Short Fiction Kate Chopin (best e reader for android .txt) đ
- Author: Kate Chopin
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âIf it would been me myseâf, I would nevair grumbâ. Wâen a chimbly breck, I take one, two de boys; we patch âim up besâ we know how. We keep on menâ de fenceâ, firsâ one place, anudder; anâ if it would nâ be fer dem muleâ of Lacroixâ âtonnerre! I donâ wanâ to talk âbout dem muleâ. But me, I would nâ grumbâ. Itâs Euphrasie, hair. She say datâs all fool nonsense fer rich man lack Hardinâ-Offdeân to let a piece oâ lanâ goinâ lack dat.â
âEuphrasie?â questioned Offdean, in some surprise; for he had not yet heard of any such person.
âEuphrasie, my liâle chile. Escuse me one minute,â Pierre added, remembering that he was in his shirtsleeves, and rising to reach for his coat, which hung upon a peg near by. He was a small, square man, with mild, kindly face, brown and roughened from healthy exposure. His hair hung gray and long beneath the soft felt hat that he wore. When he had seated himself, Offdean asked:â â
âWhere is your little child? I havenât seen her,â inwardly marveling that a little child should have uttered such words of wisdom as those recorded of her.
âShe yonder to Mme. Duplan on Cane River. I been kine espectinâ hair sence yistidayâ âhair anâ Placide,â casting an unconscious glance down the long plantation road. âBut Mme. Duplan she nevair want to let Euphrasie go. You know itâs hair raiseâ Euphrasie sence hair poâ ma dieâ, Mr. Offdeân. She teck dat liâle chile, anâ raise it, sem lack she raisinâ Ninette. But itâs moâ âan a year now Euphrasie say datâs all fool nonsense to leave me livinâ âlone lack dat, wid nuttinâ âcepâ dem niggerââ âanâ Placide once a wâile. Anâ she came yair bossinâ! My goodness!â The old man chuckled, âDatâs hair been writinâ all dem letterâ to Hardinâ-Offdeân. If it would been me myseâfââ â
IIIPlacide seemed to have had a foreboding of ill from the start when he found that Euphrasie began to interest herself in the condition of the plantation. This ill feeling voiced itself partly when he told her it was none of her lookout if the place went to the dogs. âItâs good enough for Joe Duplan to run things en grand seigneur, Euphrasie; thatâs wâatâs spoiled you.â
Placide might have done much single-handed to keep the old place in better trim, if he had wished. For there was no one more clever than he to do a handâs turn at any and every thing. He could mend a saddle or bridle while he stood whistling a tune. If a wagon required a brace or a bolt, it was nothing for him to step into a shop and turn out one as deftly as the most skilled blacksmith. Anyone seeing him at work with plane and rule and chisel would have declared him a born carpenter. And as for mixing paints, and giving a fine and lasting coat to the side of a house or barn, he had not his equal in the country.
This last talent he exercised little in his native parish. It was in a neighboring one, where he spent the greater part of his time, that his fame as a painter was established. There, in the village of Orville, he owned a little shell of a house, and during odd times it was Placideâs great delight to tinker at this small home, inventing daily new beauties and conveniences to add to it. Lately it had become a precious possession to him, for in the spring he was to bring Euphrasie there as his wife.
Maybe it was because of his talent, and his indifference in turning it to good, that he was often called âa no-account creoleâ by thriftier souls than himself. But no-account creole or not, painter, carpenter, blacksmith, and whatever else he might be at times, he was a Santien always, with the best blood in the country running in his veins. And many thought his choice had fallen in very low places when he engaged himself to marry little Euphrasie, the daughter of old Pierre Manton and a problematic mother a good deal less than nobody.
Placide might have married almost anyone, too; for it was the easiest thing in the world for a girl to fall in love with himâ âsometimes the hardest thing in the world not to, he was such a splendid fellow, such a careless, happy, handsome fellow. And he did not seem to mind in the least that young men who had grown up with him were lawyers now, and planters, and members of Shakespeare clubs in town. No one ever expected anything quite so humdrum as that of the Santien boys. As youngsters, all three had been the despair of the country
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