No one remembered now what had given rise to the name, and no one living had ever seen the ghostly white ganders that were said to haunt the place at night.

Still, the story was handed down from one to another, and the place was shunned as much as possible.
Brier Crook church stood at one end, with its desolate little graveyard, where the colored people buried their dead under its weeping willows and gloomy cedars.
John Jay avoided the lonely road that led in that direction, and took the one that wound around the other end of the thicket, past a deserted mill.

Yet, when he reached the ruined old building, with its staring windows and sunken roof, he was half sorry that he had not gone the other way.
The berries were on the far side of the thicket, and he was obliged to pass either the graveyard or the old mill to reach them.

The possibility of plunging boldly into the thicket and pushing his way through to the other side had never occurred to him, although it is doubtful if he would have dared to do so even had he thought of it.

He ran down the dry bed of the stream, and past the silent moss-grown wheel, breathing a sigh of relief when he came out into an open field beyond.
Balancing himself on the top rail of the fence, he looked cautiously along the edge of the thicket.