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All de time dere's some 'ligious doctah, or preacheh or other, tellin' dem dat. Now, dat sort o' thing been goin' on down dah fer long while. Dere's a sort o' woman, conjuh woman, 'mongst dem. Dey call her de Queen now. "Now, while I wuz up at Jackson, my wife she done had a heap o' truck wid dem niggers f'om down in dah. My wife tol' me all about dis yer Queen.
"Wen I wuz a gal 'bout eighteen or nineteen," she confided, "de w'ite folks use' ter sen' me ter town ter fetch vegetables. One day I met a' ole conjuh man name' Jerry Macdonal, an' he said some rough, ugly things ter me. I says, says I, 'You mus' be a fool. He didn' say nothin', but jes' looked at me wid 'is evil eye.
"Oh, Ben," she shrieked, "you done tuk all my win'!" "Dah, now," he said, letting her down; "dat's what you gits fu' talkin' sassy to me!" "Nev' min'; I'm goin' to fix you fu' dat fus' time I gits de chanst see ef I don't." "Whut you gwine do? Gwine to pizen me?" "Worse'n dat!" "Wuss'n dat? Whut you gwine fin' any wuss'n pizenin' me, less'n you conjuh me?" "Huh uh still worse'n dat.
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