The Conjure Woman Charles W. Chesnutt (best fiction novels .TXT) đ
- Author: Charles W. Chesnutt
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âAll dis time de goopher wuz a-wukkinâ. When de vimes staâted ter wither, Henry âmenceâ ter complain er his rheumatiz; en when de leaves begin ter dry up, his haâr âmenceâ ter drap out. When de vimes freshâ up a bit, Henryâd git peart agâin, en when de vimes witherâ agâin, Henryâd git ole agâin, en des kepâ gittinâ moâ en moâ fitten fer nuffin; he des pined away, en pined away, en fineâly tuk ter his cabin; en when de big vime whar he got de sap ter ânâint his head withered en turned yaller en died, Henry died tooâ âdes went out sorter like a cannel. Dey didnât âpear ter be nuffin de matter wid âim, âcepânâ de rheumatiz, but his strenk des dwinelâ away âtel he didnâ hab ernuff lefâ ter draw his bref. De goopher had got de under holt, en thâowed Henry dat time fer good en all.
âMars Dugalâ tuk on mightâly âbout losinâ his vimes en his nigger in de same year; en he swoâ dat ef he could git holt er dat Yankee heâd wear âim ter a frazzle, en den chaw up de frazzle; en heâd done it, too, for Mars Dugalâ âuz a monstâus brash man wâen he once git started. He sot de vimyaâd out ober agâin, but it wuz thâee er foâ year befoâ de vimes got ter bâarinâ any scuppernonâs.
âWâen de wah broke out, Mars Dugalâ raiseâ a compâny, en went off ter fight de Yankees. He say he wuz mighty glad dat wah come, en he des want ter kill a Yankee fer eveây dollar he losâ âlong er dat grape-raisinâ Yankee. En I âspecâ he would âaâ done it, too, ef de Yankees hadnâ sâpicioned sumpân, en killed him fusâ. Atter de sârender ole miss moveâ ter town, de niggers all scattered âway fum de plantation, en de vimyaâd ainâ beân cultervated sence.â
âIs that story true?â asked Annie doubtfully, but seriously, as the old man concluded his narrative.
âItâs des ez true ez Iâm a-settinâ here, miss. Deyâs a easy way ter prove it: I kin lead de way right ter Henryâs grave ober yander in de plantation buryinâ-grounâ. En I tell yer wâat, marster, I wouldnâ âvise you to buy dis yer ole vimyaâd, âcaze de goopherâs on it yit, en dey ainâ no tellinâ wâen itâs gwine ter crap out.â
âBut I thought you said all the old vines died.â
âDey did âpear ter die, but a few un âem come out agâin, en is mixed in âmongsâ de yuthers. I ainâ skeered ter eat de grapes, âcaze I knows de old vimes fum de noo ones; but wid strangers dey ainâ no tellinâ wâat mought happen. I wouldnâ âvise yer ter buy dis vimyaâd.â
I bought the vineyard, nevertheless, and it has been for a long time in a thriving condition, and is often referred to by the local press as a striking illustration of the opportunities open to Northern capital in the development of Southern industries. The luscious scuppernong holds first rank among our grapes, though we cultivate a great many other varieties, and our income from grapes packed and shipped to the Northern markets is quite considerable. I have not noticed any developments of the goopher in the vineyard, although I have a mild suspicion that our colored assistants do not suffer from want of grapes during the season.
I found, when I bought the vineyard, that Uncle Julius had occupied a cabin on the place for many years, and derived a respectable revenue from the product of the neglected grapevines. This, doubtless, accounted for his advice to me not to buy the vineyard, though whether it inspired the goopher story I am unable to state. I believe, however, that the wages I paid him for his services as coachman, for I gave him employment in that capacity, were more than an equivalent for anything he lost by the sale of the vineyard.
Poâ SandyOn the northeast corner of my vineyard in central North Carolina, and fronting on the Lumberton plank-road, there stood a small frame house, of the simplest construction. It was built of pine lumber, and contained but one room, to which one window gave light and one door admission. Its weather-beaten sides revealed a virgin innocence of paint. Against one end of the house, and occupying half its width, there stood a huge brick chimney: the crumbling mortar had left large cracks between the bricks; the bricks themselves had begun to scale off in large flakes, leaving the chimney sprinkled with unsightly blotches. These evidences of decay were but partially concealed by a creeping vine, which extended its slender branches hither and thither in an ambitious but futile attempt to cover the whole chimney. The wooden shutter, which had once protected the unglazed window, had fallen from its hinges, and lay rotting in the rank grass and jimson-weeds beneath. This building, I learned when I bought the place, had been used as a schoolhouse for several years prior to the breaking out of the war, since which time it had remained unoccupied, save when some stray cow or vagrant hog had sought shelter within its walls from the chill rains and nipping winds of winter.
One day my wife requested me to build her a new kitchen. The house erected by us, when we first came to live upon the vineyard, contained a very conveniently arranged kitchen; but for some occult reason my wife wanted a kitchen in the back yard, apart from the dwelling-house,
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