Free Jonah's Gourd Vine by Zora Neale Hurston

and answer me. When Ah speak, you move!”
    â€œAh, Ahm comin’, but Ah ain’t goin’ tuh run fuh nobody.”
    â€œLooka heah, John, Ahm sick uh yo’ sass. Ah got it in me tuh tell yuh and if Ah don’t tell yuh, Ah’ll purge when Ah die. Youse uh good fuh nothin’ trashy yaller rascal—ain’t fit tuh tote guts tuh uh bear.” A sudden frenzy took Ned, “Anyhow, Ah done made up mah mind tuh beat you nelly tuh death. You jes’ spilin’ fuh uh good killin’! Drop dem britches below yo’ hocks, and git down on yo’ knees. Ah means tuh straighten you out dis day.”
    As he said this, Ned snatched off the trace-chain from the plow and turned upon John who was still twenty feet or more from his step-father. When Ned whirled about with the doubled trace-chain in his right fist he found not a cowering bulk of a boy but a defiant man, feet spread wide, a large rock drawn back to hurl.
    â€œDon’t you vary! Dog damn yuh!” John challenged. “Come uhnother step and Ah’ll bust yuh wide open, wid dis rock. You kin cuff and kick Zeke and them around but Ah done promised Gawd and uh couple uh other men tuh stomp yo’ guts out nex’ time you raise yo’ hand tuh me.”
    For a throbbing space the two stood face to face. Ned turned and hobbled off.
    â€œStand dere! Jes’ you stand dere till Ah go git mah double-barrel britch-loader and Ahm gointer blow yo’ brains out!”
    Ned limped off towards the house. John held his pose until the older man dipped below the first rise. Then he let fall his arm, and walked back towards the hickory tree.
    â€œAhm gointer git behind dis tree and if dat ugly-rump nigger come back here wid dat gun, Ahm gointer bust ’im wide open wid uh rock ’fore he know whut hit ’im. Humph! Ah don’t b’lieve he gone at no britch-loader nohow. He gone ’cause he got skeered Ah wuz goin’ take dat trace-chain ’way from ’im and lay it ’cross his own back.”
    John waited a long time. Ned could have gone twice the distance and returned with a gun. If he could have looked over the hill he would have seen Ned “proaging” off to the Turk place to get a gallon of red-eye-for-courage. Finally John came out from behind the hickory tree and loosed the mules fromthe plows and looped up the plow lines on the hames.
    â€œShucks! Ahm goin’ ’way from heah.” It came to John like a revelation. Distance was escape. He stopped before the burnt-off trunk of a tree that stood eight or ten feet high and threw the character of Ned Crittenden upon it.
    â€œAnd you, you ole battle-hammed, slew-foot, box-ankled nubbin, you! You ain’t nothin’ and ain’t got nothin’ but whut God give uh billy-goat, and then round tryin’ tuh hell-hack folks! Tryin’ tuh kill somebody wid talk, but if you wants tuh fight,—dat’s de very corn Ah wants tuh grind. You come grab me now and Ah bet yuh Ah’ll stop you from suckin’ eggs. Hit me now! G’wan hit me! Bet Ah’ll break uh egg in yuh! Youse all parts of uh pig! You done got me jus’ ez hot ez July jam, and Ah ain’t got no mo’ use fuh yuh than Ah is for mah baby shirt. Youse mah race but you sho ain’t mah taste. Jus’ you break uh breath wid me, and Ahm goin’ tuh be jus’ too chastisin’.
    â€œAhm jus’ lak uh old shoe—soft when yuh rain on me and cool me off, and hard when yuh shine on me and git me hot. Tuh keep from killin’ uh sorry somethin’ like yuh, Ahm goin’ way from heah. Ahm goin’ tuh Zar, and dat’s on de other side of far, and when you see me agin Ahm gointer be somebody. Mah li’l’ finger will be bigger than yo’ waist. Don’t you part yo’ lips tuh me no mo’ jes’ ez long ez heben is happy—do Ah’ll put somethin’ on yuh dat lye soap won’t