Iola Leroy by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (books you need to read .txt) š
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As the Civil War bears down on a small North Carolina town, a tight-knit community of enslaved men and women is preparing for the coming battle and the possibility of freedom. Into this ensemble cast of characters comes Iola Leroy, a young woman who grew up unaware of her African ancestry until she is lured back home under false pretenses and immediately enslaved. Amidst a backdrop of battlefield hospitals and clandestine prayer meetings, this quietly stouthearted novel is a story of community, integrity, and solidarity.
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was already one of the most prominent African-American poets of the nineteenth century whenāat age 67āshe turned her focus to novels. Her most enduring work, Iola Leroy, was one of the first novels published by an African-American writer. Although the book was initially popular with readers, it soon fell out of print and was critically forgotten. In the 1970s, the book was rediscovered and reclaimed as a seminal contribution to African-American literature.
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- Author: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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āWell,ā said Tom, āef he lobād you so much, why didnāt he set you free?ā
āMarse Robert tole me, ef he died fust he war gwine ter leave me freeā ādat I should neber sarve anyone else.ā
āOh, sho!ā said Tom, āpromises, like pie crusts, is made to be broken. I donāt trust none ob dem. Iāse been yere dese fifteen years, anā Iāse neber founā any troof in dem. Anā Iāse gwine wid dem North men soonās I gits a chance. Anā ef you knowed whatās good fer you, youād go, too.ā
āNo, Tom; I canāt go. When Marster Robert went to de front, he called me to him anā said: āUncle Daniel,ā anā he was drefful pale when he said it, āI are gwine to de war, anā I want yer to take keer of my wife anā chillen, jisā like yer used to take keer of me wen yer called me your little boy.ā Well, dat jisā got to me, anā I couldnāt help cryinā, to save my life.ā
āI specs,ā said Tom, āyour tear bags must lie mighty close to your eyes. I wouldnāt cry ef dem Yankees would make ebery one ob dem go to de front, anā stay dere foreber. Deyād only be gittinā back what deyās been a doinā to us.ā
āMarster Robert war nebber bad to me. Anā I beliebs in stanninā by dem dat stans by you. Arter Miss Anna died, I had great āsponsibilities on my shoulders; but I war orful lonesome, anā thought Iād like to git a wife. But dere warnāt a gal on de plantation, anā nowhereās rounā, dat filled de bill. So I jisā waited, anā ātended to Marse Robert till he war ole ānough to go to college. Wen he went, he allers āmembered me in de letters he used to write his grandma. Wen he war gone, I war lonesomer dan eber. But, one day, I jisā seed de gal dat took de rag off de bush. Gundover had jisā brought her from de upcountry. She war putty as a picture!ā he exclaimed, looking fondly at his wife, who still bore traces of great beauty. āShe had putty hair, putty eyes, putty mouth. She war putty all over; anā she knowād how to put on style.ā
āO, Daniel,ā said Aunt Katie, half chidingly, āhow you do talk.ā
āWhy, itās true. I āmember when you war de puttiest gal in dese diggins; when nobody could top your cotton.ā
āI donāt,ā said Aunt Katie.
āWell, I do. Now, let me go on wid my story. De fust time I seed her, I sez to myself, āDatās de gal for me, anā I means to hab her ef I kin git her.ā So I scraped āquaintance wid her, and axed her ef she would hab me ef our marsters would let us. I warnāt āfraid ābout Marse Robert, but I warnāt quite shore ābout Gundover. So when Marse Robert comād home, I axed him, anā he larfād anā said, āAll right,ā anā dat he would speak to ole Gundover ābout it. He didnāt relish it bery much, but he didnāt like to āfuse Marse Robert. He wouldnāt sell her, for she tended his dairy, anā war mighty handy ābout de house. He said, I mought marry her anā come to see her wheneber Marse Robert would gib me a pass. I wanted him to sell her, but he wouldnāt hear to it, so I had to put up wid what I could git. Marse Robert war mighty good to me, but ole Gundoverās wife war de meanest woman dat I eber did see. She used to go out on de plantation anā boss things like a man. Arter I war married, I had a baby. It war de dearest, cutest little thing you eber did see; but, pore thing, it got sick and died. It died ābout three oāclock; and in de morninā, Katie, habbin her cows to milk, lef her dead baby in de cabin. When she comād back from milkinā her thirty cows, anā went to look for her pore little baby, someone had been to her cabin anā tookād de pore chile away anā put it in de grounā. Pore Katie, she didnāt eben hab a chance to kiss her baby āfore it war buried. Ole Gundoverās wife has been dead thirty years, anā she didnāt die a day too soon. Anā my little baby has gone to glory, anā is winginā wid the angels anā a lookinā out for us. One ob de lasā things ole Gundoverās wife did āfore she died war to order a woman whipped ācause she comād to de field a little late when her husband war sick, anā she had stopped to tend him. Dat morninā she war taken sick wid de fever, anā in a few days she war gone out like de snuff ob a candle. She lefā several sons, anā I specs she would almosā turn ober in her grave ef she knowād she had ten culled granchillen somewhar down in de lower kentry.ā
āIsnāt it funny,ā said Robert, āhow these white folks look down on colored people, anā then mix up with them?ā
āMarster war away when Miss āLiza treated my Katie so mean, anā when I tole him ābout it, he war tearinā mad, anā went ober anā saw ole Gundover, anā founā out he war hard up for money, anā he bought Katie and brought her home to lib wid me, and weās been a libin in clover eber sence.
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