A Good Night for Ghosts by Mary Pope Osborne Page A

trumpet.”
    Kathleen laughed. “Well, this is your chance,” she said. “The trumpet’s magic will make you a brilliant performer.”
    “But the magic can only happen once,” Teddy reminded Jack and Annie, “just as on your last journey with the magic flute. Play the trumpet only when you face your greatest danger.”
    “And while one of us plays, the other has to make up a song, right?” said Annie. “And whatever we sing will come true.”
    “Precisely,” said Teddy.
    “Um… what danger will we face in New Orleans?” asked Jack.
    “Perhaps none,” said Teddy. “But keep the magic trumpet with you just in case. And remember, after you have played it, the magic will be gone and it will become an ordinary trumpet.”
    “Got it,” said Jack. He took a deep breath.
    “Okay,” said Annie. “Ready?”
    “Wait,” said Jack. “Can you tell us what kind of creative genius we’re looking for?”
    “We can do more than that,” said Kathleen with a smile. “We can tell you his name. It is Louis Armstrong.”
    “Louis Armstrong,” repeated Jack. He knew that name.
    “He is the King of Jazz,” said Teddy.
    “The King of Jazz?” said Annie. “Cool!”
    “Yes,” said Kathleen. “But Louis Armstrong won’t know that when you meet him. It is your job to put him on the right path.”
    “To give his gifts to the world,” said Annie. “Got it.”
    “Good,” said Teddy. “And now you should go.”
    “Right,” said Jack. He pointed at the cover of the book. “I wish we could go there,” he said. “To New Orleans!”
    “To meet the King of Jazz!” said Annie.
    “Good luck!” said Teddy as he and Kathleen waved good-bye.
    The wind started to blow.
    The tree house started to spin.
    It spun faster and faster.
    Then everything was still.
    Absolutely still.

T he hot, muggy air was filled with noise. Jack and Annie heard the
clippity-clop
of horses’ hooves. They heard voices calling out “Crawfish pies!” “Buttermilk!” “Gumbo for sale here!”
    Jack looked down at his and Annie’s clothes. They were both wearing white shirts and dark trousers with suspenders. Jack’s backpack had turned into a cloth bag. Neither Jack nor Annie was wearing shoes.
    “Wow, we’re barefoot. That’s cool,” said Annie. “And at least I can run in these pants. I like them alot better than the dress I wore on our last mission.”
    “Yeah.” Jack smiled, remembering Annie’s long, frilly dress in Vienna and his velvet coat and white wig. “I like being barefoot, too,” he said. “But what year did we come to? I can’t tell from our outfits.”
    Jack and Annie looked out the window. The tree house had landed in a grove of palm trees. Not far away, steamboats churned down a river. Below them was a bustling city scene. Rows of stores lined both sides of a wide street. Vendors were selling food from carts. Women shoppers wore long skirts, and men wore white suits and hats.
    Mule carts and horse-drawn buggies bumped alongside a few antique-looking cars. Moving down the middle of the street were red and green train cars. Each one was attached to an electric line overhead.
    “This is definitely a long time ago,” said Jack. “But when exactly?”

    “I can’t tell,” said Annie.
    “Maybe our research book can help us,” said Jack. “I’ll look up Louis Armstrong.” Jack looked in the index of
A History of New Orleans Music
and found a chapter on Louis Armstrong. He read:
    Born in New Orleans in 1901, Louis Armstrong grew up to be one of the greatest jazz musicians who ever lived .
    A photo showed an African American man playing a trumpet. His cheeks were puffed out and his eyes were closed. Stage lights were shining on him. Thousands of people were in the audience. The caption under the photo read
Louis Armstrong, King of Jazz
.
    “So what is
jazz
exactly?” asked Annie.
    “It’s a kind of music,” said Jack.
    “Well, yeah, but what kind?” said Annie.
    Jack looked up
jazz
in the glossary