Being curious to know what quality of wine a plantation slave indulged in, I accepted the invitation. She went to the side-board, and brought out a cut-glass decanter, and three cracked tumblers, which she placed on the table. Filling the glasses to the brim, she passed one to Scip, and one to me, and, with the other in her hand, resumed her seat. Wishing her a good many happy years, and Scip a pleasant journey home, I emptied the glass. It was Scuppernong, and the pure juice of the grape!
'Aunty,' I said, 'this wine is as fine as I ever tasted.'
'Oh yas, massa, it am de raal stuff. I growed de grapes myseff.'
'You grew them?'
'Yas, sar, an' Massa Davy make de wine. He do it ebery yar for de ole nuss.'
'The Colonel is very good. Do you raise anything else?'
'Yas, I hab collards and taters, a little corn, and most ebery ting.'
'But who does your work? You certainly can't do it?'
'Oh, de ma'am looks arter dat, sar; she'm bery good to de ole aunty.'
Shaking hands with both the negroes, I left the cabin, fully convinced that all the happiness in this world is not found within plastered apartments.