I went several times to look at a place which I thought might suit me. It had been at one time a thriving plantation, but shiftless cultivation had well-night exhausted the soil. There had been a vineyard of some extent on the place, but it had not been attended to since the war, and had fallen into utter neglect. The vines--here partly supported by decayed and broken-down arbors, there twining themselves among the branches of the slender saplings which had sprung up among them--grew in wild and unpruned luxuriance, and the few scanty grapes which they bore were the undisputed prey of the first comer. The site was admirably adapted to grape-raising; the soil, with a little attention, could not have been better; and with the native grape, the luscious scuppernong, mainly to rely upon, I felt sure that I could introduce and cultivate successfully a number of other varieties. One day I went over with my wife, to show her the place. We drove between the decayed gate-posts--the gate itself had long since disappeared--and up the straight, sandy lane to the open space where a dwelling-house had once stood. But the house had fallen a victim to the fortunes of war, and nothing remained of it except the brick pillars upon which the sills had rested. We alighted, and walked about the place for a while; but on Annie's complaining of weariness I led the way back to the yard, where a pine log, lying under a spreading elm, formed a shady though somewhat hard seat. One end of the log was already occupied by a venerable-looking colored man. He held on his knees a hat full of grapes, over which he was smacking his lips with great gusto, and a pile of grape-skins near him indicated that the performance was no new thing. He respectfully rose as we approached, and was moving away, when I begged him to keep his seat. "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.