Kate Chopin

“ It was so far from the road that when he stopped his horse and peered through the darkness he could not recognize the dancers who passed before the open doors and windows. But he knew this was Gros-Léon’s ball, which he had heard the boys talking about all the week.
Why should he not go and stand in the doorway an instant and exchange a word with the dancers?
Chouchoute dismounted, fastened his horse to the fencepost, and proceeded towards the house.
The room, crowded with people young and old, was long and low, with rough beams across the ceiling, blackened by smoke and time. ”

“ So it was; encouragement and adulation on all sides, till, from the praise that was showered on him, Chouchoute’s head was soon as light as his feet.
At the windows appeared the dusky faces of negroes, their bright eyes gleaming as they viewed the scene within and mingled their loud guffaws with the medley of sound that was already deafening.
The time was speeding. The air was heavy in the room, but no one seemed to mind this. Uncle Ben was calling the figures now with a rhythmic sing-song –
“Right an’ lef’ all ‘roun’! Swing co’nas!” ”

“ He dismounted, and holding the pony by the mane, approached with some trepidation the young station-master, who was taking note of some freight that had been deposited near the tracks.
“Mr. Hudson,” faltered Chouchoute, “did you see my pony ‘roun’ yere anywhere? an’ – an’ the mail-sack?”
“Your pony’s safe in the woods, Chou’te. The mail-bag’s on its way to New Orleans”-
“Thank God!” breathed the boy. ”

“ The negro led the pony forth. With no further word, and with one bound, Chouchoute was upon the animal’s back. He wanted neither saddle nor bridle, for there were few houses in the neighborhood that had not been trained to be guided by the simple motions of a rider’s body. ”

“ He’s hurt, and he’s hurt bad; that’s what’s the matter. You see the ten forty-five had come in, and she didn’t make much of a stop; she was just pushing out, when bless me if that little chap of yours didn’t come tearing along on Spunky as if Old Harry was behind him. ”

“ W’at made you, Wash?”
“Marse Chouchoute,” the boy whispered, so low that no one could hear him but his friend, “I was gwine ‘long de big road, pas’ Marse Gros-Léon’s, an’ I seed Spunky tied dah wid de mail. Dar warn’t a minute – I ‘clar’, Marse Chouchoute, dar warn’t a minute – to fotch you. W’at makes my head tu’n ‘roun’ dat away?”
“Neva mine, Wash; keep still; don’t you try to talk,” entreated Chouchoute. ”