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Updated: June 24, 2025
The "feefty famblies" had left no trace of domestic life. Grass and weeds grew to the lower windows. The entrance was at one side through a sea of rank growths. "It looks like they's ghosts lived here," pronounced Robert dismally. "Don't let me hear such idle speeches!" said Grandma Padgett, shaking her head. "Spooks and ghosts only live in people's imaginations."
Well, it killed the minuet dead; he sat flat down on the low stone coping that bordered the path to which we had wandered back and I sat flat down opposite him. The venerable custodian, passing along a neighboring path, turned his head and stared at our noise. "Lawd, see those chillun goin' on!" he muttered. "Mas' John, don't you get too scandalous, tellin' strangers 'bout the old famblies."
For another moment I hesitated, scarcely daring to utter the one vital question trembling on my lips. "But who is the lady? What is her name?" As I put the simple query I felt my voice tremble in spite of every effort to hold it firm. "Madame de Noyan, sah; one ob de bery first famblies. Massa de Noyan am one ob de Bienvilles, sah." "De Noyan? De Noyan?"
Of late years many of the Fust Famblies of San Juan have migrated northward to the teeming negro districts of Harlem, but enough of the old stock remains to lend the settlement its time-honoured touch of gloom. Occasionally, too, it still makes its way to the public notice by sanguinary affrays and race riots.
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