The power of this horrible example was too much for Johnnie.

"Don't you reckon it's bedtime?" he suggested tremblingly.

Thenceforth for many months Johnnie led a haunted life. Ghosts glowered
at him from cellar and garret. Specters slunk at his heels, phantoms
flitted through the barn. Twilight teemed with horrors, and midnight,
when he awoke at that hour, made of his bedroom a veritable Brocken.

It was vain for his parents to expostulate with him. Was one not bound
to believe one's own eyes? And how about the testimony of the Hired
Hand?

The story in his reader--told in verse and graphically illustrated--of
the boy named Walter, who, being alone on a lonesome highway one dark
night, beheld a sight that made his blood run cold, acquired an abnormal
interest for Johnnie. Walter, with courage resembling madness, marched
straight up to the alleged ghost and laughed gleefully to find, "It was
a friendly guide-post, his wand'ring steps to guide."

This was all very well, as it turned out, but what if it had been a
sure-enough ghost, reflected Johnnie. What if it had reached down with
its long, snaky arms and snatched Walter up--and run off with him in the
dark--and no telling what? Or it might have swooped straight up in the
air with him, for ghosts could do that. Johnnie resolved he would not
take any chances with friendly guide-posts which might turn out to be
hostile spirits.

Then there was the similar tale of the lame goose, and the one
concerning the pillow in the swing--each intended, no doubt, to allay