Jonah's Gourd Vine by Zora Neale Hurston

down to uh bowl uh clabber
    Ain’t Ah right? Yeah!
    Now, ain’t Ah right? Yeah!
    Ole Ant Dinah behind de pine
    One eye out and de other one blind
    Ain’t Ah right? Yeah! Yeah!
    Now, ain’t Ah right? Yeah!
    â€œLooka dat boy uh yourn, Amy!” Zeke Turk urged. “Didn’t thought he knowed how tuh dance. He’s rushin’ de frog tuh de frolic! And looka ‘Big ’Oman,’ dat gal dancin’ wid ’im. Lawd, she shakin’ yonder skirt.”
    Wisht Ah had uh needle
    Fine ez Ah could sew
    Ah’d sew mah baby to my side
    And down de road Ah’d go.
    Double clapping—
    Down de road baby
    Down de road baby
    It’s killing mama
    Oh, it’s killing mama.
    Too hot for words. Fiery drum clapping.
    â€œLess burn dat old moon down to a nub! Is dat you, Pheemy?”
    â€œYeah Lawd. Mah head is tilted to de grave, but Ah’ll show y’all Ah ain’t fuhgit how. Come on out heah, Dink, and help ole Pheemy do de Parse me lah.”
    â€œHeel and toe. Don’t call no figgers.”
    â€œAw yeah, less call figgers. Go ’head Bully, but don’t call it lak you call for white folks and dey go praipsin ’cross the floor lake dey steppin on eggs. Us kin dance. Call ’em, Bully.”
    â€œAwright, choose yo’ partners.”
    â€œCouples tuh yo’ places lak hawse tuh de traces.”
    â€œSixteen hands up!”
    â€œCircle four.”
    â€œY’all ain’t clappin’ right. Git dat time.
    Raccoon up de ’simmon tree
    Possum on de ground
    Raccoon shake dem ’simmons down
    Possum pass ’em round.”
    The fire died. The moon died. The shores of Africa receded. They went to sleep and woke up next day and lookedout on dead and dying cotton stalks and ripening possum persimmons.
    As the final day of school closing drew near, John found life tremendously exciting. The drama of Pearson’s plantation yielded to the tenseness around the school house. He had learned to spell his way thru several pages in his reader. He could add, subtract and divide and multiply. He proved his new power to communicate his thoughts by scratching Lucy’s name in the clay wherever he found a convenient spot: with a sharp stick he had even scratched it on the back of Pheemy’s chimney.
    He saw Lucy at school every day. He saw her in church, and she was always in his consciousness, but he had never talked with her alone. When the opportunity presented itself he couldn’t find words. Handling Big ’Oman, Lacey, Semmie, Bootsie and Mehaley merely called for action, but with Lucy he needed words and words that he did not have. One day during the practice for school closing he crowded near her and said, “Wisht Ah could speak pieces lak you do.”
    â€œYou kin speak ’em better’n me,” Lucy said evenly, “you got uh good voice for speakin’.”
    â€œBut Ah can’t learn no long ones lak you speaks. When do you learn ’em?”
    â€œIn de night time round home after Ah git thru wid mah lessons.”
    â€œYou ain’t got many mo’ days tuh be studyin’ of nights. Den whut you gwine do wid yo’self?”
    â€œMama always kin find plenty fuh folks tuh do.”
    â€œBut Ah mean in de night time, Lucy. When youse thru wid yo’ work. Don’t you do nothin’ but warm uh chair bottom?”
    Lucy drew away quickly, “Oooh, John Buddy! You talkin’ nasty.”
    John in turn was in confusion. “Whuss nasty?”
    â€œYou didn’t hafta say ‘bottom.’”
    John shriveled up inside. He had intended to recite the rhymes to Lucy that the girls on the plantation thought so witty, but he realized that—
    Some love collards, some love kale
    But I loves uh gal wid uh short skirt tail
    would drive Lucy from him in disgust. He could never tell her that. He felt hopeless about her. Soon she was recalled to the platform to recite and