Part 4

Another tale floats in my memory, enfolding the unwonted image of a—

BLUE BUTTERFLY,

which measured nearly four inches across the extended wings. The color and size suggest a moth rather than a butterfly, do they not? Whatever it was, it was sufficiently rare to attract a great deal of notice, but not of the scientific sort. An unknown object was sure to be regarded with suspicion; and this butterfly fluttered one July over a certain farm, secure from ill because of the awe with which it was regarded. It was constantly watched, and cautiously pursued. Its most innocent actions became weighty, and were subject to much misconstruction. Some one discovered by gruesome experience that the glance of its minute eye could convey a shudder. Its friendliness was suspected. Well, by an unfortunate coincidence, at this very time the churning of butter on this farm was not attended with success. This fact impressed my friends more than it did me, for I reflected grimly that their butter very generally was not a brilliant issue. This had resulted in my eating honey very extensively during my visits to them. However, I repressed any unkind thoughts on the subject, and assisted with much pleasure in the discussion regarding the doings of the butterfly. It is, moreover, probable that what they complained of was not bad butter, but cream that would not be butter at all. This state of things had begun with the advent of the butterfly and continued in spite of everything done to counteract the evil influence too evidently at work. The community was aroused—_all but one person_. A certain woman who lived alone and refused to know her neighbors evinced no interest in our investigations. She knew of them, and sneered weird Gaelic sneers, which were translated to me, and at which I shook my head according to custom. This woman did not go to church, which was an extreme of wickedness all but unknown there. I do not know if she were insane or only original, but she was certainly at war with the sentiments of the community.

Well, for three weeks she scoffed, the butterfly fluttered, the butter “did not come,” and we ventilated the subject, which naturally increased in interest and bulk. At the end of those three weeks one man set his teeth firmly, armed himself with a wet towel, and sallied out to meet the mysterious insect single-handed. This man was directly interested in the sale of the butter. He met the foe only a few yards from the house, and got the better of it at once by one fell blow. All gathered round to see it. I did not see it, and I never saw it living either. From description it was a beautiful specimen. When I heard of its death I was angry. I had not intended serious consequences to any of the actors in this idyl, and was indignant for an hour. At the end of that time I was startled to hear that the poor lonely woman had been found dead. Her body was discovered on the ground near her own door. It was seen by passers-by not twenty minutes after the butterfly’s destruction, and her life had not been extinct much more than a quarter of an hour. Comment is needless, as was felt at the time, little being said, but much conveyed by nods and shaking of heads. As if to complete the chain of evidence, next day the butter came!

The particular characteristic of these tales appears to me to be their picturesqueness. They are more dramatic than “shop” ghost stories usually are, and the situations and accessories are romantic. I have some other stories of the superstitious kind gathered among a totally different “folk,” and with two exceptions they have not seemed to me worth remembering. The two I except are interesting only by reason of the difficulty of arriving at any rational theory in explanation of them. They have no prettiness nor romance about them; they are simply _creepy_. But this is a digression, as I am not going to tell them now. I will just remark before returning to my Glenelg friends, that in one of these two _difficult_ tales of mine I was myself an active participator in the plot, and conversed at length with the ghost,—quite calmly, too, for I thought all the time that he was in the flesh. It is something to mourn over, that such an opportunity should present itself and be neglected,—an opportunity to “catch a ghost, and tame it, and teach it to do tricks,” and realize fabulous proceeds!

Well, to return. The lore of my Scotch friends was like themselves. I admired them very much. Sometimes certain persons and circumstances surround us when we are uplifted in soul, and we see them bathed in light, glorified, as it were, by roseate hues of our own conjuring. Knowing this, I was often afraid that I created the transforming light in which they appeared to me to move. It used, therefore, to give me great happiness when something would happen that proved the charm to be objective; as, for instance, when one of these unlettered men unconsciously reëchoed a sentiment from the mysterious thinker whom we call Thomas à Kempis, and almost in the same words enunciated the truth that of the mysteries of the supernatural “no one can with safety speak who would not rather be silent.” And they were silent, and profoundly reverent. These pretty goblin tales lack the element of “research,” and are not profane; they are only fantasies.

I have yet another to tell, and the telling of it gives me a sense of guilt, for it was given to me by stealth, having assumed such proportions that the recounting it was denounced publicly in church, the denunciation being accompanied by threat of excommunication. It is much the same as the Butterfly tale, and bears a striking resemblance to certain German wehr-wolf legends. It is not about a wolf, however, the chief actor being—

A BLACK DOG.

One harvest time, forty or fifty years ago (or perhaps more), in a certain farmhouse not a mile from the grove where poor Angus met with sudden death, very strange things were observed. Pails left at night in trim rows on benches ready for the morning milking would be found, when required, on the barn floor, or on top of a hay-rick, or in some other equally unsuitable situation. A spade might be searched for in vain until some member of the family, climbing into bed at night, would find it snugly reposing there before him. Pillows were mysteriously removed, and found sometimes outdoors at a distance from the house. Screws were removed from their places, and harness hung up in the stable was taken apart. The family were rendered materially uncomfortable, and did their best to become also immaterially miserable by searching for proofs of supernatural agency. A great deal of proof was forthcoming; the matter was soon beyond doubt, and nothing else was talked about than the condition of things on this farm. Many speculations were afloat; every tiny occurrence was examined as possibly affording evidence in the matter. When a large black dog, evidently without owners, was observed to frequent the vicinity, the eye of the populace was at once upon it. It was shy, hiding and skulking about a good deal, and it was always hard to discover when sought. The owner of the land was strongly advised to shoot it, and the popular distrust was increased when he did one day fire at it without producing any visible results, the dog being seen a few hours later in excellent health. The interest excited was so great that when a “bee” was held on this farm for something connected with the harvest the attendance was immense, quite unusually so, and the neighbor women came in to help in the preparation of supper on an extensive scale. Some of the men made a long table of boards to accommodate the company. The women spread cloths and arranged dishes and viands. When all was ready, they regarded it with approval, pleased especially with the shining of the long rows of plates and the whiteness of the linen: then some of them took the dinner-horn and went out to give the signal to the men, who were at some distance away. The other women went to the cook-house, where in summer the kitchen stove stood, and the supper table was left alone. A few minutes later, when all gathered around it again, chaos reigned where order had been. The cloth was spotted with symmetrical shapes, a tiny heap of dust and sand was on every plate, and the knives were on the floor. The disorder was of a strangely methodical kind, the same quantity of dust being on every plate, while each knife was placed in the same position as his fellows. The men trooped in whilst the women were staring aghast, and great was their indignation.

“Give me your gun,” cried one, “and I’ll put in this silver bit with the charge, and see if it will not make an end of such work.”

And just then the dog was seen prowling about at the foot of the yard near a thicket of bushes where he probably was often concealed. The gun was fired; it carried a silver bullet, and this time the aim was true, for all saw that the animal was shot. The day had been warm, and they were tired out, and did not go to make sure of results at once. They sat around the rearranged board for an hour or more before some of them sauntered down to see the vanquished enemy. They did not wonder at first to find no trace of a dog, as, like any other wounded animal, it was likely to creep into the thicket to die. But the thicket was small, and was soon explored on hands and knees. Nothing was there; and the body of that dog was never seen by mortal, although the search grew hourly more diligent and thorough. And whilst they searched, there came a boy running from a stone house not far distant, bidding them to come over with him quickly, for grandfather was dead. “He dragged himself into the house,” said the child, “as though he were hurt, an hour ago, and lay down on his bed, and now he is dead.”

Friends hastened over, but were met at the door by the dead man’s wife, terrified and weeping, but almost forbidding them to enter. For some unfortunate reason, the poor woman would not let them near the body, little knowing, I suppose, the suspicion in their minds and the construction which must inevitably be put on her demeanor.

This story concerns a man who is, I should think, grandfather and great-grandfather to a fifth of the population of that township, and it assumed such proportions that, as I have stated, mention of it was prohibited, long years afterwards, by a clergyman now living in the county of Bruce. It is to this day a little difficult for the descendants of the man who died that long-ago harvest-time to marry out of their own connection. If one of them should ever aspire to represent his county in parliament, the enemy will assuredly come to the front with the Black Dog.

Now, I have told such of the weird stories of that county as I best remember. I heard many more, but they are wholly or partially forgotten; fragments of them I retain. One is especially to be regretted because it was what is called well authenticated, having been noised abroad sufficiently to be noticed by some newspaper, which naturally produced an inquiry. It was considered in that region to be _the_ ghost story _par excellence_. I was tempted to try and relate it at length in this paper, but found that I could not do so without supplying from fancy what would take the place of forgotten details. It is a story of a desecrated grave. I was shown the grave. The body of a young girl was stolen from it the night after burial, taken to a neighboring village and concealed in a tavern stable, the intention being to convey it next day to Montreal; but that very night the girl herself appeared in a dream to her father, telling him where her body then lay, naming the guilty parties, and giving a perfectly accurate account of the robbery, describing the road taken through fields, and a discussion that actually had taken place regarding the advisability of taking the coffin, that is, the possibility of such theft making prosecution easier in the event of discovery. The father roused friends, who accompanied him to the village, and the body was discovered in exactly the position described in his dream and recounted by him on their way thither.

Although I do not, in this or any such story, accept the supernatural theory, I cannot explain it. It has never been explained. It belongs to a country peopled with unearthly shapes, the offspring of poetic natures, wholly uninformed, and possibly the conditions are favorable to “manifestations.” “He who desires illusions,” you know, “shall have them beyond his desire.”

I am reluctant to leave the subject, there is so much to tell, for the writing of this paper has revived incidents that seemed quite forgotten. I would like to talk about a certain lonely carpenter shop, in which, before a death, the sound of plane and hammer used to be heard at night, and we were compelled to believe that the ghost of the sick one was, with officious if not indecent haste, making his coffin. As he was not yet a ghost, that is, not yet disembodied, there was a confusion of thought here. On some occasions he added to the nuisance by burning a candle which extinguished of its own accord if approached.

A personage whom they called the Evil One was not infrequently encountered by individuals in lonely places. I was accustomed to hearing of these meetings, and therefore was much surprised at the indignation shown against a certain young fellow of a frivolous disposition, who claimed to have had such an experience. I inquired of a clergyman, who knew the locality well, the reason of the young man’s narrative being received with disfavor. He laughed very heartily while he explained that a visit from the Prince of Darkness was regarded as proof of the highest sanctity, and was therefore the privilege only of persons aged and of long-established preëminence in the church. The young man was disturbing the traditions.

I was a little shocked to hear of a repulsive superstition which I have read of as being peculiar to certain parts of England,—I mean a horrible vampire story given in explanation of the ravages often made in a family by consumption. I did not meet this superstition myself, but was told that it was among them. Consumption was rife among them; it seemed to be hereditary. They looked so remarkably robust, and yet fell so easily a prey to this disease, and it seldom lingered! It was nearly always a very rapid illness. These are sad memories. The matter always seemed so hopeless! In a sickroom superstition ceases to be either funny or graceful. I stood by sick-beds with a sore heart, knowing too well that the haste with which a doctor was procured would be fully equalled by the zeal with which his orders would be disregarded. They had faith in the physician, the man, but none whatever in his prescriptions. There were two doctors, whom I may call Dr. X. and Dr. Z. Each had his admirers, who vaunted his superiority.

I stopped one day on the road to inquire, of a man whom I met, after the health of some of his neighbors.

“Oh,” said he, “they would soon be well if they would see Dr. Z. They’ll be having Dr. X. all the time, and I do not see that they’re gaining at all.”

I said something in defence of Dr. X.

“Well, Miss F., I’ll just tell a story that will let you know the difference between these two doctors,” said my friend. “My father was once laid up very bad with a cold that he could not get rid of, and we sent for Dr. X., who gave him a phial of medicine. Well, next day our neighbor, John McM., came in, and seeing my father no better, he said, ‘Oh, you should have had Dr. Z.; but I’ll soon put that right for you.’ Straightway he went back to his own house for a bottle that had been a year or two there, of Dr. Z.’s mixing. It had been in the house since his father died, but they were not sure that it had been some of his medicines. They had forgotten all about it, and the paper of writing had come off; so they did not know how much to take, but they just took the writing on Dr. X.’s bottle for a guide, and poured out a spoonful for my father, who began to mend at once, and was out at work in three or four days after.”

This tale moved me so much that I went to the side of the road and sat down on a log to thoroughly take it in and fix it in my memory. When I believed that I had it safely, I asked gently, “Murdoch, what if it had been a liniment and poisonous?”

My friend drew himself up, his face aglow with faith in Dr. Z., and replied proudly, “Dr. Z. never gives poisons; he always gives healthy medicines.”

But I am going from one story to another, and lengthening my “uncanny folk-lore” unwarrantably. To repeat myself, it is hard to leave these reminiscences.

Like the ghost of a dear friend dead Is time long past.

But before closing I would like to say to those who speak of _authentic_ ghost stories, that nothing will make one so thoroughly sceptical regarding them as entering into them heartily, and, so to say, assisting in their composition. I used to wish them true with all my heart. I earnestly desired to believe them, for I was lonely, and this supplied excitement; but being behind the scenes, I was unable to shut my eyes to their origin. On one occasion, when a man was relating to me a peculiarly attractive narrative, I perceived in it a flaw, or a lack of sequence which would be a weak place in his chain of evidence. I made a remark, a _sideways_ remark, which I meant to serve as suggestion without showing that I saw the fault. I saw the idea take. He was excited, and did not realize that I had drawn his attention to the weak place, which he immediately bridged over, materially changing the story in doing so. He was an honorable man, who would have scorned a deliberate falsehood; but scarcely an hour later I heard him retail the altered narrative and offer to give every detail on oath as perfectly accurate. He knew that I heard him, and in fact he appealed to me as having been the first hearer. He was entirely unconscious that I had assisted him to manufacture the most valuable part of the evidence. I did not confess. I think it wrong to spoil a good story. But I am quite certain that ghost-seers, even if they are mighty men who edit reviews, are not, and cannot be, reliable witnesses.

_C. A. Fraser._

AN OTOE AND AN OMAHA TALE.

The tales which follow were obtained in Nebraska, from an informant of Otoe extraction, married to an Omaha, and are given as nearly as possible in the words of the narrator.

THE CHIEF’S DAUGHTERS: AN OTOE TALE.

In the evening, in summer, upon a hot night two young girls, chief’s daughters, lay on the ground outside their tents gazing at the sky. As the stars came out one of them said:—

“I wish I were away up there. Do you see where that dim star is? There is where I wish I might be.” And she fixed her eyes upon the twinkling star that seemed to be vanishing behind the clouds.

The other girl said: “It is too dim. I wish I were up by that bright one, that large brilliant star,” and she pointed to where a steady light glowed red.

Soon they were asleep and the brilliant lights in the blue above kept watch. In the night when they awoke each young girl found herself where she had wished to be. The one in the dim star was in the home of a brave young chief, and she became his bride and was happy. The beautiful star had appeared dim to her while she was yet upon the earth because it was so far, far away that she could not see its glorious light.

The girl in the bright star found herself in a servant’s home, and was obliged to do all manner of work and to become the servant’s wife. This star had been nearer the earth, and so it had seemed to be the larger and brighter star. When this girl found that her friend had gone to a beautiful star and become the wife of a chief, with plenty of servants to wait upon her, and that she was never permitted to do any work, she cried and cried because the change in her own condition seemed more cruel, and she was even obliged to live with a servant.

The girls were still friends and often met in the clouds and went out to gather wild turnips, but the chief’s wife could never dig, her friend was always obliged to serve her. Whenever they started out an old man would say to them:—

“When you dig a turnip, you must strike with the hoe once, then pull up the turnip. Never, by any means, strike twice.” After going to gather turnips many times and receiving always this same instruction the chief’s wife grew curious, and one day she said to her friend:

“Why is it, they tell us to strike but once? To-day when you dig that turnip I wish you to strike twice. Let us see why they allow us to strike but once.”

The servant struck once with the hoe and took up the turnip, then, as commanded, she struck with her hoe again in the same place. Behold a hole! She leaned forward and looked down. She saw her home. She cried to her friend. “Look! I can see through the clouds. See! there is our home.”

The chief’s wife looked also, and she saw the village and her home. The girls sat looking through the hole, and they longed to go home, and they sat weeping. An old man chanced to pass by, and he saw them and stopped and asked:—

“What is the matter? What are you crying about?”

And they answered, “Because we can see our home. We are so far away, we wish to be there, but we can never get there.”

The old man passed on. He went to the chief and he told him that the girls sat weeping because they could see their home, and they wanted to go back to the earth.

The chief then called all his people together, and he sent them away to find all the lariats[5] that they could.

In the village, on the earth, every one had mourned for the chief’s daughters, who had so strangely disappeared, and could not be found. It was a long time since they were lost; but the people still thought of them.

To-day in the village a great many people had come to see the boys and young men play. They used a ring[6] and a long stick, round at one end. One person would throw the ring in the air and at the same time another would try to send his arrow through it; the men would run swiftly and throw their sticks when they were near the ring, for the one who got most arrows through while the ring was still in the air was the winner. All the people were excited over the game and urging on the young men, when one of them happened to look up toward the sky.

“Why, look up,” he called out, “something is coming down. Look! They are very large. Look at them!”

All who heard stopped and looked up, and others seeing them look, turned to see what it was. Many ran to the spot where these things were falling. Then the people found they were the lost girls.

The good chief in the dim star had ordered all the lariats knotted together and then he had wound them around the bodies of the two girls and dropped them gently through the hole in the sky to the earth, keeping tight the end of the rope until the girls reached the ground.

Joyfully the Indians ran before the girls to carry the news of their return to their sorrowful parents. One of the girls looked sad and pitiful, the other looked happy as though she had been in some beautiful place.

STORY OF THE SKULL: AN OMAHA STORY.

A woman was walking along, she was proud because she had on her finest clothes, and she met another woman, who asked:—

“Where are you going, sister-in-law?”

“I am going off a long ways.”

“Let us go together, then,” said the second woman.

They walked on, and met a third woman, who asked:—

“Where are you going?” and when they answered her she said: “I am going also; let us go together;” and they walked along one after the other.

They met a fourth woman, who asked: “Where are you going, sister-in-law?” and she also joined them.

Walking in single file, the women came to a pile of bones where people had died.

The first woman kicked them with her foot, and, turning to the second woman, said:—