One Saturday evening in September, some years ago, Isabel and I were returning from paying some last bills at Lumina, and as we swung up Barnaby Lane, we saw lanterns in the graveyard and a number of men busy digging a grave. This was rather unusual, and so, after putting the car away, I went over to see what was happening. It appeared that Mrs. Bradley had died at North Bay, and was to be buried here. (I think she was a relative of Butt Woodcock's, and her husband was one of the Dwight Bradley family. They had lived for a time on the old Dabold place back of Pine Grove Inn). The undertaker in North Bay had sent word that the burial should not be postponed, and as his words were being taken literally, the burial was to be as soon as possible after the arrival of the midnight train in Huntsville bringing the casket from North Bay. The men around the grave reckoned that the undertaker from Huntsville would reach Dwight about 2:30 AM, and they were hurrying to be ready. They asked me to take the service, which I said I would do.

Two men were in the grave digging, and one man stood at each end above holding a lantern down into the excavation to illuminate the process. Several others, including Johnny Robertson and George Keown and little Hughie Corbett stood around watching and giving advice. Willie Tom was one of the diggers in the grave.

Willie would go to one end and stamp his foot and call, "She's high here," and then to the other end, and with another stamp of his foot say, "She's low here." With this kind of guidance the digging went steadily on. After a while there arose a dispute as to how deep a grave should be. There was quite a lot of talk and finally it was decided that six feet was the proper depth. No one had a rule, but that was no problem, for Johnnie Robertson could cut a gad in the bush exactly three feet long. He slipped off into the dark to cut one. Meanwhile the steady tramp, tramp went on in the grave, and Willie's voice kept announcing, "She's low there: she's high here." The diggers were throwing out their shovels of earth, and the adult watchers were offering their advice, when suddenly there was a slight sound from the bush where Johnnie had gone to cut his gad.

"What's that?" cried Hughie Corbett in a startled voice.

A head came up out of the grave, and with it a voice:

"If you'se afraid of ghosts, kid, you'se had better be making for home."

And from lower down the laconic, "She's high here."

Johnnie returned with his yard-stick and the digging went steadily on. Suddenly one of the shovels slipped easily through some gravel on the side of the grave. "By George," cried George Keown, "you'se have run plumb into the end of that other grave down here. I tell ye once they had me movin' a baby's grave down in the lower part there, and my shovel run right into another grave, an' by George, that's the last time I'll ever do a thing like that, so it is."

Finally, by all the measures that could be made, the grave was properly dug, and the diggers and onlookers slipped away into the night to prepare themselves for the burial service. I went home, set the alarm, got my New Testament, as I had no service book with me, and was prepared to dress and run over at the proper moment.