GHOST STORY.
“My soul and body, sir,” said John, the guide, “never see such luck in all my life ; most as bad as we had two years ago when we was camped away down East by the head of Martin’s river. You remember, sir, the night we saw the little fire in the woods close by, when there was no one there to make it? Very curious that was ; can’t make that out at all. What was it, do you think?”
“Perhaps ghosts making a fire, John,” said I.
“Yes, sir, mebbe ; some of our people believe in ghosts, sir ; very foolish people, some Indians.”
“Don’t you, John?”
“Oh no, sir. I never seed no ghosts. I have seen and heard some curious things though. I was hunting once with two gentlemen near Rocky River—you know the place well, sir. We were all sitting in camp ; winter time, sir ; pretty late, about bed time. The gentlemen were drinking their grog, and we were smoking and talking, when we heard some one walking, coming up to the camp.
’Hello!’ said one of the gentlemen, ‘who can this be at this time of night?’
Well, sir, we stopped talking, and we all heard the man walk up to the door. My soul, sir, we could hear his moccasins crunching on the hard, dry snow quite plain. He walked up to the door, but did not open it, did not speak, did not knock. So, after a little while, one of us looked out
