Short Fiction Kate Chopin (best e reader for android .txt) đ
- Author: Kate Chopin
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Evariste in a businesslike manner began carefully to trace on the tablecloth imaginary characters with an imaginary pen; he could not have written the real characters with a real penâ âhe did not know how.
âYou will put onâneatâ de picture,â he said, deliberately, âââDis is one picture of Mista Evariste Anatole Bonamour, a gentâman of de Bayou TĂȘche.âââ
In SabineThe sight of a human habitation, even if it was a rude log cabin with a mud chimney at one end, was a very gratifying one to Grégoire.
He had come out of Natchitoches parish, and had been riding a great part of the day through the big lonesome parish of Sabine. He was not following the regular Texas road, but, led by his erratic fancy, was pushing toward the Sabine River by circuitous paths through the rolling pine forests.
As he approached the cabin in the clearing, he discerned behind a palisade of pine saplings an old negro man chopping wood.
âHowdy, Uncle,â called out the young fellow, reining his horse. The negro looked up in blank amazement at so unexpected an apparition, but he only answered: âHow you do, suh,â accompanying his speech by a series of polite nods.
âWho lives yere?â
âHitâs Masâ Bud Aiken wâat liveâ heah, suh.â
âWell, if Mr. Bud Aiken cân afford to hire a man to chop his wood, I reckon he wonât grudge me a bite oâ suppa anâ a couple hoursâ resâ on his gallâry. Wâat you say, ole man?â
âI say dit Masâ Bud Aiken donât hires me to chop âood. Ef I donât chop dis heah, his wife got it to do. Dat wây I chops âood, suh. Go right âlong in, suh; you gâine fine Masâ Bud someâeres rounâ, ef he ainât drunk anâ gone to bed.â
Grégoire, glad to stretch his legs, dismounted, and led his horse into the small inclosure which surrounded the cabin. An unkempt, vicious-looking little Texas pony stopped nibbling the stubble there to look maliciously at him and his fine sleek horse, as they passed by. Back of the hut, and running plumb up against the pine wood, was a small, ragged specimen of a cotton-field.
Grégoire was rather undersized, with a square, well-knit figure, upon which his clothes sat well and easily. His corduroy trousers were thrust into the legs of his boots; he wore a blue flannel shirt; his coat was thrown across the saddle. In his keen black eyes had come a puzzled expression, and he tugged thoughtfully at the brown moustache that lightly shaded his upper lip.
He was trying to recall when and under what circumstances he had before heard the name of Bud Aiken. But Bud Aiken himself saved GrĂ©goire the trouble of further speculation on the subject. He appeared suddenly in the small doorway, which his big body quite filled; and then GrĂ©goire remembered. This was the disreputable so-called âTexanâ who a year ago had run away with and married Baptiste Choupicâs pretty daughter, âTite Reine, yonder on Bayou Pierre, in Natchitoches parish. A vivid picture of the girl as he remembered her appeared to him: her trim rounded figure; her piquant face with its saucy black coquettish eyes; her little exacting, imperious ways that had obtained for her the nickname of âTite Reine, little queen. GrĂ©goire had known her at the âCadian balls that he sometimes had the hardihood to attend.
These pleasing recollections of âTite Reine lent a warmth that might otherwise have been lacking to GrĂ©goireâs manner, when he greeted her husband.
âI hope I fine you well, Mr. Aiken,â he exclaimed cordially, as he approached and extended his hand.
âYou find me damnâ porely, suh; but youâve got the better oâ me, ef I may so say.â
He was a big good-looking brute, with a straw-colored âhorseshoeâ moustache quite concealing his mouth, and a several daysâ growth of stubble on his rugged face. He was fond of reiterating that womenâs admiration had wrecked his life, quite forgetting to mention the early and sustained influence of âPikeâs Magnoliaâ and other brands, and wholly ignoring certain inborn propensities capable of wrecking unaided any ordinary existence. He had been lying down, and looked frouzy and half asleep.
âEf I may so say, youâve got the better oâ me, Mr.â âerââ â
âSantien, GrĂ©goire Santien. I have the pleasure oâ knowinâ the lady you married, suh; anâ I think I met you befoââ âsome-wâere oâ ânother,â GrĂ©goire added vaguely.
âOh,â drawled Aiken, waking up, âone oâ them Red River Sanchuns!â and his face brightened at the prospect before him of enjoying the society of one of the Santien boys. âMortimer!â he called in ringing chest tones worthy a commander at the head of his troop. The negro had rested his axe and appeared to be listening to their talk, though he was too far to hear what they said.
âMortimer, come along here anâ take my frienâ Mr. Sanchunâs hoss. Git a move thar, git a move!â Then turning toward the entrance of the cabin he called back through the open door: âRain!â it was his way of pronouncing âTite Reineâs name. âRain!â he cried again peremptorily; and turning to GrĂ©goire: âsheâs âtendinâ to some or other housekeepinâ truck.â âTite Reine was back in the yard feeding the solitary pig which they owned, and which Aiken had mysteriously driven up a few days before, saying he had bought it at Many.
GrĂ©goire could hear her calling out as she approached: âIâm cominâ, Bud. Yere I come. Wâat you want, Bud?â breathlessly, as she appeared in the door frame and looked out upon the narrow sloping gallery where stood the two men. She seemed to GrĂ©goire to have changed a good deal. She was thinner, and her eyes were larger, with an alert, uneasy look in them; he fancied the startled expression came from seeing him there unexpectedly. She wore cleanly homespun garments, the same she had brought with her from Bayou Pierre; but her shoes were in shreds. She uttered only a low, smothered exclamation when she saw GrĂ©goire.
âWell, is that all you got to say
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