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“Don’t let us disturb you,” I said.”There’s plenty of room for us all.”

He resumed his seat with somewhat of embarrassment.

“Do you live around here?” I asked, anxious to put him at his ease.

“Yas, suh. I lives des ober yander, behine de nex’ san’-hill, on de Lumberton plank-road.”

“Do you know anything about the time when this vineyard was cultivated?”

“Lawd bless yer, suh, I knows all about it. Dey ain’ na’er a man in dis settlement w’at won’ tell yer ole Julius McAdoo ‘uz bawn an’ raise’ on dis yer same plantation. Is you de Norv’n gemman w’at’s gwine ter buy de ole vimya’d?”

“I am looking at it,” I replied; “but I don’t know that I shall care to buy unless I can be reasonably sure of making something out of it.”

“Well, suh, you is a stranger ter me, en I is a stranger ter you, en we is bofe strangers ter one anudder, but ‘f I ‘uz in yo’ place, I wouldn’ buy dis vimya’d.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well, I dunner whe’r you b’lieves in cunj’in er not, — some er de w’ite folks don’t, er says dey don’t, — but de truf er de matter is dat dis yer ole vimya’d is goophered.”

“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’n’in’ ter a ole nigger run on a minute er two w’ile you er restin’, I kin ‘splain to yer 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 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 Dunkin 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, er nigger didn’ mine goin’ fi’ er ten mile in a night, w’en dey wuz sump’n good ter eat at de yuther een.