“All dis time de goopher wuz a-wukkin’.  When de vimes sta’ted ter wither, Henry ‘mence’ ter complain er his rheumatiz; en when de leaves begin ter dry up, his ha’r ‘mence’ ter drap out.  When de vimes fresh’ up a bit, Henry ‘d git peart ag’in, en when de vimes wither’ ag’in, Henry ‘d git ole ag’in, en des kep’ gittin’ mo’ en mo’ fitten fer nuffin; he des pined away, en pined away, en fine’ly tuk ter his cabin; en when de big vime whar he got de sap ter ’n’int his head withered en turned yaller en died, Henry died too,—­des went out sorter like a cannel.  Dey didn’t ’pear ter be nuffin de matter wid ’im, ‘cep’n’ de rheumatiz, but his strenk des dwinel’ away ‘tel he did n’ hab ernuff lef ter draw his bref.  De goopher had got de under holt, en th’owed Henry dat time fer good en all.

“Mars Dugal’ tuk on might’ly ‘bout losin’ his vimes en his nigger in de same year; en he swo’ dat ef he could git holt er dat Yankee he ’d wear ’im ter a frazzle, en den chaw up de frazzle; en he’d done it, too, for Mars Dugal’ ’uz a monst’us brash man w’en he once git started.  He sot de vimya’d out ober ag’in, but it wuz th’ee er fo’ year befo’ de vimes got ter b’arin’ any scuppernon’s.

“W’en de wah broke out, Mars Dugal’ raise’ a comp’ny, 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 eve’y dollar he los’ ‘long er dat grape-raisin’ Yankee.  En I ‘spec’ he would ‘a’ done it, too, ef de Yankees had n’ s’picioned sump’n, en killed him fus’.  Atter de s’render ole miss move’ ter town, de niggers all scattered ’way fum de plantation, en de vimya’d ain’ be’n cultervated sence.”

“Is that story true?” asked Annie doubtfully, but seriously, as the old man concluded his narrative.

“It’s des ez true ez I’m a-settin’ here, miss.  Dey’s a easy way ter prove it:  I kin lead de way right ter Henry’s grave ober yander in de plantation buryin’-groun’.  En I tell yer w’at, marster, I would n’ ’vise you to buy dis yer ole vimya’d, ’caze de goopher ’s on it yit, en dey ain’ no tellin’ w’en it’s gwine ter crap out.”

“But I thought you said all the old vines died.”

“Dey did ’pear ter die, but a few un ’em come out ag’in, en is mixed in ‘mongs’ de yuthers.  I ain’ skeered ter eat de grapes, ’caze I knows de old vimes fum de noo ones; but wid strangers dey ain’ no tellin’ w’at mought happen.  I would n’ ’vise yer ter buy dis vimya’d.”

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.