Page:Folk-lore - A Quarterly Review. Volume 2, 1891.djvu/474

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What's ghost?—bogles?—corps?—"Oh, dead folk walks." Call them bogles and fetches—heard of lots—seen none—Red woman in spinney at home. Lad—headless—seen by mother when maid. Light at Yule—invisible hand—if stop at door, someone dies. Not pretty or creepy—prefer creepy tales, like "Moon". No sense in these. Don't want meet bogles—fearsome to see—stupid to tell of. One tale of dead man—mebbe not true—don't know what'll come when dead. Lad called Sam'l—burnt—gets up—shakes self. Not used—feels queer—bogles round him. Something says, "Go to great worm—tell you're dead—ask to be eaten—then you'll rest in grave." "I'll go." Asks way—comes to place—dark—flickering lights—smell of earth—bad smells—creeping and crawling things—great worm on flat stone—slimy—waving head—Sam'l's name called. "Want to be eaten." "Where's body?" "Here." "No—corpse—fetch it." Sam'l says, "Burnt." "Taste bad—fetch ashes." Sam'l gets them—in sack—worm smells them. "Not all here—arm missing." "Lost arm—cut off." "Must fetch it." "Don't know where doctor put it." Sought and sought—got it—took it worm—worm looks at it. "Not all here yet. Lost anything more?" "Yes; nail." "Must fetch it." "I'll never find that. Nail easy to lose, hard to find." Seeks everywhere. "Found nothing. Can't you do without?" "No. Sure can't find?" "Yes." "Then must walk till you do." "But if never?" "Then walk all time—plenty of company." Creeping and crawling things turn him out. If he's not found nail, walking yet.

Grandmother told me tale—I asked where bogles come from. Can't mind another. "So't o' funny."