ars. Truth to tell
it has never been occupied. Some call it the haunted house with the
green gables.

Some will tell you there is a shattered romance behind the empty,
green-gabled house. Others contend it _is_ tenanted. They have seen a
lovely woman, lamp in hand, move about from room to room through the
quiet night and stand sometimes beside the window up under the green
gable that looks toward the west. She seems to be watching and waiting,
they say. But when the day dawns woman and lamp vanish into thin air.

Others will tell you that an eccentric old man built the house for his
parents long since dead. He believes, so they say--this old eccentric
man living somewhere in the Kentucky hills (they are not sure of the
exact location)--that his parents will return. Not as an aged couple,
feeble and bent as they died, but in youth, happy and healthful. This
"eccentric" son himself now stooped with age, with silver hair and
faltering step, built the pretty white house that his parents might have
beauty in a dwelling such as they never knew in their former life on
earth. The old fellow himself, so the story goes, makes many a nocturnal
visit to the dream house, hoping to find his parents returned and
happily living within its paneled walls.

There are all sorts of stories, varying in their nature according to the
distance of their origin from the green-gabled house.

Curious people have come all the way from the Pacific Coast to see it,
from New England and Maine, from Canada and Utah.

As the years go by the legend grows.

"Oh, yes, I've seen the haunted house with the green gables," some will
say, glowing with satisfaction. "And they do say the eccentric old man
who built it for his parents has silent, trusty Negro servants dressed
in spotless white who stand behind the high-backed chair of the master
and mistress at the table laden with gleaming silver and a sumptuous
feast. The old man firmly believes his parents will return!"

What with the increasing stories you decide to take a look for yourself.
I did, accompanied by a newsman and a photographer.

Nothing like getting proof of the pudding.

Out you go, under cover of darkness, equipped with flashlights and flash
bulbs. A haunted house, you calculate, will be much more intriguing by
night. Stealthily you draw near. You peer into the windows, the
uncurtained windows, in breathless awe prepared to see the lady with the
lamp floating from room to room, hoping