“Is what?” I asked, not grasping the meaning of this unfamiliar word.

“Is goophered,—­cunju’d, bewitch’.”

He imparted this information with such solemn earnestness, and with such an air of confidential mystery, that I felt somewhat interested, while Annie was evidently much impressed, and drew closer to me.

“How do you know it is bewitched?” I asked.

“I wouldn’ spec’ fer you ter b’lieve me ’less you know all ’bout de fac’s.  But ef you en young miss dere doan’ min’ lis’nin’ ter a ole nigger run on a minute er two w’ile you er restin’, I kin ’splain to you how it all happen’.”

We assured him that we would be glad to hear how it all happened, and he began to tell us.  At first the current of his memory—­or imagination—­seemed somewhat sluggish; but as his embarrassment wore off, his language flowed more freely, and the story acquired perspective and coherence.  As he became more and more absorbed in the narrative, his eyes assumed a dreamy expression, and he seemed to lose sight of his auditors, and to be living over again in monologue his life on the old plantation.

“Ole Mars Dugal’ McAdoo,” he began, “bought dis place long many years befo’ de wah, en I’member well w’en he sot out all dis yer part er de plantation in scuppernon’s.  De vimes growed monst’us fas’, en Mars Dugal’ made a thousan’ gallon er scuppernon’ wine eve’y year.

“Now, ef dey’s an’thing a nigger lub, nex’ ter ’possum, en chick’n, en watermillyums, it’s scuppernon’s.  Dey ain’ nuffin dat kin stan’ up side’n de scuppernon’ fer sweetness; sugar ain’t a suckumstance ter scuppernon’.  W’en de season is nigh ’bout ober, en de grapes begin ter swivel up des a little wid de wrinkles er ole age,—­w’en de skin git sof’ en brown,—­den de scuppernon’ make you smack yo’ lip en roll yo’ eye en wush fer mo’; so I reckon it ain’ very ‘stonishin’ dat niggers lub scuppernon’.

“Dey wuz a sight er niggers in de naberhood er de vimya’d.  Dere wuz ole Mars Henry Brayboy’s niggers, en ole Mars Jeems McLean’s niggers, en Mars Dugal’s own niggers; den dey wuz a settlement er free niggers en po’ buckrahs down by de Wim’l’ton Road, en Mars Dugal’ had de only vimya’d in de naberhood.  I reckon it ain’ so much so nowadays, but befo’ de wah, in slab’ry times, a nigger did n’ mine goin’ fi’ er ten mile in a night, w’en dey wuz sump’n good ter eat at de yuther een’.

“So atter a w’ile Mars Dugal’ begin ter miss his scuppernon’s.  Co’se he ‘cuse’ de niggers er it, but dey all ‘nied it ter de las’.  Mars Dugal’ sot spring guns en steel traps, en he en de oberseah sot up nights once’t er twice’t, tel one night Mars Dugal’—­he ’uz a monst’us keerless man—­got his leg shot full er cow-peas.  But somehow er nudder dey could n’ nebber ketch none er de niggers.  I dunner how it happen, but it happen des like I tell you, en de grapes kep’ on a-goin’ des de same.