Ez fer po' Dan, he did n' hab nowhar e'se ter go, so he des
stayed 'roun' Mahaly's grabe, w'en he wa'n't out in de yuther woods
gittin' sump'n ter eat. En sometimes, w'en night would come, de niggers
useter heah him howlin' en howlin' down dere, des fittin' ter break his
hea't. En den some mo' un 'em said dey seed Mahaly's ha'nt dere
'bun'ance er times, colloguin' wid dis gray wolf. En eben now, fifty
yeahs sence, long atter ole Dan has died en dried up in de woods, his
ha'nt en Mahaly's hangs 'roun' dat piece er low groun', en eve'body w'at
goes 'bout dere has some bad luck er 'nuther; fer ha'nts doan lack ter
be 'sturb' on dey own stompin'-groun'."
The air had darkened while the old man related this harrowing tale. The
rising wind whistled around the eaves, slammed the loose
window-shutters, and, still increasing, drove the rain in fiercer gusts
into the piazza. As Julius finished his story and we rose to seek
shelter within doors, the blast caught the angle of some chimney or
gable in the rear of the house, and bore to our ears a long, wailing
note, an epitome, as it were, of remorse and hopelessness.
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