably the
only living person that knows: he is not addicted to the vice of
confidences. Yet he has related the incident herein set
down to at least one person without exacting a pledge of
secrecy. He is now living in Europe.</p>
<p>One evening he had left the house of a brother whom he was
visiting, for a stroll in the country. It may be
assumed—whatever the value of the assumption in connection
with what is said to have occurred—that his mind was
occupied with reflections on his domestic infelicities and the
distressing changes that they had wrought in his life.</p>
<p>Whatever may have been his thoughts, they so possessed him
that he observed neither the lapse of time nor whither his feet
were carrying him; he knew only that he had passed far beyond the
town limits and was traversing a lonely region by a road that
bore no resemblance to the one by which he had left the
village. In brief, he was “lost.”</p>
<p>Realizing his mischance, he smiled; central New York is not a
region of perils, nor does one long remain lost in it. He
turned about and went back the way that he had come. Before
he had gone far he observed that the landscape was growing more
distinct—was brightening. Everything was suffused
with a soft, red glow in which he saw his shadow projected in the
road before him. “The moon is rising,” he said
to himself. Then he remembered that it was about the time
of the new moon, and if that tricksy orb was in one of its stages
of visibility it had set long before. He stopped and faced
about, seeking the source of the rapidly broadening light.
As he did so, his shadow turned and lay along the road in front
of him as before. The light still came from behind
him. That was surprising; he could not understand.
Again he turned, and again, facing successively to every point of
the horizon. Always the shadow was before—always the
light behind, “a still and awful red.”</p>
<p>Holt was astonished—“dumfounded” is the word
that he used in telling it—yet seems to have retained a
certain intelligent curiosity. To test the intensity of the
light whose nature and cause he could not determine, he took out
his watch to see if he could make out the figures on the
dial. They were plainly visible, and the hands indicated
the hour of eleven o’clock and twenty-five minutes.
At that moment the mysterious illumination suddenly flared to an
intense, an almost blinding splendor, flushing the entire sky,
extinguishing the stars and throwing the monstrous shadow of
himself athwart the landscape. In that unearthly
illumination he saw near him, but apparently in the air at a
considerable elevation, the figure of his wife, clad in her
night-clothing and holding to her breast the figure of his
child. Her eyes were fixed upon his with an expression
which he afterward professed himself unable to name or describe,
further than that it was “not of this life.”</p>
<p>The flare was momentary, followed by black darkness, in which,
however, the apparition still showed white and motionless; then
by insensible degrees it faded and vanished, like a bright image
on the retina after the closing of the eyes. A peculiarity
of the apparition, hardly noted at the time, but afterward
recalled, was that it showed only the upper half of the
woman’s figure: nothing was seen below the waist.</p>
<p>The sudden darkness was comparative, not absolute, for
gradually all objects of his environment became again
visible.</p>
<p>In the dawn of the morning Holt found himself entering the
village at a point opposite to that at which he had left
it. He soon arrived at the house of his brother, who hardly
knew him. He was wild-eyed, haggard, and gray as a
rat. Almost incoherently, he related his night’s
experience.</p>
<p>“Go to bed, my poor fellow,” said his brother,
“and—wait. We shall hear more of
this.”</p>
<p>An hour later came the predestined telegram.
Holt’s dwelling in one of the suburbs of Chicago had been
destroyed by fire. Her escape cut off by the flames, his
wife had appeared at an upper window, her child in her
arms. There she had stood, motionless, apparently
dazed. Just as the firemen had arrived with a ladder, the
floor had given way, and she was seen no more.</p>
<p>The moment of this culminating horror was eleven o’clock
and twenty-five minutes, standard time.</p>
<h3><a name="page340"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 340</span>AN
ARREST</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">Having</span> murdered his brother-in-law,
Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a fugitive from justice. From
the county jail where he had been confined to await his trial he
had escaped by knocking down his jailer with an iron bar, robbing
him of his keys and, opening the outer door, walking out into the
night. The jailer being unarmed, Brower got no weapon with
which to defend his recovered liberty. As soon as he was
out of the town he had the folly to enter a forest; this was many
years ago, when that region was wilder than it is now.</p>
<p>The night was pretty dark, with neither moon nor stars
visible, and as Brower had never dwelt thereabout, and knew
nothing of the lay of the land, he was, naturally, not long in
losing himself. He could not have said if he were getting
farther away from the town or going back to it—a most
important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew that in either
case a posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would soon be
on his track and his chance of escape was very slender; but he
did not wish to assist in his own pursuit. Even an added
hour of freedom was worth having.</p>
<p>Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and
there before him saw, indistinctly, the figure of a man,
motionless in the gloom. It was too late to retreat: the
fugitive felt that at the first movement back toward the wood he
would be, as he afterward explained, “filled with
buckshot.” So the two stood there like trees, Brower
nearly suffocated by the activity of his own heart; the
other—the emotions of the other are not recorded.</p>
<p>A moment later—it may have been an hour—the moon
sailed into a patch of unclouded sky and the hunted man saw that
visible embodiment of Law lift an arm and point significantly
toward and beyond him. He understood. Turning his
back to his captor, he walked submissively away in the direction
indicated, looking to neither the right nor the left; hardly
daring to breathe, his head and back actually aching with a
prophecy of buckshot.</p>
<p>Brower was as courageous a criminal as ever lived to be
hanged; that was shown by the conditions of awful personal peril
in which he had coolly killed his brother-in-law. It is
needless to relate them here; they came out at his trial, and the
revelation of his calmness in confronting them came near to
saving his neck. But what would you have?—when a
brave man is beaten, he submits.</p>
<p>So they pursued their journey jailward along the old road
through the woods. Only once did Brower venture a turn of
the head: just once, when he was in deep shadow and he knew that
the other was in moonlight, he looked backward. His captor
was Burton Duff, the jailer, as white as death and bearing upon
his brow the livid mark of the iron bar. Orrin Brower had
no further curiosity.</p>
<p>Eventually they entered the town, which was all alight, but
deserted; only the women and children remained, and they were off
the streets. Straight toward the jail the criminal held his
way. Straight up to the main entrance he walked, laid his
hand upon the knob of the heavy iron door, pushed it open without
command, entered and found himself in the presence of a
half-dozen armed men. Then he turned. Nobody else
entered.</p>
<p>On a table in the corridor lay the dead body of Burton
Duff.</p>
<h2><a name="page343"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
343</span>SOLDIER-FOLK</h2>
<h3><a name="page345"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 345</span>A
MAN WITH TWO LIVES</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">Here</span> is the queer story of David
William Duck, related by himself. Duck is an old man living
in Aurora, Illinois, where he is universally respected. He
is commonly known, however, as “Dead Duck.”</p>
<p>“In the autumn of 1866 I was a private soldier of the
Eighteenth Infantry. My company was one of those stationed
at Fort Phil Kearney, commanded by Colonel Carrington. The
country is more or less familiar with the history of that
garrison, particularly with the slaughter by the Sioux of a
detachment of eighty-one men and officers—not one
escaping—through disobedience of orders by its commander,
the brave but reckless Captain Fetterman. When that
occurred, I was trying to make my way with important dispatches
to Fort C. F. Smith, on the Big Horn. As the country
swarmed with hostile Indians, I traveled by night and concealed
myself as best I could before daybreak. The better to do
so, I went afoot, armed with a Henry rifle and carrying three
days’ rations in my haversack.</p>
<p>“For my second place of concealment I chose what seemed
in the darkness a narrow cañon leading through a range of
rocky hills. It contained many large bowlders, detached
from the slopes of the hills. Behind one of these, in a
clump of sage-brush, I made my bed for the day, and soon fell
asleep. It seemed as if I had hardly closed my eyes, though
in fact it was near midday, when I was awakened by the report of
a rifle, the bullet striking the bowlder just above my
body. A band of Indians had trailed me and had me nearly
surrounded; the shot had been fired with an execrable aim by a
fellow who had caught sight of me from the hillside above.
The smoke of his rifle betrayed him, and I was no sooner on my
feet than he was off his and rolling down the declivity.
Then I ran in a stooping posture, dodging among the clumps of
sage-brush in a storm of bullets from invisible enemies.
The rascals did not rise and pursue, which I thought rather
queer, for they must have known by my trail that they had to deal
with only one man. The reason for their inaction was soon
made clear. I had not gone a hundred yards before I reached
the limit of my run—the head of the gulch which I had
mistaken for a cañon. It terminated in a concave
breast of rock, nearly vertical and destitute of
vegetation. In that cul-de-sac I was caught like a bear in
a pen. Pursuit was needless; they had only to wait.</p>
<p>“They waited. For two days and nights, crouching
behind a rock topped with a growth of mesquite, and with the
cliff at my back, suffering agonies of thirst and absolutely
hopeless of deliverance, I fought the fellows at long range,
firing occasionally at the smoke of their rifles, as they did at
that of mine. Of course, I did not dare to close my eyes at
night, and lack of sleep was a keen torture.</p>
<p>“I remember the morning of the third day, which I knew
was to be my last. I remember, rather indistinctly, that in
my desperation and delirium I sprang out into the open and began
firing my repeating rifle without seeing anybody to fire
at. And I remember no more of that fight.</p>
<p>“The next thing that I recollect was my pulling myself
out of a river just at nightfall. I had not a rag of
clothing and knew nothing of my whereabouts, but all that night I
traveled, cold and footsore, toward the north. At daybreak
I found myself at Fort C. F. Smith, my destination, but without
my dispatches. The first man that I met was a sergeant
named William Briscoe, whom I knew very well. You can fancy
his astonishment at seeing me in that condition, and my own at
his asking who the devil I was.</p>
<p>“‘Dave Duck,’ I answered; ‘who should
I be?’</p>
<p>“He stared like an owl.</p>
<p>“‘You do look it,’ he said, and I observed
that he drew a little away from me. ‘What’s
up?’ he added.</p>
<p>“I told him what had happened to me the day
before. He heard me through, still staring; then he
said:</p>
<p>“‘My dear fellow, if you are Dave Duck I ought to
inform you that I buried you two months ago. I was out with
a small scouting party and found your body, full of bullet-holes
and newly scalped—somewhat mutilated otherwise, too, I am
sorry to say—right where you say you made your fight.
Come to my tent and I’ll show you your clothing and some
letters that I took from your person; the commandant has your
dispatches.’</p>
<p>“He performed that promise. He showed me the
clothing, which I resolutely put on; the letters, which I put
into my pocket. He made no objection, then took me to the
commandant, who heard my story and coldly ordered Briscoe to take
me to the guardhouse. On the way I said:</p>
<p>“‘Bill Briscoe, did you really and truly bury the
dead body that you found in these togs?’</p>
<p>“‘Sure,’ he answered—‘just as I
told you. It was Dave Duck, all right; most of us knew
him. And now, you damned impostor, you’d better tell
me who you are.’</p>
<p>“‘I’d give something to know,’ I
said.</p>
<p>“A week later, I escaped from the guardhouse and got out
of the country as fast as I could. Twice I have been back,
seeking for that fateful spot in the hills, but unable to find
it.”</p>
<h3><a name="page350"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
350</span>THREE AND ONE ARE ONE</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the year 1861 Barr Lassiter, a
young man of twenty-two, lived with his parents and an elder
sister near Carthage, Tennessee. The family were in
somewhat humble circumstances, subsisting by cultivation of a
small and not very fertile plantation. Owning no slaves,
they were not rated among “the best people” of their
neighborhood; but they were honest persons of good education,
fairly well mannered and as respectable as any family could be if
uncredentialed by personal dominion over the sons and daughters
of Ham. The elder Lassiter had that severity of manner that
so frequently affirms an uncompromising devotion to duty, and
conceals a warm and affectionate disposition. He was of the
iron of which martyrs are made, but in the heart of the matrix
had lurked a nobler metal, fusible at a milder heat, yet never
coloring nor softening the hard exterior. By both heredity
and environment something of the man’s inflexible character
had touched the other members of the family; the Lassiter home,
though not devoid of domestic affection, was a veritable citadel
of duty, and duty—ah, duty is as cruel as death!</p>
<p>When the war came on it found in the family, as in so many
others in that State, a divided sentiment; the young man was
loyal to the Union, the others savagely hostile. This
unhappy division begot an insupportable domestic bitterness, and
when the offending son and brother left home with the avowed
purpose of joining the Federal army not a hand was laid in his,
not a word of farewell was spoken, not a good wish followed him
out into the world whither he went to meet with such spirit as he
might whatever fate awaited him.</p>
<p>Making his way to Nashville, already occupied by the Army of
General Buell, he enlisted in the first organization that he
found, a Kentucky regiment of cavalry, and in due time passed
through all the stages of military evolution from raw recruit to
experienced trooper. A right good trooper he was, too,
although in his oral narrative from which this tale is made there
was no mention of that; the fact was learned from his surviving
comrades. For Barr Lassiter has answered “Here”
to the sergeant whose name is Death.</p>
<p>Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through
the region whence he had come. The country thereabout had
suffered severely from the ravages of war, having been occupied
alternately (and simultaneously) by the belligerent forces, and a
sanguinary struggle had occurred in the immediate vicinity of the
Lassiter homestead. But of this the young trooper was not
aware.</p>
<p>Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural
longing to see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in
him, the unnatural animosities of the period had been softened by
time and separation. Obtaining a leave of absence, he set
foot in the late summer afternoon, and soon after the rising of
the full moon was walking up the gravel path leading to the
dwelling in which he had been born.</p>
<p>Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long
time. Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost
expected to find the place a ruin and a desolation.
Nothing, apparently, was changed. At the sight of each dear
and familiar object he was profoundly affected. His heart
beat audibly, his emotion nearly suffocated him; an ache was in
his throat. Unconsciously he quickened his pace until he
almost ran, his long shadow making grotesque efforts to keep its
place beside him.</p>
<p>The house was unlighted, the door open. As he approached
and paused to recover control of himself his father came out and
stood bare-headed in the moonlight.</p>
<p>“Father!” cried the young man, springing forward
with outstretched hand—“Father!”</p>
<p>The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment
motionless and without a word withdrew into the house.
Bitterly disappointed, humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and
altogether unnerved, the soldier dropped upon a rustic seat in
deep dejection, supporting his head upon his trembling
hand. But he would not have it so: he was too good a
soldier to accept repulse as defeat. He rose and entered
the house, passing directly to the
“sitting-room.”</p>
<p>It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window. On a
low stool by the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the
place, sat his mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with
blackened embers and cold ashes. He spoke to
her—tenderly, interrogatively, and with hesitation, but she
neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way
surprised. True, there had been time for her husband to
apprise her of their guilty son’s return. He moved
nearer and was about to lay his hand upon her arm, when his
sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him full in the
face, passed him without a sign of recognition and left the room
by a door that was partly behind him. He had turned his
head to watch her, but when she was gone his eyes again sought
his mother. She too had left the place.</p>
<p>Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had
entered. The moonlight on the lawn was tremulous, as if the
sward were a rippling sea. The trees and their black
shadows shook as in a breeze. Blended with its borders, the
gravel walk seemed unsteady and insecure to step on. This
young soldier knew the optical illusions produced by tears.
He felt them on his cheek, and saw them sparkle on the breast of
his trooper’s jacket. He left the house and made his
way back to camp.</p>
<p>The next day, with no very definite intention, with no
dominant feeling that he could rightly have named, he again
sought the spot. Within a half-mile of it he met Bushrod
Albro, a former playfellow and schoolmate, who greeted him
warmly.</p>
<p>“I am going to visit my home,” said the
soldier.</p>
<p>The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing.</p>
<p>“I know,” continued Lassiter, “that my folks
have not changed, but—”</p>
<p>“There have been changes,” Albro
interrupted—“everything changes. I’ll go
with you if you don’t mind. We can talk as we
go.”</p>
<p>But Albro did not talk.</p>
<p>Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations
of stone, enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains.</p>
<p>Lassiter’s astonishment was extreme.</p>
<p>“I could not find the right way to tell you,” said
Albro. “In the fight a year ago your house was burned
by a Federal shell.”</p>
<p>“And my family—where are they?”</p>
<p>“In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the
shell.”</p>
<h3><a name="page356"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 356</span>A
BAFFLED AMBUSCADE</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">Connecting</span> Readyville and Woodbury
was a good, hard turnpike nine or ten miles long.
Readyville was an outpost of the Federal army at Murfreesboro;
Woodbury had the same relation to the Confederate army at
Tullahoma. For months after the big battle at Stone River
these outposts were in constant quarrel, most of the trouble
occurring, naturally, on the turnpike mentioned, between
detachments of cavalry. Sometimes the infantry and
artillery took a hand in the game by way of showing their
good-will.</p>
<p>One night a squadron of Federal horse commanded by Major
Seidel, a gallant and skillful officer, moved out from Readyville
on an uncommonly hazardous enterprise requiring secrecy, caution
and silence.</p>
<p>Passing the infantry pickets, the detachment soon afterward
approached two cavalry videttes staring hard into the darkness
ahead. There should have been three.</p>
<p>“Where is your other man?” said the major.
“I ordered Dunning to be here to-night.”</p>
<p>“He rode forward, sir,” the man replied.
“There was a little firing afterward, but it was a long way
to the front.”</p>
<p>“It was against orders and against sense for Dunning to
do that,” said the officer, obviously vexed.
“Why did he ride forward?”</p>
<p>“Don’t know, sir; he seemed mighty restless.
Guess he was skeered.”</p>
<p>When this remarkable reasoner and his companion had been
absorbed into the expeditionary force, it resumed its
advance. Conversation was forbidden; arms and accouterments
were denied the right to rattle. The horses’ tramping
was all that could be heard and the movement was slow in order to
have as little as possible of that. It was after midnight
and pretty dark, although there was a bit of moon somewhere
behind the masses of cloud.</p>
<p>Two or three miles along, the head of the column approached a
dense forest of cedars bordering the road on both sides.
The major commanded a halt by merely halting, and, evidently
himself a bit “skeered,” rode on alone to
reconnoiter. He was followed, however, by his adjutant and
three troopers, who remained a little distance behind and, unseen
by him, saw all that occurred.</p>
<p>After riding about a hundred yards toward the forest, the
major suddenly and sharply reined in his horse and sat motionless
in the saddle. Near the side of the road, in a little open
space and hardly ten paces away, stood the figure of a man, dimly
visible and as motionless as he. The major’s first
feeling was that of satisfaction in having left his cavalcade
behind; if this were an enemy and should escape he would have
little to report. The expedition was as yet undetected.</p>
<p>Some dark object was dimly discernible at the man’s
feet; the officer could not make it out. With the instinct
of the true cavalryman and a particular indisposition to the
discharge of firearms, he drew his saber. The man on foot
made no movement in answer to the challenge. The situation
was tense and a bit dramatic. Suddenly the moon burst
through a rift in the clouds and, himself in the shadow of a
group of great oaks, the horseman saw the footman clearly, in a
patch of white light. It was Trooper Dunning, unarmed and
bareheaded. The object at his feet resolved itself into a
dead horse, and at a right angle across the animal’s neck
lay a dead man, face upward in the moonlight.</p>
<p>“Dunning has had the fight of his life,” thought
the major, and was about to ride forward. Dunning raised
his hand, motioning him back with a gesture of warning; then,
lowering the arm, he pointed to the place where the road lost
itself in the blackness of the cedar forest.</p>
<p>The major understood, and turning his horse rode back to the
little group that had followed him and was already moving to the
rear in fear of his displeasure, and so returned to the head of
his command.</p>
<p>“Dunning is just ahead there,” he said to the
captain of his leading company. “He has killed his
man and will have something to report.”</p>
<p>Right patiently they waited, sabers drawn, but Dunning did not
come. In an hour the day broke and the whole force moved
cautiously forward, its commander not altogether satisfied with
his faith in Private Dunning. The expedition had failed,
but something remained to be done.</p>
<p>In the little open space off the road they found the fallen
horse. At a right angle across the animal’s neck face
upward, a bullet in the brain, lay the body of Trooper Dunning,
stiff as a statue, hours dead.</p>
<p>Examination disclosed abundant evidence that within a
half-hour the cedar forest had been occupied by a strong force of
Confederate infantry—an ambuscade.</p>
<h3><a name="page361"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 361</span>TWO
MILITARY EXECUTIONS</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the spring of the year 1862
General Buell’s big army lay in camp, licking itself into
shape for the campaign which resulted in the victory at
Shiloh. It was a raw, untrained army, although some of its
fractions had seen hard enough service, with a good deal of
fighting, in the mountains of Western Virginia, and in
Kentucky. The war was young and soldiering a new industry,
imperfectly understood by the young American of the period, who
found some features of it not altogether to his liking.
Chief among these was that essential part of discipline,
subordination. To one imbued from infancy with the
fascinating fallacy that all men are born equal, unquestioning
submission to authority is not easily mastered, and the American
volunteer soldier in his “green and salad days” is
among the worst known. That is how it happened that one of
Buell’s men, Private Bennett Story Greene, committed the
indiscretion of striking his officer. Later in the war he
would not have done that; like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, he would
have “seen him damned” first. But time for
reformation of his military manners was denied him: he was
promptly arrested on complaint of the officer, tried by
court-martial and sentenced to be shot.</p>
<p>“You might have thrashed me and let it go at
that,” said the condemned man to the complaining witness;
“that is what you used to do at school, when you were plain
Will Dudley and I was as good as you. Nobody saw me strike
you; discipline would not have suffered much.”</p>
<p>“Ben Greene, I guess you are right about that,”
said the lieutenant. “Will you forgive me? That
is what I came to see you about.”</p>
<p>There was no reply, and an officer putting his head in at the
door of the guard-tent where the conversation had occurred,
explained that the time allowed for the interview had
expired. The next morning, when in the presence of the
whole brigade Private Greene was shot to death by a squad of his
comrades, Lieutenant Dudley turned his back upon the sorry
performance and muttered a prayer for mercy, in which himself was
included.</p>
<p>A few weeks afterward, as Buell’s leading division was
being ferried over the Tennessee River to assist in succoring
Grant’s beaten army, night was coming on, black and
stormy. Through the wreck of battle the division moved,
inch by inch, in the direction of the enemy, who had withdrawn a
little to reform his lines. But for the lightning the
darkness was absolute. Never for a moment did it cease, and
ever when the thunder did not crack and roar were heard the moans
of the wounded among whom the men felt their way with their feet,
and upon whom they stumbled in the gloom. The dead were
there, too—there were dead a-plenty.</p>
<p>In the first faint gray of the morning, when the swarming
advance had paused to resume something of definition as a line of
battle, and skirmishers had been thrown forward, word was passed
along to call the roll. The first sergeant of Lieutenant
Dudley’s company stepped to the front and began to name the
men in alphabetical order. He had no written roll, but a
good memory. The men answered to their names as he ran down
the alphabet to G.</p>
<p>“Gorham.”</p>
<p>“Here!”</p>
<p>“Grayrock.”</p>
<p>“Here!”</p>
<p>The sergeant’s good memory was affected by habit:</p>
<p>“Greene.”</p>
<p>“Here!”</p>
<p>The response was clear, distinct, unmistakable!</p>
<p>A sudden movement, an agitation of the entire company front,
as from an electric shock, attested the startling character of
the incident. The sergeant paled and paused. The
captain strode quickly to his side and said sharply:</p>
<p>“Call that name again.”</p>
<p>Apparently the Society for Psychical Research is not first in
the field of curiosity concerning the Unknown.</p>
<p>“Bennett Greene.”</p>
<p>“Here!”</p>
<p>All faces turned in the direction of the familiar voice; the
two men between whom in the order of stature Greene had commonly
stood in line turned and squarely confronted each other.</p>
<p>“Once more,” commanded the inexorable
investigator, and once more came—a trifle
tremulously—the name of the dead man:</p>
<p>“Bennett Story Greene.”</p>
<p>“Here!”</p>
<p>At that instant a single rifle-shot was heard, away to the
front, beyond the skirmish-line, followed, almost attended, by
the savage hiss of an approaching bullet which passing through
the line, struck audibly, punctuating as with a full stop the
captain’s exclamation, “What the devil does it
mean?”</p>
<p>Lieutenant Dudley pushed through the ranks from his place in
the rear.</p>
<p>“It means this,” he said, throwing open his coat
and displaying a visibly broadening stain of crimson on his
breast. His knees gave way; he fell awkwardly and lay
dead.</p>
<p>A little later the regiment was ordered out of line to relieve
the congested front, and through some misplay in the game of
battle was not again under fire. Nor did Bennett Greene,
expert in military executions, ever again signify his presence at
one.</p>
<h2><a name="page367"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 367</span>SOME
HAUNTED HOUSES</h2>
<h3><a name="page369"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 369</span>THE
ISLE OF PINES</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">For</span> many years there lived near the
town of Gallipolis, Ohio, an old man named Herman Deluse.
Very little was known of his history, for he would neither speak
of it himself nor suffer others. It was a common belief
among his neighbors that he had been a pirate—if upon any
better evidence than his collection of boarding pikes, cutlasses,
and ancient flintlock pistols, no one knew. He lived
entirely alone in a small house of four rooms, falling rapidly
into decay and never repaired further than was required by the
weather. It stood on a slight elevation in the midst of a
large, stony field overgrown with brambles, and cultivated in
patches and only in the most primitive way. It was his only
visible property, but could hardly have yielded him a living,
simple and few as were his wants. He seemed always to have
ready money, and paid cash for all his purchases at the village
stores roundabout, seldom buying more than two or three times at
the same place until after the lapse of a considerable
time. He got no commendation, however, for this equitable
distribution of his patronage; people were disposed to regard it
as an ineffectual attempt to conceal his possession of so much
money. That he had great hoards of ill-gotten gold buried
somewhere about his tumble-down dwelling was not reasonably to be
doubted by any honest soul conversant with the facts of local
tradition and gifted with a sense of the fitness of things.</p>
<p>On the 9th of November, 1867, the old man died; at least his
dead body was discovered on the 10th, and physicians testified
that death had occurred about twenty-four hours
previously—precisely how, they were unable to say; for the
<i>post-mortem</i> examination showed every organ to be
absolutely healthy, with no indication of disorder or
violence. According to them, death must have taken place
about noonday, yet the body was found in bed. The verdict
of the coroner’s jury was that he “came to his death
by a visitation of God.” The body was buried and the
public administrator took charge of the estate.</p>
<p>A rigorous search disclosed nothing more than was already
known about the dead man, and much patient excavation here and
there about the premises by thoughtful and thrifty neighbors went
unrewarded. The administrator locked up the house against
the time when the property, real and personal, should be sold by
law with a view to defraying, partly, the expenses of the
sale.</p>
<p>The night of November 20 was boisterous. A furious gale
stormed across the country, scourging it with desolating drifts
of sleet. Great trees were torn from the earth and hurled
across the roads. So wild a night had never been known in
all that region, but toward morning the storm had blown itself
out of breath and day dawned bright and clear. At about
eight o’clock that morning the Rev. Henry Galbraith, a
well-known and highly esteemed Lutheran minister, arrived on foot
at his house, a mile and a half from the Deluse place. Mr.
Galbraith had been for a month in Cincinnati. He had come
up the river in a steamboat, and landing at Gallipolis the
previous evening had immediately obtained a horse and buggy and
set out for home. The violence of the storm had delayed him
over night, and in the morning the fallen trees had compelled him
to abandon his conveyance and continue his journey afoot.</p>
<p>“But where did you pass the night?” inquired his
wife, after he had briefly related his adventure.</p>
<p>“With old Deluse at the ‘Isle of
Pines,’” <a name="citation372"></a><a
href="#footnote372" class="citation">[372]</a> was the laughing
reply; “and a glum enough time I had of it. He made
no objection to my remaining, but not a word could I get out of
him.”</p>
<p>Fortunately for the interests of truth there was present at
this conversation Mr. Robert Mosely Maren, a lawyer and
<i>littérateur</i> of Columbus, the same who wrote the
delightful “Mellowcraft Papers.” Noting, but
apparently not sharing, the astonishment caused by Mr.
Galbraith’s answer this ready-witted person checked by a
gesture the exclamations that would naturally have followed, and
tranquilly inquired: “How came you to go in
there?”</p>
<p>This is Mr. Maren’s version of Mr. Galbraith’s
reply:</p>
<p>“I saw a light moving about the house, and being nearly
blinded by the sleet, and half frozen besides, drove in at the
gate and put up my horse in the old rail stable, where it is
now. I then rapped at the door, and getting no invitation
went in without one. The room was dark, but having matches
I found a candle and lit it. I tried to enter the adjoining
room, but the door was fast, and although I heard the old
man’s heavy footsteps in there he made no response to my
calls. There was no fire on the hearth, so I made one and
laying [<i>sic</i>] down before it with my overcoat under my
head, prepared myself for sleep. Pretty soon the door that
I had tried silently opened and the old man came in, carrying a
candle. I spoke to him pleasantly, apologizing for my
intrusion, but he took no notice of me. He seemed to be
searching for something, though his eyes were unmoved in their
sockets. I wonder if he ever walks in his sleep. He
took a circuit a part of the way round the room, and went out the
same way he had come in. Twice more before I slept he came
back into the room, acting precisely the same way, and departing
as at first. In the intervals I heard him tramping all over
the house, his footsteps distinctly audible in the pauses of the
storm. When I woke in the morning he had already gone
out.”</p>
<p>Mr. Maren attempted some further questioning, but was unable
longer to restrain the family’s tongues; the story of
Deluse’s death and burial came out, greatly to the good
minister’s astonishment.</p>
<p>“The explanation of your adventure is very
simple,” said Mr. Maren. “I don’t believe
old Deluse walks in his sleep—not in his present one; but
you evidently dream in yours.”</p>
<p>And to this view of the matter Mr. Galbraith was compelled
reluctantly to assent.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, a late hour of the next night found these two
gentlemen, accompanied by a son of the minister, in the road in
front of the old Deluse house. There was a light inside; it
appeared now at one window and now at another. The three
men advanced to the door. Just as they reached it there
came from the interior a confusion of the most appalling
sounds—the clash of weapons, steel against steel, sharp
explosions as of firearms, shrieks of women, groans and the
curses of men in combat! The investigators stood a moment,
irresolute, frightened. Then Mr. Galbraith tried the
door. It was fast. But the minister was a man of
courage, a man, moreover, of Herculean strength. He retired
a pace or two and rushed against the door, striking it with his
right shoulder and bursting it from the frame with a loud
crash. In a moment the three were inside. Darkness
and silence! The only sound was the beating of their
hearts.</p>
<p>Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a
candle. With some difficulty, begotten of his excitement,
he made a light, and they proceeded to explore the place, passing
from room to room. Everything was in orderly arrangement,
as it had been left by the sheriff; nothing had been
disturbed. A light coating of dust was everywhere. A
back door was partly open, as if by neglect, and their first
thought was that the authors of the awful revelry might have
escaped. The door was opened, and the light of the candle
shone through upon the ground. The expiring effort of the
previous night’s storm had been a light fall of snow; there
were no footprints; the white surface was unbroken. They
closed the door and entered the last room of the four that the
house contained—that farthest from the road, in an angle of
the building. Here the candle in Mr. Maren’s hand was
suddenly extinguished as by a draught of air. Almost
immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall. When the
candle had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was seen
prostrate on the floor at a little distance from the
others. He was dead. In one hand the body grasped a
heavy sack of coins, which later examination showed to be all of
old Spanish mintage. Directly over the body as it lay, a
board had been torn from its fastenings in the wall, and from the
cavity so disclosed it was evident that the bag had been
taken.</p>
<p>Another inquest was held: another <i>post-mortem</i>
examination failed to reveal a probable cause of death.
Another verdict of “the visitation of God” left all
at liberty to form their own conclusions. Mr. Maren
contended that the young man died of excitement.</p>
<h3><a name="page377"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 377</span>A
FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">Henry Saylor</span>, who was killed in
Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio Finch, was a reporter on the
Cincinnati <i>Commercial</i>. In the year 1859 a vacant
dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a
local excitement because of the strange sights and sounds said to
be observed in it nightly. According to the testimony of
many reputable residents of the vicinity these were inconsistent
with any other hypothesis than that the house was haunted.
Figures with something singularly unfamiliar about them were seen
by crowds on the sidewalk to pass in and out. No one could
say just where they appeared upon the open lawn on their way to
the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly what point
they vanished as they came out; or, rather, while each spectator
was positive enough about these matters, no two agreed.
They were all similarly at variance in their descriptions of the
figures themselves. Some of the bolder of the curious
throng ventured on several evenings to stand upon the doorsteps
to intercept them, or failing in this, get a nearer look at
them. These courageous men, it was said, were unable to
force the door by their united strength, and always were hurled
from the steps by some invisible agency and severely injured; the
door immediately afterward opening, apparently of its own
volition, to admit or free some ghostly guest. The dwelling
was known as the Roscoe house, a family of that name having lived
there for some years, and then, one by one, disappeared, the last
to leave being an old woman. Stories of foul play and
successive murders had always been rife, but never were
authenticated.</p>
<p>One day during the prevalence of the excitement Saylor
presented himself at the office of the <i>Commercial</i> for
orders. He received a note from the city editor which read
as follows: “Go and pass the night alone in the haunted
house in Vine street and if anything occurs worth while make two
columns.” Saylor obeyed his superior; he could not
afford to lose his position on the paper.</p>
<p>Apprising the police of his intention, he effected an entrance
through a rear window before dark, walked through the deserted
rooms, bare of furniture, dusty and desolate, and seating himself
at last in the parlor on an old sofa which he had dragged in from
another room watched the deepening of the gloom as night came
on. Before it was altogether dark the curious crowd had
collected in the street, silent, as a rule, and expectant, with
here and there a scoffer uttering his incredulity and courage
with scornful remarks or ribald cries. None knew of the
anxious watcher inside. He feared to make a light; the
uncurtained windows would have betrayed his presence, subjecting
him to insult, possibly to injury. Moreover, he was too
conscientious to do anything to enfeeble his impressions and
unwilling to alter any of the customary conditions under which
the manifestations were said to occur.</p>
<p>It was now dark outside, but light from the street faintly
illuminated the part of the room that he was in. He had set
open every door in the whole interior, above and below, but all
the outer ones were locked and bolted. Sudden exclamations
from the crowd caused him to spring to the window and look
out. He saw the figure of a man moving rapidly across the
lawn toward the building—saw it ascend the steps; then a
projection of the wall concealed it. There was a noise as
of the opening and closing of the hall door; he heard quick,
heavy footsteps along the passage—heard them ascend the
stairs—heard them on the uncarpeted floor of the chamber
immediately overhead.</p>
<p>Saylor promptly drew his pistol, and groping his way up the
stairs entered the chamber, dimly lighted from the street.
No one was there. He heard footsteps in an adjoining room
and entered that. It was dark and silent. He struck
his foot against some object on the floor, knelt by it, passed
his hand over it. It was a human head—that of a
woman. Lifting it by the hair this iron-nerved man returned
to the half-lighted room below, carried it near the window and
attentively examined it. While so engaged he was half
conscious of the rapid opening and closing of the outer door, of
footfalls sounding all about him. He raised his eyes from
the ghastly object of his attention and saw himself the center of
a crowd of men and women dimly seen; the room was thronged with
them. He thought the people had broken in.</p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, coolly,
“you see me under suspicious circumstances,
but”—his voice was drowned in peals of
laughter—such laughter as is heard in asylums for the
insane. The persons about him pointed at the object in his
hand and their merriment increased as he dropped it and it went
rolling among their feet. They danced about it with
gestures grotesque and attitudes obscene and indescribable.
They struck it with their feet, urging it about the room from
wall to wall; pushed and overthrew one another in their struggles
to kick it; cursed and screamed and sang snatches of ribald songs
as the battered head bounded about the room as if in terror and
trying to escape. At last it shot out of the door into the
hall, followed by all, with tumultuous haste. That moment
the door closed with a sharp concussion. Saylor was alone,
in dead silence.</p>
<p>Carefully putting away his pistol, which all the time he had
held in his hand, he went to a window and looked out. The
street was deserted and silent; the lamps were extinguished; the
roofs and chimneys of the houses were sharply outlined against
the dawn-light in the east. He left the house, the door
yielding easily to his hand, and walked to the <i>Commercial</i>
office. The city editor was still in his
office—asleep. Saylor waked him and said: “I
have been at the haunted house.”</p>
<p>The editor stared blankly as if not wholly awake.
“Good God!” he cried, “are you
Saylor?”</p>
<p>“Yes—why not?” The editor made no
answer, but continued staring.</p>
<p>“I passed the night there—it seems,” said
Saylor.</p>
<p>“They say that things were uncommonly quiet out
there,” the editor said, trifling with a paper-weight upon
which he had dropped his eyes, “did anything
occur?”</p>
<p>“Nothing whatever.”</p>
<h3><a name="page383"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 383</span>A
VINE ON A HOUSE</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">About</span> three miles from the little
town of Norton, in Missouri, on the road leading to Maysville,
stands an old house that was last occupied by a family named
Harding. Since 1886 no one has lived in it, nor is anyone
likely to live in it again. Time and the disfavor of
persons dwelling thereabout are converting it into a rather
picturesque ruin. An observer unacquainted with its history
would hardly put it into the category of “haunted
houses,” yet in all the region round such is its evil
reputation. Its windows are without glass, its doorways
without doors; there are wide breaches in the shingle roof, and
for lack of paint the weatherboarding is a dun gray. But
these unfailing signs of the supernatural are partly concealed
and greatly softened by the abundant foliage of a large vine
overrunning the entire structure. This vine—of a
species which no botanist has ever been able to name—has an
important part in the story of the house.</p>
<p>The Harding family consisted of Robert Harding, his wife
Matilda, Miss Julia Went, who was her sister, and two young
children. Robert Harding was a silent, cold-mannered man
who made no friends in the neighborhood and apparently cared to
make none. He was about forty years old, frugal and
industrious, and made a living from the little farm which is now
overgrown with brush and brambles. He and his sister-in-law
were rather tabooed by their neighbors, who seemed to think that
they were seen too frequently together—not entirely their
fault, for at these times they evidently did not challenge
observation. The moral code of rural Missouri is stern and
exacting.</p>
<p>Mrs. Harding was a gentle, sad-eyed woman, lacking a left
foot.</p>
<p>At some time in 1884 it became known that she had gone to
visit her mother in Iowa. That was what her husband said in
reply to inquiries, and his manner of saying it did not encourage
further questioning. She never came back, and two years
later, without selling his farm or anything that was his, or
appointing an agent to look after his interests, or removing his
household goods, Harding, with the rest of the family, left the
country. Nobody knew whither he went; nobody at that time
cared. Naturally, whatever was movable about the place soon
disappeared and the deserted house became “haunted”
in the manner of its kind.</p>
<p>One summer evening, four or five years later, the Rev. J.
Gruber, of Norton, and a Maysville attorney named Hyatt met on
horseback in front of the Harding place. Having business
matters to discuss, they hitched their animals and going to the
house sat on the porch to talk. Some humorous reference to
the somber reputation of the place was made and forgotten as soon
as uttered, and they talked of their business affairs until it
grew almost dark. The evening was oppressively warm, the
air stagnant.</p>
<p>Presently both men started from their seats in surprise: a
long vine that covered half the front of the house and dangled
its branches from the edge of the porch above them was visibly
and audibly agitated, shaking violently in every stem and
leaf.</p>
<p>“We shall have a storm,” Hyatt exclaimed.</p>
<p>Gruber said nothing, but silently directed the other’s
attention to the foliage of adjacent trees, which showed no
movement; even the delicate tips of the boughs silhouetted
against the clear sky were motionless. They hastily passed
down the steps to what had been a lawn and looked upward at the
vine, whose entire length was now visible. It continued in
violent agitation, yet they could discern no disturbing
cause.</p>
<p>“Let us leave,” said the minister.</p>
<p>And leave they did. Forgetting that they had been
traveling in opposite directions, they rode away together.
They went to Norton, where they related their strange experience
to several discreet friends. The next evening, at about the
same hour, accompanied by two others whose names are not
recalled, they were again on the porch of the Harding house, and
again the mysterious phenomenon occurred: the vine was violently
agitated while under the closest scrutiny from root to tip, nor
did their combined strength applied to the trunk serve to still
it. After an hour’s observation they retreated, no
less wise, it is thought, than when they had come.</p>
<p>No great time was required for these singular facts to rouse
the curiosity of the entire neighborhood. By day and by
night crowds of persons assembled at the Harding house
“seeking a sign.” It does not appear that any
found it, yet so credible were the witnesses mentioned that none
doubted the reality of the “manifestations” to which
they testified.</p>
<p>By either a happy inspiration or some destructive design, it
was one day proposed—nobody appeared to know from whom the
suggestion came—to dig up the vine, and after a good deal
of debate this was done. Nothing was found but the root,
yet nothing could have been more strange!</p>
<p>For five or six feet from the trunk, which had at the surface
of the ground a diameter of several inches, it ran downward,
single and straight, into a loose, friable earth; then it divided
and subdivided into rootlets, fibers and filaments, most
curiously interwoven. When carefully freed from soil they
showed a singular formation. In their ramifications and
doublings back upon themselves they made a compact network,
having in size and shape an amazing resemblance to the human
figure. Head, trunk and limbs were there; even the fingers
and toes were distinctly defined; and many professed to see in
the distribution and arrangement of the fibers in the globular
mass representing the head a grotesque suggestion of a
face. The figure was horizontal; the smaller roots had
begun to unite at the breast.</p>
<p>In point of resemblance to the human form this image was
imperfect. At about ten inches from one of the knees, the
<i>cilia</i> forming that leg had abruptly doubled backward and
inward upon their course of growth. The figure lacked the
left foot.</p>
<p>There was but one inference—the obvious one; but in the
ensuing excitement as many courses of action were proposed as
there were incapable counselors. The matter was settled by
the sheriff of the county, who as the lawful custodian of the
abandoned estate ordered the root replaced and the excavation
filled with the earth that had been removed.</p>
<p>Later inquiry brought out only one fact of relevancy and
significance: Mrs. Harding had never visited her relatives in
Iowa, nor did they know that she was supposed to have done
so.</p>
<p>Of Robert Harding and the rest of his family nothing is
known. The house retains its evil reputation, but the
replanted vine is as orderly and well-behaved a vegetable as a
nervous person could wish to sit under of a pleasant night, when
the katydids grate out their immemorial revelation and the
distant whippoorwill signifies his notion of what ought to be
done about it.</p>
<h3><a name="page389"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 389</span>AT
OLD MAN ECKERT’S</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">Philip Eckert</span> lived for many years
in an old, weather-stained wooden house about three miles from
the little town of Marion, in Vermont. There must be quite
a number of persons living who remember him, not unkindly, I
trust, and know something of the story that I am about to
tell.</p>
<p>“Old Man Eckert,” as he was always called, was not
of a sociable disposition and lived alone. As he was never
known to speak of his own affairs nobody thereabout knew anything
of his past, nor of his relatives if he had any. Without
being particularly ungracious or repellent in manner or speech,
he managed somehow to be immune to impertinent curiosity, yet
exempt from the evil repute with which it commonly revenges
itself when baffled; so far as I know, Mr. Eckert’s renown
as a reformed assassin or a retired pirate of the Spanish Main
had not reached any ear in Marion. He got his living
cultivating a small and not very fertile farm.</p>
<p>One day he disappeared and a prolonged search by his neighbors
failed to turn him up or throw any light upon his whereabouts or
whyabouts. Nothing indicated preparation to leave: all was
as he might have left it to go to the spring for a bucket of
water. For a few weeks little else was talked of in that
region; then “old man Eckert” became a village tale
for the ear of the stranger. I do not know what was done
regarding his property—the correct legal thing,
doubtless. The house was standing, still vacant and
conspicuously unfit, when I last heard of it, some twenty years
afterward.</p>
<p>Of course it came to be considered “haunted,” and
the customary tales were told of moving lights, dolorous sounds
and startling apparitions. At one time, about five years
after the disappearance, these stories of the supernatural became
so rife, or through some attesting circumstances seemed so
important, that some of Marion’s most serious citizens
deemed it well to investigate, and to that end arranged for a
night session on the premises. The parties to this
undertaking were John Holcomb, an apothecary; Wilson Merle, a
lawyer, and Andrus C. Palmer, the teacher of the public school,
all men of consequence and repute. They were to meet at
Holcomb’s house at eight o’clock in the evening of
the appointed day and go together to the scene of their vigil,
where certain arrangements for their comfort, a provision of fuel
and the like, for the season was winter, had been already
made.</p>
<p>Palmer did not keep the engagement, and after waiting a
half-hour for him the others went to the Eckert house without
him. They established themselves in the principal room,
before a glowing fire, and without other light than it gave,
awaited events. It had been agreed to speak as little as
possible: they did not even renew the exchange of views regarding
the defection of Palmer, which had occupied their minds on the
way.</p>
<p>Probably an hour had passed without incident when they heard
(not without emotion, doubtless) the sound of an opening door in
the rear of the house, followed by footfalls in the room
adjoining that in which they sat. The watchers rose to
their feet, but stood firm, prepared for whatever might
ensue. A long silence followed—how long neither would
afterward undertake to say. Then the door between the two
rooms opened and a man entered.</p>
<p>It was Palmer. He was pale, as if from
excitement—as pale as the others felt themselves to
be. His manner, too, was singularly distrait: he neither
responded to their salutations nor so much as looked at them, but
walked slowly across the room in the light of the failing fire
and opening the front door passed out into the darkness.</p>
<p>It seems to have been the first thought of both men that
Palmer was suffering from fright—that something seen, heard
or imagined in the back room had deprived him of his
senses. Acting on the same friendly impulse both ran after
him through the open door. But neither they nor anyone ever
again saw or heard of Andrus Palmer!</p>
<p>This much was ascertained the next morning. During the
session of Messrs. Holcomb and Merle at the “haunted
house” a new snow had fallen to a depth of several inches
upon the old. In this snow Palmer’s trail from his
lodging in the village to the back door of the Eckert house was
conspicuous. But there it ended: from the front door
nothing led away but the tracks of the two men who swore that he
preceded them. Palmer’s disappearance was as complete
as that of “old man Eckert” himself—whom,
indeed, the editor of the local paper somewhat graphically
accused of having “reached out and pulled him
in.”</p>
<h3><a name="page393"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 393</span>THE
SPOOK HOUSE</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">On</span> the road leading north from
Manchester, in eastern Kentucky, to Booneville, twenty miles
away, stood, in 1862, a wooden plantation house of a somewhat
better quality than most of the dwellings in that region.
The house was destroyed by fire in the year
following—probably by some stragglers from the retreating
column of General George W. Morgan, when he was driven from
Cumberland Gap to the Ohio river by General Kirby Smith. At
the time of its destruction, it had for four or five years been
vacant. The fields about it were overgrown with brambles,
the fences gone, even the few negro quarters, and out-houses
generally, fallen partly into ruin by neglect and pillage; for
the negroes and poor whites of the vicinity found in the building
and fences an abundant supply of fuel, of which they availed
themselves without hesitation, openly and by daylight. By
daylight alone; after nightfall no human being except passing
strangers ever went near the place.</p>
<p>It was known as the “Spook House.” That it
was tenanted by evil spirits, visible, audible and active, no one
in all that region doubted any more than he doubted what he was
told of Sundays by the traveling preacher. Its
owner’s opinion of the matter was unknown; he and his
family had disappeared one night and no trace of them had ever
been found. They left everything—household goods,
clothing, provisions, the horses in the stable, the cows in the
field, the negroes in the quarters—all as it stood; nothing
was missing—except a man, a woman, three girls, a boy and a
babe! It was not altogether surprising that a plantation
where seven human beings could be simultaneously effaced and
nobody the wiser should be under some suspicion.</p>
<p>One night in June, 1859, two citizens of Frankfort, Col. J. C.
McArdle, a lawyer, and Judge Myron Veigh, of the State Militia,
were driving from Booneville to Manchester. Their business
was so important that they decided to push on, despite the
darkness and the mutterings of an approaching storm, which
eventually broke upon them just as they arrived opposite the
“Spook House.” The lightning was so incessant
that they easily found their way through the gateway and into a
shed, where they hitched and unharnessed their team. They
then went to the house, through the rain, and knocked at all the
doors without getting any response. Attributing this to the
continuous uproar of the thunder they pushed at one of the doors,
which yielded. They entered without further ceremony and
closed the door. That instant they were in darkness and
silence. Not a gleam of the lightning’s unceasing
blaze penetrated the windows or crevices; not a whisper of the
awful tumult without reached them there. It was as if they
had suddenly been stricken blind and deaf, and McArdle afterward
said that for a moment he believed himself to have been killed by
a stroke of lightning as he crossed the threshold. The rest
of this adventure can as well be related in his own words, from
the Frankfort <i>Advocate</i> of August 6, 1876:</p>
<p>“When I had somewhat recovered from the dazing effect of
the transition from uproar to silence, my first impulse was to
reopen the door which I had closed, and from the knob of which I
was not conscious of having removed my hand; I felt it
distinctly, still in the clasp of my fingers. My notion was
to ascertain by stepping again into the storm whether I had been
deprived of sight and hearing. I turned the doorknob and
pulled open the door. It led into another room!</p>
<p>“This apartment was suffused with a faint greenish
light, the source of which I could not determine, making
everything distinctly visible, though nothing was sharply
defined. Everything, I say, but in truth the only objects
within the blank stone walls of that room were human
corpses. In number they were perhaps eight or ten—it
may well be understood that I did not truly count them.
They were of different ages, or rather sizes, from infancy up,
and of both sexes. All were prostrate on the floor,
excepting one, apparently a young woman, who sat up, her back
supported by an angle of the wall. A babe was clasped in
the arms of another and older woman. A half-grown lad lay
face downward across the legs of a full-bearded man. One or
two were nearly naked, and the hand of a young girl held the
fragment of a gown which she had torn open at the breast.
The bodies were in various stages of decay, all greatly shrunken
in face and figure. Some were but little more than
skeletons.</p>
<p>“While I stood stupefied with horror by this ghastly
spectacle and still holding open the door, by some unaccountable
perversity my attention was diverted from the shocking scene and
concerned itself with trifles and details. Perhaps my mind,
with an instinct of self-preservation, sought relief in matters
which would relax its dangerous tension. Among other
things, I observed that the door that I was holding open was of
heavy iron plates, riveted. Equidistant from one another
and from the top and bottom, three strong bolts protruded from
the beveled edge. I turned the knob and they were retracted
flush with the edge; released it, and they shot out. It was
a spring lock. On the inside there was no knob, nor any
kind of projection—a smooth surface of iron.</p>
<p>“While noting these things with an interest and
attention which it now astonishes me to recall I felt myself
thrust aside, and Judge Veigh, whom in the intensity and
vicissitudes of my feelings I had altogether forgotten, pushed by
me into the room. ‘For God’s sake,’ I
cried, ‘do not go in there! Let us get out of this
dreadful place!’</p>
<p>“He gave no heed to my entreaties, but (as fearless a
gentleman as lived in all the South) walked quickly to the center
of the room, knelt beside one of the bodies for a closer
examination and tenderly raised its blackened and shriveled head
in his hands. A strong disagreeable odor came through the
doorway, completely overpowering me. My senses reeled; I
felt myself falling, and in clutching at the edge of the door for
support pushed it shut with a sharp click!</p>
<p>“I remember no more: six weeks later I recovered my
reason in a hotel at Manchester, whither I had been taken by
strangers the next day. For all these weeks I had suffered
from a nervous fever, attended with constant delirium. I
had been found lying in the road several miles away from the
house; but how I had escaped from it to get there I never
knew. On recovery, or as soon as my physicians permitted me
to talk, I inquired the fate of Judge Veigh, whom (to quiet me,
as I now know) they represented as well and at home.</p>
<p>“No one believed a word of my story, and who can
wonder? And who can imagine my grief when, arriving at my
home in Frankfort two months later, I learned that Judge Veigh
had never been heard of since that night? I then regretted
bitterly the pride which since the first few days after the
recovery of my reason had forbidden me to repeat my discredited
story and insist upon its truth.</p>
<p>“With all that afterward occurred—the examination
of the house; the failure to find any room corresponding to that
which I have described; the attempt to have me adjudged insane,
and my triumph over my accusers—the readers of the
<i>Advocate</i> are familiar. After all these years I am
still confident that excavations which I have neither the legal
right to undertake nor the wealth to make would disclose the
secret of the disappearance of my unhappy friend, and possibly of
the former occupants and owners of the deserted and now destroyed
house. I do not despair of yet bringing about such a
search, and it is a source of deep grief to me that it has been
delayed by the undeserved hostility and unwise incredulity of the
family and friends of the late Judge Veigh.”</p>
<p>Colonel McArdle died in Frankfort on the thirteenth day of
December, in the year 1879.</p>
<h3><a name="page400"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 400</span>THE
OTHER LODGERS</h3>
<p>“<span class="smcap">In</span> order to take that
train,” said Colonel Levering, sitting in the
Waldorf-Astoria hotel, “you will have to remain nearly all
night in Atlanta. That is a fine city, but I advise you not
to put up at the Breathitt House, one of the principal
hotels. It is an old wooden building in urgent need of
repairs. There are breaches in the walls that you could
throw a cat through. The bedrooms have no locks on the
doors, no furniture but a single chair in each, and a bedstead
without bedding—just a mattress. Even these meager
accommodations you cannot be sure that you will have in monopoly;
you must take your chance of being stowed in with a lot of
others. Sir, it is a most abominable hotel.</p>
<p>“The night that I passed in it was an uncomfortable
night. I got in late and was shown to my room on the ground
floor by an apologetic night-clerk with a tallow candle, which he
considerately left with me. I was worn out by two days and
a night of hard railway travel and had not entirely recovered
from a gunshot wound in the head, received in an
altercation. Rather than look for better quarters I lay
down on the mattress without removing my clothing and fell
asleep.</p>
<p>“Along toward morning I awoke. The moon had risen
and was shining in at the uncurtained window, illuminating the
room with a soft, bluish light which seemed, somehow, a bit
spooky, though I dare say it had no uncommon quality; all
moonlight is that way if you will observe it. Imagine my
surprise and indignation when I saw the floor occupied by at
least a dozen other lodgers! I sat up, earnestly damning
the management of that unthinkable hotel, and was about to spring
from the bed to go and make trouble for the night-clerk—him
of the apologetic manner and the tallow candle—when
something in the situation affected me with a strange
indisposition to move. I suppose I was what a story-writer
might call ‘frozen with terror.’ For those men
were obviously all dead!</p>
<p>“They lay on their backs, disposed orderly along three
sides of the room, their feet to the walls—against the
other wall, farthest from the door, stood my bed and the
chair. All the faces were covered, but under their white
cloths the features of the two bodies that lay in the square
patch of moonlight near the window showed in sharp profile as to
nose and chin.</p>
<p>“I thought this a bad dream and tried to cry out, as one
does in a nightmare, but could make no sound. At last, with
a desperate effort I threw my feet to the floor and passing
between the two rows of clouted faces and the two bodies that lay
nearest the door, I escaped from the infernal place and ran to
the office. The night-clerk was there, behind the desk,
sitting in the dim light of another tallow candle—just
sitting and staring. He did not rise: my abrupt entrance
produced no effect upon him, though I must have looked a
veritable corpse myself. It occurred to me then that I had
not before really observed the fellow. He was a little
chap, with a colorless face and the whitest, blankest eyes I ever
saw. He had no more expression than the back of my
hand. His clothing was a dirty gray.</p>
<p>“‘Damn you!’ I said; ‘what do you
mean?’</p>
<p>“Just the same, I was shaking like a leaf in the wind
and did not recognize my own voice.</p>
<p>“The night-clerk rose, bowed (apologetically)
and—well, he was no longer there, and at that moment I felt
a hand laid upon my shoulder from behind. Just fancy that
if you can! Unspeakably frightened, I turned and saw a
portly, kind-faced gentleman, who asked:</p>
<p>“‘What is the matter, my friend?’</p>
<p>“I was not long in telling him, but before I made an end
of it he went pale himself. ‘See here,’ he
said, ‘are you telling the truth?’</p>
<p>“I had now got myself in hand and terror had given place
to indignation. ‘If you dare to doubt it,’ I
said, ‘I’ll hammer the life out of you!’</p>
<p>“‘No,’ he replied, ‘don’t do
that; just sit down till I tell you. This is not a
hotel. It used to be; afterward it was a hospital.
Now it is unoccupied, awaiting a tenant. The room that you
mention was the dead-room—there were always plenty of
dead. The fellow that you call the night-clerk used to be
that, but later he booked the patients as they were brought
in. I don’t understand his being here. He has
been dead a few weeks.’</p>
<p>“‘And who are you?’ I blurted out.</p>
<p>“‘Oh, I look after the premises. I happened
to be passing just now, and seeing a light in here came in to
investigate. Let us have a look into that room,’ he
added, lifting the sputtering candle from the desk.</p>
<p>“‘I’ll see you at the devil first!’
said I, bolting out of the door into the street.</p>
<p>“Sir, that Breathitt House, in Atlanta, is a beastly
place! Don’t you stop there.”</p>
<p>“God forbid! Your account of it certainly does not
suggest comfort. By the way, Colonel, when did all that
occur?”</p>
<p>“In September, 1864—shortly after the
siege.”</p>
<h3><a name="page405"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 405</span>THE
THING AT NOLAN</h3>
<p><span class="smcap">To</span> the south of where the road
between Leesville and Hardy, in the State of Missouri, crosses
the east fork of May Creek stands an abandoned house.
Nobody has lived in it since the summer of 1879, and it is fast
going to pieces. For some three years before the date
mentioned above, it was occupied by the family of Charles May,
from one of whose ancestors the creek near which it stands took
its name.</p>
<p>Mr. May’s family consisted of a wife, an adult son and
two young girls. The son’s name was John—the
names of the daughters are unknown to the writer of this
sketch.</p>
<p>John May was of a morose and surly disposition, not easily
moved to anger, but having an uncommon gift of sullen, implacable
hate. His father was quite otherwise; of a sunny, jovial
disposition, but with a quick temper like a sudden flame kindled
in a wisp of straw, which consumes it in a flash and is no
more. He cherished no resentments, and his anger gone, was
quick to make overtures for reconciliation. He had a
brother living near by who was unlike him in respect of all this,
and it was a current witticism in the neighborhood that John had
inherited his disposition from his uncle.</p>
<p>One day a misunderstanding arose between father and son, harsh
words ensued, and the father struck the son full in the face with
his fist. John quietly wiped away the blood that followed
the blow, fixed his eyes upon the already penitent offender and
said with cold composure, “You will die for
that.”</p>
<p>The words were overheard by two brothers named Jackson, who
were approaching the men at the moment; but seeing them engaged
in a quarrel they retired, apparently unobserved. Charles
May afterward related the unfortunate occurrence to his wife and
explained that he had apologized to the son for the hasty blow,
but without avail; the young man not only rejected his overtures,
but refused to withdraw his terrible threat. Nevertheless,
there was no open rupture of relations: John continued living
with the family, and things went on very much as before.</p>
<p>One Sunday morning in June, 1879, about two weeks after what
has been related, May senior left the house immediately after
breakfast, taking a spade. He said he was going to make an
excavation at a certain spring in a wood about a mile away, so
that the cattle could obtain water. John remained in the
house for some hours, variously occupied in shaving himself,
writing letters and reading a newspaper. His manner was
very nearly what it usually was; perhaps he was a trifle more
sullen and surly.</p>
<p>At two o’clock he left the house. At five, he
returned. For some reason not connected with any interest
in his movements, and which is not now recalled, the time of his
departure and that of his return were noted by his mother and
sisters, as was attested at his trial for murder. It was
observed that his clothing was wet in spots, as if (so the
prosecution afterward pointed out) he had been removing
blood-stains from it. His manner was strange, his look
wild. He complained of illness, and going to his room took
to his bed.</p>
<p>May senior did not return. Later that evening the
nearest neighbors were aroused, and during that night and the
following day a search was prosecuted through the wood where the
spring was. It resulted in little but the discovery of both
men’s footprints in the clay about the spring. John
May in the meantime had grown rapidly worse with what the local
physician called brain fever, and in his delirium raved of
murder, but did not say whom he conceived to have been murdered,
nor whom he imagined to have done the deed. But his threat
was recalled by the brothers Jackson and he was arrested on
suspicion and a deputy sheriff put in charge of him at his
home. Public opinion ran strongly against him and but for
his illness he would probably have been hanged by a mob. As
it was, a meeting of the neighbors was held on Tuesday and a
committee appointed to watch the case and take such action at any
time as circumstances might seem to warrant.</p>
<p>On Wednesday all was changed. From the town of Nolan,
eight miles away, came a story which put a quite different light
on the matter. Nolan consisted of a school house, a
blacksmith’s shop, a “store” and a half-dozen
dwellings. The store was kept by one Henry Odell, a cousin
of the elder May. On the afternoon of the Sunday of
May’s disappearance Mr. Odell and four of his neighbors,
men of credibility, were sitting in the store smoking and
talking. It was a warm day; and both the front and the back
door were open. At about three o’clock Charles May,
who was well known to three of them, entered at the front door
and passed out at the rear. He was without hat or
coat. He did not look at them, nor return their greeting, a
circumstance which did not surprise, for he was evidently
seriously hurt. Above the left eyebrow was a wound—a
deep gash from which the blood flowed, covering the whole left
side of the face and neck and saturating his light-gray
shirt. Oddly enough, the thought uppermost in the minds of
all was that he had been fighting and was going to the brook
directly at the back of the store, to wash himself.</p>
<p>Perhaps there was a feeling of delicacy—a backwoods
etiquette which restrained them from following him to offer
assistance; the court records, from which, mainly, this narrative
is drawn, are silent as to anything but the fact. They
waited for him to return, but he did not return.</p>
<p>Bordering the brook behind the store is a forest extending for
six miles back to the Medicine Lodge Hills. As soon as it
became known in the neighborhood of the missing man’s
dwelling that he had been seen in Nolan there was a marked
alteration in public sentiment and feeling. The vigilance
committee went out of existence without the formality of a
resolution. Search along the wooded bottom lands of May
Creek was stopped and nearly the entire male population of the
region took to beating the bush about Nolan and in the Medicine
Lodge Hills. But of the missing man no trace was found.</p>
<p>One of the strangest circumstances of this strange case is the
formal indictment and trial of a man for murder of one whose body
no human being professed to have seen—one not known to be
dead. We are all more or less familiar with the vagaries
and eccentricities of frontier law, but this instance, it is
thought, is unique. However that may be, it is of record
that on recovering from his illness John May was indicted for the
murder of his missing father. Counsel for the defense
appears not to have demurred and the case was tried on its
merits. The prosecution was spiritless and perfunctory; the
defense easily established—with regard to the
deceased—an <i>alibi</i>. If during the time in which
John May must have killed Charles May, if he killed him at all,
Charles May was miles away from where John May must have been, it
is plain that the deceased must have come to his death at the
hands of someone else.</p>
<p>John May was acquitted, immediately left the country, and has
never been heard of from that day. Shortly afterward his
mother and sisters removed to St. Louis. The farm having
passed into the possession of a man who owns the land adjoining,
and has a dwelling of his own, the May house has ever since been
vacant, and has the somber reputation of being haunted.</p>
<p>One day after the May family had left the country, some boys,
playing in the woods along May Creek, found concealed under a
mass of dead leaves, but partly exposed by the rooting of hogs, a
spade, nearly new and bright, except for a spot on one edge,
which was rusted and stained with blood. The implement had
the initials C. M. cut into the handle.</p>
<p>This discovery renewed, in some degree, the public excitement
of a few months before. The earth near the spot where the
spade was found was carefully examined, and the result was the
finding of the dead body of a man. It had been buried under
two or three feet of soil and the spot covered with a layer of
dead leaves and twigs. There was but little decomposition,
a fact attributed to some preservative property in the
mineral-bearing soil.</p>
<p>Above the left eyebrow was a wound—a deep gash from
which blood had flowed, covering the whole left side of the face
and neck and saturating the light-gray shirt. The skull had
been cut through by the blow. The body was that of Charles
May.</p>
<p>But what was it that passed through Mr. Odell’s store at
Nolan?</p>
<h3><a name="page413"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
413</span>“MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES”</h3>
<h4><a name="page415"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 415</span>THE
DIFFICULTY OF CROSSING A FIELD</h4>
<p><span class="smcap">One</span> morning in July, 1854, a
planter named Williamson, living six miles from Selma, Alabama,
was sitting with his wife and a child on the veranda of his
dwelling. Immediately in front of the house was a lawn,
perhaps fifty yards in extent between the house and public road,
or, as it was called, the “pike.” Beyond this
road lay a close-cropped pasture of some ten acres, level and
without a tree, rock, or any natural or artificial object on its
surface. At the time there was not even a domestic animal
in the field. In another field, beyond the pasture, a dozen
slaves were at work under an overseer.</p>
<p>Throwing away the stump of a cigar, the planter rose, saying:
“I forgot to tell Andrew about those horses.”
Andrew was the overseer.</p>
<p>Williamson strolled leisurely down the gravel walk, plucking a
flower as he went, passed across the road and into the pasture,
pausing a moment as he closed the gate leading into it, to greet
a passing neighbor, Armour Wren, who lived on an adjoining
plantation. Mr. Wren was in an open carriage with his son
James, a lad of thirteen. When he had driven some two
hundred yards from the point of meeting, Mr. Wren said to his
son: “I forgot to tell Mr. Williamson about those
horses.”</p>
<p>Mr. Wren had sold to Mr. Williamson some horses, which were to
have been sent for that day, but for some reason not now
remembered it would be inconvenient to deliver them until the
morrow. The coachman was directed to drive back, and as the
vehicle turned Williamson was seen by all three, walking
leisurely across the pasture. At that moment one of the
coach horses stumbled and came near falling. It had no more
than fairly recovered itself when James Wren cried: “Why,
father, what has become of Mr. Williamson?”</p>
<p>It is not the purpose of this narrative to answer that
question.</p>
<p>Mr. Wren’s strange account of the matter, given under
oath in the course of legal proceedings relating to the
Williamson estate, here follows:</p>
<p>“My son’s exclamation caused me to look toward the
spot where I had seen the deceased [<i>sic</i>] an instant
before, but he was not there, nor was he anywhere visible.
I cannot say that at the moment I was greatly startled, or
realized the gravity of the occurrence, though I thought it
singular. My son, however, was greatly astonished and kept
repeating his question in different forms until we arrived at the
gate. My black boy Sam was similarly affected, even in a
greater degree, but I reckon more by my son’s manner than
by anything he had himself observed. [This sentence in the
testimony was stricken out.] As we got out of the carriage
at the gate of the field, and while Sam was hanging [<i>sic</i>]
the team to the fence, Mrs. Williamson, with her child in her
arms and followed by several servants, came running down the walk
in great excitement, crying: ‘He is gone, he is gone!
O God! what an awful thing!’ and many other such
exclamations, which I do not distinctly recollect. I got
from them the impression that they related to something
more—than the mere disappearance of her husband, even if
that had occurred before her eyes. Her manner was wild, but
not more so, I think, than was natural under the
circumstances. I have no reason to think she had at that
time lost her mind. I have never since seen nor heard of
Mr. Williamson.”</p>
<p>This testimony, as might have been expected, was corroborated
in almost every particular by the only other eye-witness (if that
is a proper term)—the lad James. Mrs. Williamson had
lost her reason and the servants were, of course, not competent
to testify. The boy James Wren had declared at first that
he <i>saw</i> the disappearance, but there is nothing of this in
his testimony given in court. None of the field hands
working in the field to which Williamson was going had seen him
at all, and the most rigorous search of the entire plantation and
adjoining country failed to supply a clew. The most
monstrous and grotesque fictions, originating with the blacks,
were current in that part of the State for many years, and
probably are to this day; but what has been here related is all
that is certainly known of the matter. The courts decided
that Williamson was dead, and his estate was distributed
according to law.</p>
<h4><a name="page419"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 419</span>AN
UNFINISHED RACE</h4>
<p><span class="smcap">James Burne Worson</span> was a shoemaker
who lived in Leamington, Warwickshire, England. He had a
little shop in one of the by-ways leading off the road to
Warwick. In his humble sphere he was esteemed an honest
man, although like many of his class in English towns he was
somewhat addicted to drink. When in liquor he would make
foolish wagers. On one of these too frequent occasions he
was boasting of his prowess as a pedestrian and athlete, and the
outcome was a match against nature. For a stake of one
sovereign he undertook to run all the way to Coventry and back, a
distance of something more than forty miles. This was on
the 3d day of September in 1873. He set out at once, the
man with whom he had made the bet—whose name is not
remembered—accompanied by Barham Wise, a linen draper, and
Hamerson Burns, a photographer, I think, following in a light
cart or wagon.</p>
<p>For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait,
without apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of
endurance and was not sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble
them. The three men in the wagon kept a short distance in
the rear, giving him occasional friendly “chaff” or
encouragement, as the spirit moved them. Suddenly—in
the very middle of the roadway, not a dozen yards from them, and
with their eyes full upon him—the man seemed to stumble,
pitched headlong forward, uttered a terrible cry and
vanished! He did not fall to the earth—he vanished
before touching it. No trace of him was ever
discovered.</p>
<p>After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with
aimless irresolution, the three men returned to Leamington, told
their astonishing story and were afterward taken into
custody. But they were of good standing, had always been
considered truthful, were sober at the time of the occurrence,
and nothing ever transpired to discredit their sworn account of
their extraordinary adventure, concerning the truth of which,
nevertheless, public opinion was divided, throughout the United
Kingdom. If they had something to conceal, their choice of
means is certainly one of the most amazing ever made by sane
human beings.</p>
<h4><a name="page421"></a><span class="pagenum">p.
421</span>CHARLES ASHMORE’S TRAIL</h4>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> family of Christian Ashmore
consisted of his wife, his mother, two grown daughters, and a son
of sixteen years. They lived in Troy, New York, were
well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many friends, some of
whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for the first
time the extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy the
Ashmores moved in 1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year
or two later to the vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr.
Ashmore bought a farm and lived on it. At some little
distance from the farmhouse was a spring with a constant flow of
clear, cold water, whence the family derived its supply for
domestic use at all seasons.</p>
<p>On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine
o’clock, young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about
the hearth, took a tin bucket and started toward the
spring. As he did not return, the family became uneasy, and
going to the door by which he had left the house, his father
called without receiving an answer. He then lighted a
lantern and with the eldest daughter, Martha, who insisted on
accompanying him, went in search. A light snow had fallen,
obliterating the path, but making the young man’s trail
conspicuous; each footprint was plainly defined. After
going a little more than half-way—perhaps seventy-five
yards—the father, who was in advance, halted, and elevating
his lantern stood peering intently into the darkness ahead.</p>
<p>“What is the matter, father?” the girl asked.</p>
<p>This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly
ended, and all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last
footprints were as conspicuous as any in the line; the very
nail-marks were distinctly visible. Mr. Ashmore looked
upward, shading his eyes with his hat held between them and the
lantern. The stars were shining; there was not a cloud in
the sky; he was denied the explanation which had suggested
itself, doubtful as it would have been—a new snowfall with
a limit so plainly defined. Taking a wide circuit round the
ultimate tracks, so as to leave them undisturbed for further
examination, the man proceeded to the spring, the girl following,
weak and terrified. Neither had spoken a word of what both
had observed. The spring was covered with ice, hours
old.</p>
<p>Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow
on both sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led
away from it.</p>
<p>The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless,
unbroken, the shallow snow lay everywhere.</p>
<p>Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the
spring for water. She came back and related that in passing
the spot where the footprints had ended she had heard the voice
of her son and had been eagerly calling to him, wandering about
the place, as she had fancied the voice to be now in one
direction, now in another, until she was exhausted with fatigue
and emotion.</p>
<p>Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to
tell, yet averred that the words were perfectly distinct.
In a moment the entire family was at the place, but nothing was
heard, and the voice was believed to be an hallucination caused
by the mother’s great anxiety and her disordered
nerves. But for months afterward, at irregular intervals of
a few days, the voice was heard by the several members of the
family, and by others. All declared it unmistakably the
voice of Charles Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed to come from
a great distance, faintly, yet with entire distinctness of
articulation; yet none could determine its direction, nor repeat
its words. The intervals of silence grew longer and longer,
the voice fainter and farther, and by midsummer it was heard no
more.</p>
<p>If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably
his mother. She is dead.</p>
<div class="gapshortline"> </div>
<h4>SCIENCE TO THE FRONT</h4>
<p>In connection with this subject of “mysterious
disappearance”—of which every memory is stored with
abundant example—it is pertinent to note the belief of Dr.
Hem, of Leipsic; not by way of explanation, unless the reader may
choose to take it so, but because of its intrinsic interest as a
singular speculation. This distinguished scientist has
expounded his views in a book entitled “Verschwinden und
Seine Theorie,” which has attracted some attention,
“particularly,” says one writer, “among the
followers of Hegel, and mathematicians who hold to the actual
existence of a so-called non-Euclidean space—that is to
say, of space which has more dimensions than length, breadth, and
thickness—space in which it would be possible to tie a knot
in an endless cord and to turn a rubber ball inside out without
‘a solution of its continuity,’ or in other words,
without breaking or cracking it.”</p>
<p>Dr. Hem believes that in the visible world there are void
places—<i>vacua</i>, and something more—holes, as it
were, through which animate and inanimate objects may fall into
the invisible world and be seen and heard no more. The
theory is something like this: Space is pervaded by luminiferous
ether, which is a material thing—as much a substance as air
or water, though almost infinitely more attenuated. All
force, all forms of energy must be propagated in this; every
process must take place in it which takes place at all. But
let us suppose that cavities exist in this otherwise universal
medium, as caverns exist in the earth, or cells in a Swiss
cheese. In such a cavity there would be absolutely
nothing. It would be such a vacuum as cannot be
artificially produced; for if we pump the air from a receiver
there remains the luminiferous ether. Through one of these
cavities light could not pass, for there would be nothing to bear
it. Sound could not come from it; nothing could be felt in
it. It would not have a single one of the conditions
necessary to the action of any of our senses. In such a
void, in short, nothing whatever could occur. Now, in the
words of the writer before quoted—the learned doctor
himself nowhere puts it so concisely: “A man inclosed in
such a closet could neither see nor be seen; neither hear nor be
heard; neither feel nor be felt; neither live nor die, for both
life and death are processes which can take place only where
there is force, and in empty space no force could
exist.” Are these the awful conditions (some will
ask) under which the friends of the lost are to think of them as
existing, and doomed forever to exist?</p>
<p>Baldly and imperfectly as here stated, Dr. Hem’s theory,
in so far as it professes to be an adequate explanation of
“mysterious disappearances,” is open to many obvious
objections; to fewer as he states it himself in the
“spacious volubility” of his book. But even as
expounded by its author it does not explain, and in truth is
incompatible with some incidents of, the occurrences related in
these memoranda: for example, the sound of Charles
Ashmore’s voice. It is not my duty to indue facts and
theories with affinity.</p>
<p style="text-align: right">A.B.</p>
<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2>
<p><a name="footnote372"></a><a href="#citation372"
class="footnote">[372]</a> The Isle of Pines was once a
famous rendezvous of pirates.</p>
<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRESENT AT A HANGING***</p>
<pre>
***** This file should be named 4387-h.htm or 4387-h.zip******
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/8/4387
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive
specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this
eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook
for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given
away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks
not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the
trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the
person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph
1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the
Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country outside the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work
on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you
are located before using this ebook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format
other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain
Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
provided that
* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation."
* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm
works.
* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The
Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at
www.gutenberg.org
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the
mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its
volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous
locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt
Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to
date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and
official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
gbnewby@pglaf.org
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular
state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works.
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
</pre></body>
</html>
|
