The Mystery at Bob-White Cave

as her fingers swept minor chords from her guitar, she sang plaintively,
     
“Oh, she was a lass of the low countree,
And he was a lord of high degree,
But she loved his lordship tenderlee.
Sing sorrow... sweet sorrow.
     
    “It’s a song my father made up. Mother taught me to sing it,” she said.
    Somewhere, almost whispering, a man’s low voice took up the refrain:
     
“Sing sorrow... sweet sorrow.”
     
    He sang so low that Linnie did not hear him. No one in the listening crowd on the lawn seemed to notice. Trixie, in the kitchen, heard him and thought it was someone outside in the crowd. Jacob heard him and ran around in circles. Mrs. Moore heard the low refrain, paled, and gasped, “Speak to me, Matthew!” When no voice spoke in answer, she said sadly to Trixie, “It was Matthew’s spirit. He brought that wild turkey and the squirrels. He’s trying to take care of Linnie and me. He brought that little lame bird for me to tend, too.”
    “That isn’t possible, Mrs. Moore,” Trixie said. “Think back. It’s only lately you’ve been thinking you saw your husband’s spirit or heard it, isn’t it? If he were going to take care of you, he’d have tried when Linnie was younger. I think you’re so lonesome you just imagine things. One of the guests brought the gift as a surprise. That’s the only possible explanation. I’ll ask.”
    “You’ll waste your time. No one in this world brought me the turkey and squirrels. It was Matthew’s spirit. I know that for a fact.”
    Trixie shook her head. “But there aren't any ghosts, Mrs. Moore.”
    “You believe your way, and I’ll believe mine. It comforts me, even if I can’t speak to Matthew. Don’t say you don’t believe in spirits, either, Trixie. Honey told me about your Rip Van Winkle.”
    “But that’s just a legend. No one really believes that it happened.”
    “More’s the pity. Here in the Ozarks we know that restless spirits walk. I’ve seen things myself. I saw a white-covered corpse lying in the road. It was wrapped in a sheet. When I looked again, it wasn’t there. It was just before they sent me Matthew’s knapsack and told me he was dead.
    “A woman I know rode over here one afternoon on her mule. As she rode, a baby floated in the air right alongside of her most of the way. She knew it for a sign and hurried to her mother’s house, where her children were spending the day. Her baby had fallen off the bed and been killed. But there! I’ll not spoil your party. Just don’t ever tell me there aren’t any spirits here in our mountains. Oh, I wish I could talk to Matthew!” Mrs. Moore dried her eyes on her apron. “Here’s a pitcher of lemonade, Trixie. You take it out in the yard, please. I think everyone is ready for some more refreshments.”
    The children, stuffed to bursting and tired with playing, tumbled to sleep in the grass. Babies grew restless and cried. Men hustled to hitch up their mules. The women crowded around Mrs. Moore to thank her for the party and to invite her and her guests to “light and eat” whenever they were near their homes. Trixie and Honey picked up sleepy children in their arms and carried them to the wagons. The boys helped harness the mules. Then they all shook hands with the guests and stood laughing and waving as the crowd went off up the trail in back of the lodge, singing softly,
     
“I have a Savior, gone to glory,
I have a Savior, gone to glory,
I have a Savior, gone to glory
On the other shore.”
     
    From the far top of the trail, where the lonesome road crawled crookedly through the trees, their voices came back:
 
“Won’t that be a happy meeting,
Won’t that be a happy meeting,
Won’t that be a happy meeting On that other shore?”
     
    “That was a glorious party! I love every one of those people. I’ve never known anyone like them!” Trixie said enthusiastically.
    Honey gave Mrs. Moore a hug and smiled lovingly at Uncle Andrew.
    “You know how to give a real party, sir,” Jim said. “It was Mrs. Moore’s idea—and Linnie’s,” Uncle Andrew said. “They did all the fixing for it.”
    The young people crowded around Mrs. Moore to thank her and pick up the last crumbs from the cake board. They watched her pack away the turkey and squirrels in the basket, to be taken to her cabin to cool in the cellar.
    “Who brought them to you?” Mart asked.
    Mrs. Moore didn’t answer. A rooster crowed. “The wind’s changed,” she said. “Looks like we may have