Transcriber’s Note: The reader may wish to be warned that this book
contains language which is nowadays considered racially offensive.
[Illustration: _Drawn by A. B. Frost_
“_Is anybody ever hear de beat er dat?_”--“_Brother Rabbit’s
Laughing-Place_”]
_Told by_
UNCLE REMUS
New Stories of the
Old Plantation
_by_
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
_Illustrated by_
A. B. FROST, J. M. CONDE
_and_ FRANK UERBECK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
_Publishers_
NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1903, 1904, 1905, by_
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
Copyright, 1903, 1904, 1905, by P. F. Collier & Son
Copyright, 1904, 1905, by The Metropolitan Magazine Company
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE REASON WHY 3
I WHY MR. CRICKET HAS ELBOWS ON HIS LEGS 19
II HOW WILEY WOLF RODE IN THE BAG 37
III BROTHER RABBIT’S LAUGHING-PLACE 53
IV BROTHER RABBIT AND THE CHICKENS 74
V LITTLE MISTER CRICKET AND THE OTHER CREATURES 87
VI WHEN BROTHER RABBIT WAS KING 101
VII HOW OLD CRANEY-CROW LOST HIS HEAD 126
VIII BROTHER FOX FOLLOWS THE FASHION 141
IX WHY THE TURKEY-BUZZARD IS BALD-HEADED 153
X BROTHER DEER AN’ KING SUN’S DAUGHTER 172
XI BROTHER RABBIT’S CRADLE 188
XII BROTHER RABBIT AND BROTHER BULL-FROG 205
XIII WHY MR. DOG IS TAME 230
XIV BROTHER RABBIT AND THE GIZZARD EATER 243
XV BROTHER RABBIT AND MISS NANCY 266
XVI THE HARD-HEADED WOMAN 276
LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
“IS ANYBODY EVER HEAR DE BEAT ER DAT?” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
“SO HE HOLLER DOWN THOO DE CRACK” 34
“‘DOES YOU CALL DIS GOOD LUCK?’” 36
“DEY SOT DAR … TALKIN’ ’BOUT OL’ TIMES” 44
“‘GIT ’IM USE TER DE BAG’” 48
“‘DEN YOU COME ON HOME; YO’ MAMMY WANT YOU’” 50
“WENT OFF HOME DES EZ GAYLY EZ A COLT IN A BARLEY PATCH” 80
“‘BRER RABBIT, WHAR YOU GWINE?’” 82
“BRER FOX, SAY, ‘GENTS, … I WANTER TELL YOU DAT I’M DE
SWIFFES’ ONE IN DIS BUNCH’” 92
“MR. ELEPHANT WENT SPLUNGIN’ THOO DE WOODS SAME EZ A
HARRYCANE” 96
“SO HIS OL’ ’OMAN WENT OUT TER DE WOODPILE AN’ GOT DE AX” 150
“SHE DREMP DAT BRER RABBIT WUZ LAUGHIN’ AT ’ER” 152
“BRER DEER WENT ON FER TER TELL BRER RABBIT” 180
“DE BEAU GOT TER FLINGIN’ HIS SASS ROUN’ BRER RABBIT” 272
“DE GAL, SHE CRY SOME, BUT DEY WENT OFF AN’ GOT MARRIED” 274
“DEN HE SHUCK A GOURD-VINE OVER DE POT” 286
“DE AX, IT CLUM BACK ON TOP ER DE WOODPILE AN’ FELL
OFF ON T’ER SIDE” 290
“DEN SHE LIT OUT ATTER DE POT LIKE SHE WAS RUNNIN’
A FOOT-RACE” 292
TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS
THE REASON WHY
The main reason why Uncle Remus retired from business as a story-teller
was because the little boy to whom he had told his tales grew to be
a very big boy, and grew and grew till he couldn’t grow any bigger.
Meanwhile, his father and mother moved to Atlanta, and lived there for
several years. Uncle Remus moved with them, but he soon grew tired of the
dubious ways of city life, and one day he told his Miss Sally that if
she didn’t mind he was going back to the plantation where he could get a
breath of fresh air.
He was overjoyed when the lady told him that they were all going back
as soon as the son married. As this event was to occur in the course of
a few weeks, Uncle Remus decided to wait for the rest of the family.
The wedding came off, and then the father and mother returned to the
plantation, and made their home there, much to the delight of the old
negro.
In course of time, the man who had been the little boy for ever so long
came to have a little boy of his own, and then it happened in the most
natural way in the world that the little boy’s little boy fell under the
spell of Uncle Remus, who was still hale and hearty in spite of his age.
This latest little boy was frailer and quieter than his father had been;
indeed, he was fragile, and had hardly any color in his face. But he was
a beautiful child, too beautiful for a boy. He had large, dreamy eyes,
and the quaintest little ways that ever were seen; and he was polite
and thoughtful of others. He was very choice in the use of words, and
talked as if he had picked his language out of a book. He was a source of
perpetual wonder to Uncle Remus; indeed, he was the wonder of wonders,
and the old negro had a way of watching him curiously. Sometimes, as the
result of this investigation, which was continuous, Uncle Remus would
shake his head and chuckle; at other times, he would shake his head and
sigh.
This little boy was not like the other little boy. He was more like a
girl in his refinement; all the boyishness had been taken out of him by
that mysterious course of discipline that some mothers know how to apply.
He seemed to belong to a different age--to a different time; just how or
why, it would be impossible to say. Still, the fact was so plain that any
one old enough and wise enough to compare the two little boys--one the
father of the other--could not fail to see the difference; and it was a
difference not wholly on the surface. Miss Sally, the grandmother, could
see it, and Uncle Remus could see it; but for all the rest the tendencies
and characteristics of this later little boy were a matter of course.
“Miss Sally,” said Uncle Remus, a few days after the arrival of the
little boy and his mother, “what dey gwineter do wid dat chile? What dey
gwineter make out ’n ’im?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied. “A grandmother doesn’t count for
much these days unless there is illness. She is everything for a few
hours, and then she is nothing.” There was no bitterness in the lady’s
tone, but there was plenty of feeling--feeling that only a grandmother
can appreciate and understand.
“I speck dat’s so,” Uncle Remus remarked; “an’ a ole nigger dat oughter
been dead long ago, by good rights, don’t count no time an’ nowhar. But
it’s a pity--a mighty pity.”
“What is a pity?” the lady inquired, though she knew full well what was
in the old negro’s mind.
“I can’t tell you, ma’am, an’ ’twouldn’t be my place ter tell you ef I
could; but dar ’tis, an’ you can’t rub it out. I see it, but I can’t say
it; I knows it, but I can’t show you how ter put yo’ finger on it; yit
it’s dar ef I’m name Remus.”
The grandmother sat silent so long, and gazed at the old negro so
seriously, that he became restive. He placed the weight of his body first
on one foot and then on the other, and finally struck blindly at some
imaginary object with the end of his walking-cane.
“I hope you ain’t mad wid me, Miss Sally,” he said.
“With you?” she cried. “Why----” She was sitting in an easy-chair on the
back porch, where the warmth of the sun could reach her, but she rose
suddenly and went into the house. She made a noise with her throat as
she went, so that Uncle Remus thought she was laughing, and chuckled in
response, though he felt little like chuckling. As a matter of fact, if
his Miss Sally had remained on the porch one moment longer she would have
burst into tears.
She went in the house, however, and was able to restrain herself. The
little boy caught at the skirt of her dress, saying: “Grandmother, you
have been sitting in the sun, and your face is red. Mother never allows
me to sit in the sun for fear I will freckle. Father says a few freckles
would help me, but mother says they would be shocking.”
Uncle Remus received his dinner from the big house that day, and by
that token he knew that his Miss Sally was very well pleased with him.
The dinner was brought on a waiter by a strapping black girl, with a
saucy smile and ivory-white teeth. She was a favorite with Uncle Remus,
because she was full of fun. “I dunner how come de white folks treat
you better dan dey does de balance un us,” she declared, as she sat the
waiter on the small pine table and removed the snowy napkin with which
it was covered. “I know it ain’t on ’count er yo’ beauty, kaze yo’ ain’t
no purtier dan what I is,” she went on, tossing her head and showing her
white teeth.
Uncle Remus looked all around on the floor, pretending to be looking for
some weapon that would be immediately available. Finding none, he turned
with a terrible make-believe frown, and pointed his forefinger at the
girl, who was now as far as the door, her white teeth gleaming as she
laughed.
“Mark my words,” he said solemnly; “ef I don’t brain you befo’ de week’s
out it’ll be bekaze you done been gobbled up by de Unkollopsanall.” The
girl stopped laughing instantly, and became serious. The threats of age
have a meaning that all the gaiety of youth cannot overcome. The gray
hair of Uncle Remus, his impersonation of wrath, his forefinger held up
in warning, made his threat so uncanny that the girl shivered in spite of
the fact that she thought he was joking. Let age shake a finger at you,
and you feel that there is something serious behind the gesture.
Now, Miss Sally had taken advantage of the opportunity to send the
grandchild with the girl; she was anxious that he should make the
acquaintance of Uncle Remus, and have instilled into his mind the quaint
humor that she knew would remain with him all his life, and become a
fragrant memory when he grew old. But the later little boy was very shy,
and when he saw the terrible frown and the threatening gesture with which
Uncle Remus had greeted the girl, he shrank back in a corner, seeing
which the old negro began to laugh. It was not a genuine laugh, but it
was so well done that it answered every purpose.
“I don’t see nothin’ ter laugh at,” remarked the girl, and with that she
flirted out.
Uncle Remus turned to the little boy. “Honey, you look so much like Brer
Rabbit dat I bleeze ter laugh. ’Long at fust, I had a notion dat you
mought be Mr. Cricket. But youer too big fer dat, an’ den you ain’t got
no elbows in yo’ legs. An’ den I know’d ’twuz Brer Rabbit I had in min’.
Yasser, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat--you look like Brer Rabbit when
he tryin’ fer ter make up his min’ whedder ter run er no.”
Then, without waiting to see the effect of this remark, Uncle Remus
turned his attention to the waiter and its contents. “Well, suh!” he
exclaimed, with apparent surprise, “ef dar ain’t a slishe er tater
custard! An’ ef I ain’t done gone stone blin’, dar’s a dish er hom’ny
wid ham gravy on it! Yes, an’ bless gracious, dar’s a piece er ham! Dey
all look like ol’ ’quaintances which dey been gone a long time an’ des
come back; an’ dey look like deyer laughin’ kaze dey er glad ter see me.
I wish you’d come here, honey, an’ see ef dey ain’t laughin’; you got
better eyes dan what I is.”
The lure was entirely successful. The little boy came forward timidly,
and when he was within reach, Uncle Remus placed him gently on his knee.
The child glanced curiously at the dishes. He had heard so much of Uncle
Remus from his father and his grandmother that he was inclined to believe
everything the old man said. “Why, they are not laughing,” he exclaimed.
“How could they?”
“I speck my eyes is bad,” replied Uncle Remus. “When anybody gits ter be
a himbly an’ hombly-hombly year ol’ dey er liable fer ter see double.”
The child was a very serious child, but he laughed in spite of himself.
“Oh, pshaw!” he exclaimed.
“I’m mighty glad you said dat,” remarked Uncle Remus, smacking his lips,
“kaze ef you hadn’t ’a’ said it, I’d ’a’ been a bleeze ter say it myse’f.”
“Say what?” inquired the little boy, who was unused to the quips of the
old man.
“’Bout dat tater custard. It’s de funniest tater custard dat I ever laid
eyes on, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.”
“Grandmother wanted to give me some,” said the little boy longingly, “but
mother said it wasn’t good for me.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Uncle Remus in a tone of triumph. “What I tell you? Miss
Sally writ on here wid dese dishes dat she want you ter eat dat tater
custard. Mo’ dan dat she sont two pieces. Dar’s one, an’ dar de yuther.”
There wasn’t anything wrong about this counting, except that Uncle Remus
pointed twice at the same piece.
The little boy was sitting on Uncle Remus’s knee, and he turned suddenly
and looked into the weather-beaten face that had harbored so many
smiles. The child seemed to be searching for something in that venerable
countenance, and he must have found it, for he allowed his head to fall
against the old negro’s shoulder and held it there. The movement was as
familiar to Uncle Remus as the walls of his cabin, for among all the
children that he had known well, not one had failed to lay his head where
that of the little boy now rested.
“Miss Sally is de onliest somebody in de roun’ worl’ dat know what you
an’ me like ter eat,” remarked Uncle Remus, making a great pretense of
chewing. “I dunner how she fin’ out, but fin’ out she did, an’ we oughter
be mighty much beholden ter ’er. I done et my piece er tater custard,” he
went on, “an’ you kin eat yone when you git good an’ ready.”
“I saw only one piece,” remarked the child, without raising his head,
“and if you have eaten that there is none left for me.” Uncle Remus
closed his eyes, and allowed his head to fall back. This was his favorite
attitude when confronted by something that he could not comprehend. This
was his predicament now, for there was something in this child that was
quite beyond him. Small as the lad was he was old-fashioned; he thought
and spoke like a grown person; and this the old negro knew was not
according to nature. The trouble with the boy was that he had had no
childhood; he had been subdued and weakened by the abnormal training he
had received.
“Tooby sho you ain’t seed um,” Uncle Remus declared, returning to the
matter of the potato custard. “Ef yo’ pa had ’a’ been in yo’ place he’d
’a’ seed um, kaze when he wuz long ’bout yo’ age, he had mo’ eyes in his
stomach dan what he had his head. But de ol’ nigger wuz a little too
quick fer you. I seed de two pieces time de gal snatch de towel off, an’
I ’low ter myse’f dat ef I didn’t snatch one, I’d not git none. Yasser! I
wuz a little too quick fer you.”
The child turned his head, and saw that the slice of potato custard was
still on the plate. “I’m so sorry that mother thinks it will hurt me,” he
said with a sigh.
“Well, whatsomever she say ’bout de yuther piece er custard, I boun’ she
ain’t say dat dat piece ’ud hurt you, kaze she ain’t never lay eyes on
it. An’ mo’ dan dat,” Uncle Remus went on with a very serious face: “Miss
Sally writ wid de dishes dat one er de pieces er tater custard wuz fer
you.”
“I don’t see any writing,” the child declared, with a longing look at the
potato custard.
“Miss Sally ain’t aim fer you ter see it, kaze ef you could see it,
eve’ybody could see it. An’ dat ain’t all de reason why you can’t see it.
You been hemmed up dar in a big town, an’ yo’ eyes ain’t good. But dar’s
de writin’ des ez plain ez pig-tracks.” Uncle Remus made believe to spell
out the writing, pointing at a separate dish every time he pronounced a
word. “Le’ me see: she put dis dish fust--‘One piece is fer de chil’.’”
The little boy reflected a moment. “There are only five dishes,” he said
very gravely, “and you pointed at one of them twice.”
“Tooby sho I did,” Uncle Remus replied, with well affected solemnity.
“Ain’t dat de way you does in books?”
The little lad was too young to be well-grounded in books, but he had his
ideas, nevertheless. “I don’t see how it can be done,” he suggested. “A
is always A.”
“Ah-yi!” exclaimed Uncle Remus triumphantly. “It’s allers big A er
little a. But I wa’n’t callin’ out no letters; I wuz callin’ out de words
what yo’ granmammy writ wid de dishes.” The little boy still looked
doubtful, and Uncle Remus went on. “Now, spozin’ yo’ pa wuz ter come
’long an’ say, ‘Unk Remus, I wanter gi’ you a cuff.’ An’ den, spozin’
I wuz ter ’low, ‘Yasser, an’ thanky, too, but you better gi’ me a pa’r
un um while you ’bout it.’ An’ spozin’ he’d be talkin’ ’bout maulin’
me, whiles I wuz talkin’ ’bout dem contraptions what you got on yo’
shirt-sleeves, an’ you ain’t got no mo’ business wid um dan a rooster is
wid britches. Spozin’ all dat wuz ter happen, how you speck I’d feel?”
Something in the argument, or the way Uncle Remus held his head,
appealed to the little boy’s sense of humor, and he laughed heartily for
the first time since Uncle Remus had known him. It was real laughter,
too, so real that the old negro joined in with gusto, and the two laughed
and laughed until it seemed unreasonable to laugh any more. To make
matters worse, Uncle Remus pretended to become very solemn all of a
sudden, and then just as suddenly went back to laughter again. This was
more than the little chap could stand. He laughed until he writhed in the
old man’s arms; in fact, till laughter became painful.
“Ef we go on dis a-way,” Uncle Remus remarked, “you’ll never eat yo’
tater custard in de worl’.” With that, he seized a biscuit and pretended
to place the whole of it in his mouth at once, closing his eyes with a
smile of ecstasy on his face. “Don’t, Uncle Remus! please don’t!” cried
the little boy who had laughed until he was sore.
At this the old man became serious again. “I hear um say,” he remarked
with some gravity, “dat ef you laugh too much you’ll sprain yo’
goozle-um, er maybe git yo’ th’oat-latch outer j’int. Dat de reason you
see me lookin’ so sollumcolly all de time. You watch me right close, an’
you’ll see fer yo’se’f.”
The little boy ceased laughing, and regarded Uncle Remus closely. The
old negro’s face was as solemn as the countenance of one of the early
Puritans. “You were laughing just now,” said the child; “you were
laughing when I laughed.”
The old man looked off into space as though he were considering a
serious problem. Then he said with a sigh: “I speck I did, honey, but how
I gwineter he’p myse’f when I see you winkin’ at dat tater custard? I
mought not ’a’ laughed des at dat, but when I see you bek’nin’ at it wid
yo’ tongue, I wuz bleeze ter turn loose my hyuh-hyuh-hyuhs!”
This was the beginning of the little boy’s acquaintance with Uncle
Remus, of whom he had heard so much. Some of the results of that
acquaintance are to be set forth in the pages that follow.
I
WHY MR. CRICKET HAS ELBOWS ON HIS LEGS
It was not often that Uncle Remus had to search for the boys who had,
in the course of a very long life, fallen under his influence. On the
contrary, he had sometimes to plan to get rid of them when he had work of
importance to do; but now, here he was in his old age searching all about
for a little chap who wasn’t as big as a pound of soap after a hard day’s
washing, as the old man had said more than once.
The child had promised to go with Uncle Remus to fetch a wagon-load
of corn that had been placed under shelter in a distant part of
the plantation, and though the appointed hour had arrived, and the
carriage-horses had been hitched to the wagon, he had failed to put in an
appearance.
Uncle Remus had asked the nurse, a mulatto woman from the city, where
the child was, and the only reply she deigned to make was that he was all
right. This nurse had been offended by Uncle Remus, who, on more than
one occasion, had sent her about her business when he wanted the little
boy to himself. She resented this and lost no opportunity to show her
contempt.
All his other resources failing, Uncle Remus went to the big house and
asked his Miss Sally. She, being the child’s grandmother, was presumed to
know his whereabouts; but Miss Sally was not in a very good humor. She
sent word that she was very busy, and didn’t want to be bothered; but
before Uncle Remus could retire, after the message had been delivered,
she relented. “What is it now?” she inquired, coming to the door.
“I wuz des huntin’ fer de little chap,” Uncle Remus replied, “an’ I
’lowed maybe you’d know whar he wuz at. We wuz gwine fer ter haul a load
er corn, but he ain’t showed up.”
“Well, I made him some molasses candy--something I shouldn’t have
done--and he has been put in jail because he wiped his mouth on his
coat-sleeve.”
“In jail, ma’am?” Uncle Remus asked, astonishment written on his face.
“He might as well be in jail; he’s in the parlor.”
“Wid de winders all down? He’ll stifle in dar.”
The grandmother went into the house too indignant to inform Uncle Remus
that she had sent the house-girl to open the windows under the pretense
of dusting and cleaning. The old man was somewhat doubtful as to how he
should proceed. He knew that in a case of this kind, Miss Sally could not
help him. She had set herself to win over the young wife of her son, and
she knew that she would cease to be the child’s grandmother and become
the mother-in-law the moment her views clashed with those of the lad’s
mother--and we all know from the newspapers what a terrible thing a
mother-in-law is.
Knowing that he would have to act alone, Uncle Remus proceeded very
cautiously. He went around into the front yard, and saw that all the
parlor windows were up and the curtains looped back, something that had
never happened before in his experience. To his mind the parlor was a
dungeon, and a very dark one at that, and he chuckled when he saw the
sunshine freely admitted, with no fear that it would injure the carpet.
If one little bit of a boy could cause such a change in immemorial
custom, what would two little boys be able to do? With these and similar
homely thoughts in his mind, Uncle Remus cut short his chuckle and began
to sing about little Crickety Cricket, who lives in the thicket.
Naturally, this song attracted the attention of the little lad, who had
exhausted whatever interest there had been in an album, and was now
beginning to realize that he was a prisoner. He stuck his head out of the
window, and regarded the old man rather ruefully. “I couldn’t go with you
after the corn, Uncle Remus; mother said I was too naughty.”
“I ain’t been atter no corn, honey; I hear tell er yo’ gwines on, an’
I felt too bad fer ter go atter de corn; but de waggin’s all ready an’
a-waitin’. Dey ain’t no hurry ’bout dat corn. Ef you can’t go ter-day,
maybe you kin go ter-morrer, er ef not, den some yuther day. Dey ain’t
nobody hankerin’ atter corn but de ol’ gray mule, an’ he’d hanker an’
whicker fer it ef you wuz ter feed ’im a waggin-load three times a day.
How come you ter be so bad dat yo’ ma hatter shet you up in dat dungeon?
What you been doin’?”
“Mother said I was very naughty and made me come in here,” the little lad
replied.
“I bet you ef dey had ’a’ put yo’ pa in der, dey wouldn’t ’a’ been no
pennaner lef’, an’ de kyarpit would ’a’ looked like it been throo a
harrycane. Dey shet ’im up in a room once, an’ dey wuz a clock in it,
an’ he tuck ’n tuck dat clock ter pieces fer ter see what make it run.
’Twan’t no big clock, needer, but yo’ pa got nuff wheels out er dat clock
fer ter fill a peck medjur, an’ when dey sont it ter town fer ter have
it mended, de clock man say he know mighty well dat all dem wheels ain’t
come outer dat clock. He mended it all right, but he had nuff wheels an’
whirligigs left over fer ter make a n’er clock.”
“There’s a clock in here,” said the little boy, “but it’s in a glass
case.”
“Don’t pester it, honey, kaze it’s yo’ granma’s, an’ ’twant yo’ granma
dat had you shot up in dar. No, suh, not her--never in de roun’ worl’.”
The little prisoner sighed, but said nothing. He was not a talkative
chap; he had been taught that it is impolite to ask questions, and as a
child’s conversation must necessarily be made up of questions, he had
little to say. Uncle Remus found a rake leaning against the chimney. This
he took and examined critically, and found that one of the teeth was
broken out. “Now, I wonder who could ’a’ done dat!” he exclaimed. “Sholy
nobody wouldn’t ’a’ come ’long an’ knock de toof out des fer fun. Ef de
times wuz diffunt, I’d say dat a cricket hauled off an’ kicked it out wid
one er his behime legs. But times done change; dey done change so dat
when I turn my head an’ look back’erds, I hatter ketch my breff I gits
so skeer’d. Dey done been sech a change dat de crickets ain’t dast ter
kick sence ol’ Grandaddy Cricket had his great kickin’ match. I laid off
fer ter tell you ’bout it when we wuz gwine atter dat load er corn dat’s
waitin’ fer us; but stidder gwine atter corn, here you is settin’ in de
parlor countin’ out yo’ money.” Uncle Remus came close to the window and
looked in. “Ol’ Miss useter keep de Bible on de table dar--yasser! dar
’tis, de same ol’ Bible dat’s been in de fambly sence de year one. You
better git it down, honey, an’ read dat ar piece ’bout de projickin’ son,
kaze ef dey shet you up in de parlor now, dey’ll hatter put you in jail
time youer ten year ol’.”
This remark was intended for the ear of the young mother, who had come
into the front yard searching for roses. Uncle Remus had seen her from
the corner of his eye, and he determined to talk so she could hear and
understand.
“But what will they put me in jail for?” the child asked.
“What dey put you in dar fer? Kaze you wipe yo’ mouf on yo’ sleeve.
Well, when you git a little bigger, you’ll say ter yo’se’f, ‘Dey shet me
in de parlor fer nothin’, an’ now I’ll see ef dey ’ll put me in jail fer
sump’n’; an’ den you’ll make a mouf at de gov’ner up dar in Atlanta--I
know right whar his house is--an’ dey’ll slap you in jail an’ never ax
yo’ name ner whar you come fum. Dat’s de way dey does in dat town, kaze I
done been dar an’ see der carryin’s on.”
“I believe I’ll try it when I go back home,” said the little lad.
“Co’se you will,” Uncle Remus assented, “an’ you’ll be glad fer ter git
in jail atter bein’ in a parlor what de sun ain’t shine in sence de war.
You come down here fer ter git strong an’ well, an’ here you is in de
dampest room in de house. You’ll git well--oh, yes! I see you well right
now, speshually atter you done had de croup an’ de pneumony, an’ de
browncreeturs.”
“There’s mother,” said the little boy under his breath.
“I wish ’twuz yo’ daddy!” Uncle Remus replied. “I’d gi’ ’im a piece er my
min’ ez long ez a waggin tongue.”
But the young mother never heard this remark. She had felt she was doing
wrong when she banished the child to the parlor for a trivial fault, and
now she made haste to undo it. She ran into the house and released the
little boy, and told him to run to play. “Thank you, mother,” he said
courteously, and then when he disappeared, what should the young mother
do but cry?
The child, however, was very far from crying. He ran around to the front
yard just in time to meet Uncle Remus as he came out. He seized the old
darky’s hand and went skipping along by his side. “You put me in min’ er
ol’ Grandaddy Cricket ’bout de time he had his big kickin’ match. He sho
wuz lively.”
“That was just what I was going to ask you about,” said the child
enthusiastically, for his instinct told him that Uncle Remus’s remarks
about Grandaddy Cricket were intended to lead up to a story. When they
had both climbed into the wagon, and were well on their way to the Wood
Lot, where the surplus corn had been temporarily stored, the old man,
after some preliminaries, such as looking in his hat to see if he had
lost his hankcher, as he called it, and inquiring of the horses if they
knew where they were going and what they were going after, suddenly
turned to the child with a question: “Ain’t I hear you ax me ’bout sump’n
n’er, honey? I’m gittin’ so ol’ an’ wobbly dat it seem like I’m deaf, yit
ef anybody wuz ter call me ter dinner, I speck I could hear um a mile off
ef dey so much ez whispered it.”
“Yes,” the child replied. “It was about old Grandaddy Cricket. I thought
maybe you knew something about him.”
“Who? Me, honey? Why, my great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy live nex’
door ter whar ol’ Grandaddy Cricket live at. Folks is lots littler now
dan what dey wuz in dem days, an’ likewize de creeturs, an’ de creepin’
an’ crawlin’ things. My grandaddy say dat his great-grandaddy would make
two men like him, an’ my grandaddy wuz a monst’us big man, dey ain’t no
two ways ’bout dat. It seems like dat folks is swunk up. My grandaddy’s
great-grandaddy say it’s kaze dey done quit eatin’ raw meat.
“I can’t tell you ’bout dat myself, but my great-grandaddy’s
great-great-grandaddy could eat a whole steer in two days, horn an’ huff,
an’ dem what tol’ me ain’t make no brags ’bout it; dey done like dey’d
seen it happen nine times a mont’ off an’ on fer forty year er mo’. Well,
den,” Uncle Remus went on, looking at the little chap to see if he was
swallowing the story with a good digestion--“well, den, dat bein’ de
case, it stan’s ter reason dat de creeturs an’ de crawlin’ an’ creepin’
things wuz lots bigger dan what dey is now. Dey had bigger houses, ef
dey had any ’tall, an’ ef dey had bigger houses dey must ’a’ had bigger
chimbleys.
“So den, all dat bein’ settle’, I’m gwine tell yo’ ’bout ol’ Grandaddy
Cricket. He must ’a’ been a grandaddy long ’bout de time dat my
great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy wuz workin’ for his great-grandaddy.
Howsomever dat mought be, ol’ Grandaddy Cricket wuz on han’, an’ fum
all I hear he wuz bigger dan a middlin’-size goat. All endurin’ er de
hot weather, he’d stay out in de woods wid his fife an’ his fiddle,
an’ I speck he had great times. One day he’d fiddle fer de fishes fer
ter dance, an’ de nex’ he’d l’arn de young birds how ter whistle wid
his fife. Day in an’ day out he frolicked an’ had his fun, but bimeby
de weather ’gun ter git cool an’ de days ’gun ter git shorter, an’ ol’
Grandaddy Cricket hatter keep his han’s in his pockets fum soon in de
mornin’ twel ten o’clock. An’ ’long ’bout de time when de sun start
down hill, he’d hatter put his fiddle under his arm an’ his fife in his
side-pocket.
“Dis wuz bad nuff, but wuss come. It got so col’ dat Grandaddy Cricket
can’t skacely walk twel de sun wuz shinin’ right over ’im. Mo’ dan dat,
he ’gun ter git hongry and stay hongry. Ef yu’d ’a’ seed ’im in de hot
weather, fiddlin’ an’ dancin’, an’ fifin’ an’ prancin’, you’d ’a’ thunk
dat he had a stack er vittles put by ez big ez de barn back yander; but
bimeby it got so cold dat he know sump’n got ter be done. He know sump’n
got ter be done, but how er when he couldn’t ’a’ tol’ you ef it had ’a’
been de las’ ac’. He went ’long, creepin’ an’ crawlin’ fum post ter
pillar, an’ he ’membered de days when he went wid a hop, skip an’ a jump,
but he wuz too col’ fer ter cry.
“He crope along, tryin’ ter keep on de sunny side er de worl’, twel
bimeby, one day he seed smoke a-risin’ way off yander, an’ he know’d
mighty well dat whar der’s smoke dey bleeze ter be fire. He crope an’
he crawled, an’ bimeby he come close nuff ter de smoke fer ter see dat
it wuz comin’ out’n a chimbley dat’d been built on one ’een uv a house.
’Twant like de houses what you see up yander in Atlanty, kaze ’twuz made
out er logs, an’ de chink ’twix’ de logs wuz stopped up wid red clay. De
chimbley wuz made out’n sticks an’ stones an’ mud.
“Grandaddy Cricket wuz forty-lev’m times bigger dan what his fambly
is deze days, but he wan’t so big dat he couldn’t crawl un’ de house,
kaze ’twuz propped up on pillars. So un’ de house he went an’ scrouge
close ter de chimbley fer ter see ef he can’t git some er de warmf, but,
bless you, it ’uz stone col’. Ef it had ’a’ been like de chimbleys is
deze days, ol’ Grandaddy Cricket would ’a’ friz stiff, but ’twuz plain,
eve’yday mud plastered on some sticks laid crossways. ’Twuz hard fer ol’
Grandaddy Cricket fer ter work his way inter de chimbley, but harder fer
ter stay out ’n de col’--so he sot in ter work. He gnyawed an’ he sawed,
he scratched an’ he clawed, he pushed an’ he gouged, an’ he shoved an’ he
scrouged, twel, bimeby, he got whar he could feel some er de warmf er de
fire, an’ ’twant long ’fo’ he wuz feelin’ fine. He snickered ter hisse’f
when he hear de win’ whistlin’ roun’ de cornders, an’ blowin’ des like it
come right fresh fum de place whar de ice-bugs live at.”
The little boy laughed and placed his hand caressingly on Uncle Remus’s
knee. “You mean ice-bergs, Uncle Remus,” he said.
“Nigh ez I kin ’member,” replied the old darky, with affected dignity,
“ice-bugs is what I meant. I tell you dat p’intedly. What I know ’bout
ice-berrigs?”
The little lad eyed the old darky curiously, but said nothing more
for some time. Uncle Remus regarded him from the corner of his eye and
smiled, for this was a little chap whose ways he was yet to understand.
Finally, he took up the thread of his story. “It’s des like I tell you,
honey; he ain’t no sooner git thawed out dan he ’gun ter feel good. Dey
wuz some cracks an’ crannies in de h’ath er de fireplace, an’ when de
chillun eat der mush an’ milk, some er de crum’s ’ud sift thoo de h’ath.
Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket smelt um, an’ felt um, an’ helt um, an’ atter dat
you couldn’t make ’im b’lieve dat he wan’t in hog-heav’m.
“De place whar he wuz at wa’n’t roomy nuff fer fiddlin’, but he tuck out
his fife an’ ’gun ter play on it, an’ ev’y time he hear a noise he’d cut
de chune short. He’d blow a little an’ den break off, but take de day
ez it come, he put in a right smart lot er fifin’. When night come, an’
ev’ything wuz dark down dar whar he wuz at, he des turned hisse’f loose.
De chillun in de house, dey des lis’en an’ laugh, but dey daddy shake
his head an’ look sour. Dey wan’t no crickets in de country whar he come
fum, an’ he wan’t usen ter um. But de mammy er de chillun ain’t pay no
’tention ter de fifin’; she des went on ’bout her business like dey ain’t
no cricket in de roun’ worl’. Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket he fifed an’ fifed
des like he wuz doin’ it fer pay. He played de chillun off ter bed an’
played um ter sleep; he played twel de ol’ man got ter nid-nid-noddin’
by de fire; he played twel dey all went ter bed ’cep’ de mammy, an’ he
played whiles she sot by de h’ath, an’ dremp ’bout de times when she wuz
a gal--de ol’ times dat make de gran’-chillun feel so funny when dey hear
tell ’bout um.
“Night atter night de fifin’ went on, an’ bimeby de man ’gun ter git
tired. De ’oman, she say dat de crickets brung good luck, but de man, he
say he’d druther have mo’ luck an’ less fifin’. So he holler down thoo de
crack in de h’ath, an’ tell ol’ Grandaddy Cricket fer ter hush his fuss
er change his chune. But de fifin’ went on. De man holler down an’ say
dat ef de fifin’ don’t stop, he gwine ter pour b’ilin’ water on de fifer.
Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket holler back:
_“‘Hot water will turn me brown,_
_An’ den I’ll kick yo’ chimbley down.’_
[Illustration: “_So he holler down thoo de crack_”]
“De man, he grin, he did, an’ den he put de kittle on de fire an’ kep’
it dar twel de water ’gun ter b’ile, an’ den, whiles de fifin’ wuz at
de loudest, he tuck de kittle an’ tilted it so de scaldin’ water will
run down thoo de cracks, an’ den de fust thing he know’d he ain’t know
nothin’, kaze de water weakened de clay an’ de h’ath fell in an’ ol’
Grandaddy Cricket sot in ter kickin’ an’ de chimbley come down, it
did, an’ bury de man, an’ when dey got ’im out, he wuz one-eyed an’
splay-footed.
“De ’oman an’ de chillun ain’t skacely know ’im. Dey hatter ax ’im his
name, an’ whar he come fum, an’ how ol’ he wuz; an’ atter he satchified
um dat he wuz de same man what been livin’ dar all de time, de ’oman say,
‘Ain’t I tell you dat crickets fetch good luck?’ An’ de man, he ’low,
‘Does you call dis good luck?’”
“What became of the cricket?” asked the little boy, after a long pause,
during which Uncle Remus appeared to be thinking about other things.
“Oh!” exclaimed the old darky. “Dat’s so! I ain’t tol’ you, is I?
Well, ol’ Grandaddy Cricket kicked so hard, an’ kicked so high, dat he
onj’inted bofe his legs, an’ when he crawled out fum de chimbley, his
elbows wuz whar his knees oughter be at.”
“But it was cold weather,” suggested the little boy. “Where did he go
when he kicked the chimney down?”
Uncle Remus smiled as he took another chew of tobacco. “Dey wa’n’t but
one thing he could do,” he replied; “he went on ter nex’ house an’ got in
de chimbley an’ he been livin’ in chimbleys off an’ on down ter dis day
an’ time.”
[Illustration: “‘_Does you call dis good luck?_’”]
II
HOW WILEY WOLF RODE IN THE BAG
Uncle Remus soon had the wagon loaded with corn, and he and the little
boy started back home. The plantation road was not a good one to begin
with, and the spring rains had not improved it. Consequently there were
times when Uncle Remus deemed it prudent to get out of the wagon and
walk. The horses were fat and strong, to be sure, but some of the small
hills were very steep, so much so that the old darky had to guide the
team first to the right and then to the left in order to overcome the
sheer grade. In other words, he had to see-saw as he explained to the
little boy. “Drive um straight up, an’ dey fall back,” he explained, “but
on de see-saw dey fergits dat deyer gwine uphill.”
All this was Dutch to the little boy, who knew nothing about driving
horses, but he had been well trained, and so he said, “Yes, that is
so.” The last time that Uncle Remus had to vacate the driver’s seat in
order to relieve the horses of his weight, he stumbled into a ditch that
had been dug on the side of the road to prevent the rains from washing
it into gullies. He recovered himself immediately, but not before he
had startled a little rabbit, which ran on ahead of the horses for a
considerable distance. Instinct came to its aid after a while, and it
darted into the underbrush which grew profusely on both sides of the road.
Before the little rabbit disappeared, however, Uncle Remus had time to
give utterance to a hunting halloo that aroused the echoes all around and
made the little boy jump, for he was not used to this sort of thing. “I
declar’ ter gracious ef it don’t put me in min’ er ol’ times--de times
dey tell ’bout in de tales dat been handed down. Ef dat little rab had
’a’ been five times ez big ez he is, an’ twice ez young, I’d ’a’ thunk
we’d done got back ter de days when my great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy
lived. You mayn’t b’lieve me, but ef you’ll count fum de time when my
great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy wuz born’d down ter dis minnit, you’ll
fin’ dat youer lookin’ back on many a long year, an’ a mighty heap er
Chris’mus-come-an’-gone.
“You may think dat deze times is de bes’; well, den, you kin have um ef
you’ll des gi’ me de ol’ times when de nights wuz long an’ de days short,
wid plenty er wood on de fire, an’ taters an’ ashcake in de embers. Han’
um here!” Uncle Remus held out his hand as if he thought the little
chap had the old times and the ashcakes and the roasted potatoes in his
pocket. “Den you ain’t got um,” he went on, as the child drew away and
pretended to hold his pocket tight; “you ain’t got um, an’ you can’t git
um. I done been had um, but I got ter nippy-nappin’ one night, an’ some
un come ’long an’ tuck um--some nigger man, I speck, kaze dey wuz a big
fat ’possum mixed up wid um, an’ a heap er yuther things liable fer ter
make a nigger’s mouf water. Yasser! dey tuck um right away fum me, an’ I
ain’t seed um sence; an’ maybe ef I wuz ter see um I wouldn’t know um.”
“Were the rabbits very large in old times?” inquired the little boy.
“Dey mought er been runts in de fambly,” replied Uncle Remus cautiously,
“but fum all I kin hear fum dem what know’d, ol’ Brer Rabbit wuz a sight
bigger dan any er de rabbits you see deze days.”
Uncle Remus paused to give the little boy an opportunity to make some
comment, or ask such questions as occurred to him, as the other little
boy had been so ready to do; but he said nothing. It seemed that his
curiosity had been satisfied, and yet he wanted very much to hear a story
such as Uncle Remus had been in the habit of telling his father when he
was the little boy. But he had been so rigidly trained to silence in the
presence of his elders that he hesitated about making his desires known.
The old negro, however, was so accustomed to anticipating the wants of
children, especially those in whom he took an interest, that he knew
perfectly well what the little boy wanted. The child’s attitude was
expectant, even if his lips refused to give form to his thoughts. This
sort of thing--the old negro could give it no name--was so new to Uncle
Remus that he chuckled, and presently the chuckle developed into a hearty
laugh.
The little boy regarded him with surprise. “Are you laughing at me, Uncle
Remus?” he inquired, after some hesitation.
“Why, honey, what put dat idee in yo’ head? What I gwineter laugh at you
fer? Ef you wuz a little bigger, I might laugh at you, des ter see how
you’d take it. Ef you want me ter laugh at you, you’ll hatter do some
growin’.”
“Grandmother says I’m a big boy,” said the child.
“Fer yo’ age an’ size, youer right smart chunk uv a boy,” assented Uncle
Remus, “but you’ll hatter be lots bigger dan what you is ’fo’ I laugh
at you. No, suh; I wuz gigglin’ at de way Brer Rabbit got away wid ol’
Brer Wolf endurin’ er de time when der chillun played tergedder; an’
dat little rabbit dat run ’cross de road put me in min’ un it. I bet ef
I’d ’a’ been dar, I’d ’a’ done mo’ dan laugh--I’d ’a’ holler’d. Yasser,
dey ain’t no two ways ’bout it--I’d ’a’ des flung back my head an’ ’a’
fetched a whoop dat you could ’a’ hearn fum here ter de big house. Dat’s
what I’d ’a’ done.”
“It must have been very funny, then,” remarked the little boy.
Uncle Remus looked at the child with a serious face. Surely something
must be wrong with him. And yet he was still expectant--expectant and
patient. The old negro had never had dealings with such a youngster as
this, and he was not in the habit of telling stories “des dry so,” as he
put it; so he went at it in a new, but still a characteristic, way. “Ef
yo’ pa had ’a’ been settin’ wha you settin’ he wouldn’t gi’ me no peace
twel I tol’ ’im zackly what I wuz laughin’ ’bout; an’ he’d ’a’ pestered
me wid his inquirements twel he foun’ out all about it. Does he pester
you dat a-way, honey? Kaze ef he does, I’ll tell you de way ter fetch ’im
up wid a roun’ turn; des tell ’im you gwineter tell his mammy on him, an’
I bet you he won’t pester you much atter dat.”
This tickled the little boy very much. The idea of asking his grandmother
to make his father stop bothering him was so new and so ridiculous that
he laughed unrestrainedly.
“De minnit dat little rab jumped out’n de bushes,” Uncle Remus went
on, apparently paying no attention to the child’s laughter, “it put
me in min’ er de time when ol’ Brer Rabbit had a lot er chillun an’
gran’chillun pirootin’ roun’ de neighborhoods whar he live at. Dey mought
’a’ not been any gran’chillun in de bunch, but dey wuz plenty er chillun,
bofe young an’ ol’.
“Brer Rabbit ’ud move sometimes des like de folks does deze days,
speshually up dar in ’Lantmatantarum, whar you come fum.” The little boy
smiled at this new name for Atlanta, and snuggled a little closer to
Uncle Remus, for the old man had, with this one word, entered the fields
that belong to childhood. “He’d move, but mos’ allers he’d take a notion
fer ter come back ter his ol’ home. Sometimes he hatter move, de yuther
creeturs pursued atter ’im so close, but dey allers got de ragged en’ er
de pursuin’, an’ dey wuz times when dey’d be right neighborly wid ’im.
“’Twuz ’bout de time dat Brer Wolf had kinder made up his min’ dat he
can’t outdo Brer Rabbit, no way he kin fix it, an’ he say ter hisse’f dat
he better let ’im ’lone twel he kin git ’im in a corner whar he can’t
git out. So Brer Wolf, he live wid his fambly on one side de road, an’
Brer Rabbit live wid his fambly on de yuther side, not close nuff fer ter
quoil ’bout de fence line, an’ yit close nuff fer der youngest chillun
ter play tergedder whiles de ol’ folks wuz payin’ der Sunday calls.
[Illustration: “_Dey sot dar … talkin’ ’bout ol’ times_”]
“It went on an’ went on dis way twel it look like Brer Rabbit done
fergit how ter play tricks on his neighbors an’ Brer Wolf done
disremember’d dat he yever is try fer ter ketch Brer Rabbit fer meat fer
his fambly. One Sunday in speshual, dey wuz mighty frien’ly. It wuz Brer
Rabbit’s time fer ter call on Brer Wolf, an’ bofe un um wuz settin’ up in
de porch des ez natchal ez life. Brer Rabbit wuz chawin’ his terbacker
an’ spittin’ over de railin’ an’ Brer Wolf wuz grinnin’ ’bout ol’ times,
an’ pickin’ his toofies, which dey look mighty white an’ sharp. Dey wuz
settin’ up dar, dey wuz, des ez thick ez fleas on a dog’s back, an’
lookin’ like butter won’t melt in der mouf.
“An’ whiles dey wuz settin’ dar, little Wiley Wolf an’ Riley Rabbit wuz
playin’ in de yard des like chillun will. Dey run an’ dey romped, dey
frisk an’ dey frolic, dey jump an’ dey hump, dey hide an’ dey slide, an’
it look like dey had mo’ fun dan a mule kin pull in a waggin. Little
Wiley Wolf, he’d run atter Riley Rabbit, an’ den Riley Rabbit ’ud run
atter Wiley Wolf, an’ here dey had it up an’ down an’ roun’ an’ roun’,
twel it look like dey’d run deyse’f ter death. ’Bout de time you’d think
dey bleeze ter drap, one un um would holler out, ‘King’s Excuse!’ an’
in dem days, when you say dat, nobody can’t ketch you, it ain’t make no
diffunce who, kaze ef dey dast ter lay han’s on you atter you say dat,
dey could be tuck ter de place whar dey done der judgin’, an ef dey
wa’n’t mighty sharp dey’d git put in jail.
“Now, whiles Wiley Wolf an’ Riley Rabbit wuz havin’ der fun, der daddies
wuz bleeze ter hear de racket what dey make, an’ see de dus’ dey raise.
Dey squealed an’ dey squalled, an’ ripped aroun’ twel you’d a thunk dey
wuz a good size whirlywin’ blowin’ in de yard. Brer Rabbit chaw’d his
terbacker right slow an’ shot one eye, an’ ol’ Brer Wolf lick his chops
an’ grin. Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘De youngsters is gittin’ mighty familious,’
an’ ol Brer Wolf say, ‘Dey is indeedy, an’ I hope dey’ll keep it up. You
know how we useter be, Brer Rabbit; we wuz constant a-playin’ tricks
on one an’er, an’ it lookt like we wuz allers at outs. I hope de young
uns’ll have better manners!’
“Dey sot dar, dey did, talkin’ ’bout ol’ times, twel de sun got low,
an’ de visitin’ had ter be cut short. Brer Rabbit say dat he had ter cut
some kindlin’ so his ol’ ’oman kin git supper, an’ Brer Wolf ’low dat he
allers cut his kindlin’ on Sat’day so he kin have all Sunday ter hisse’f,
an’ smoke his pipe in peace. He went a piece er de way wid Brer Rabbit,
an’ Wiley Wolf, he come, too, an’ him an’ Riley Rabbit had all sorts uv
a time atter dey got in de big road. Dey wuz bushes on bofe sides, an’
dey kep’ up der game er hide an’ seek des ez fur ez Brer Wolf went, but
bimeby, he say he gone fur nuff, an’ he say he hope Brer Rabbit’ll come
ag’in right soon, an’ let Riley come an’ play wid Wiley endurin’ er de
week.
“Not ter be outdone, Brer Rabbit invite Brer Wolf fer ter come an’ see
him, an’ likewise ter let Wiley come an’ play wid Riley. ‘Dey ain’t
nothin’ but chillun,’ sezee, ‘an’ look like dey done tuck a likin’ ter
one an’er.’
“On de way back home, Brer Wolf make a mighty strong talk ter Wiley. He
say, ‘It’s mo’ dan likely dat de little Rab will come ter play wid you
some day when dey ain’t nobody here, an’ when he do, I want you ter play
de game er ridin’ in de bag.’ Wiley Wolf say he ain’t never hear tell er
dat game, an’ ol’ Brer Wolf say it’s easy ez fallin’ off a log. ‘You git
in de bag,’ sezee, ‘an’ let ’im haul you roun’ de yard, an’ den he’ll git
in de bag fer you ter haul him ’roun’. What you wanter do is ter git ’im
use ter de bag; you hear dat, don’t you? Git ’im use ter de bag.’
“So when little Riley come, de two un um had a great time er ridin’ in
de bag; ’twuz des like ridin’ in a waggin, ’ceppin’ dat Riley Rabbit
look like he ain’t got no mo’ sense dan ter haul little Wiley Wolf over
de roughest groun’ he kin fin’, an’ when Wiley holler’d dat he hurt ’im,
Riley ’ud say he won’t do it no mo’, but de nex’ chance he got, he’d do
it ag’in.
[Illustration: “‘_Git ’im use to de bag!_’”]
“Well, dey had all sorts uv a time, an’ when Riley Rabbit went home,
he up an’ tol’ um all what dey’d been a-playin’. Brer Rabbit ain’t say
nothin’; he des sot dar, he did, an’ chaw his terbacker, an’ shot one
eye. An’ when ol’ Brer Wolf come home dat night, Wiley tol’ ’im ’bout de
good time dey’d had. Brer Wolf grin, he did, an’ lick his chops. He say,
sezee, ‘Dey’s two parts ter dat game. When you git tired er ridin’ in de
bag, you tie de bag.’ He went on, he did, an’ tol’ Wiley dat what he want
’im ter do is ter play ridin’ in de bag twel bofe got tired, an’ den play
tyin’ de bag, an’ at de las’ he wuz ter tie de bag so little Riley Rabbit
can’t git out, an’ den ter go ter bed an’ kiver up his head.
“So said, so done. Little Riley Rabbit come an’ played ridin’ in de bag,
an’ den when dey got tired, dey played tyin’ de bag. ’Twuz mighty funny
fer ter tie one an’er in de bag, an’ not know ef twuz gwineter be ontied.
I dunner what would ’a’ happen ter little Riley Rab ef ol’ Brer Rabbit
ain’t come along wid a big load er ’spicions. He call de little Rabbit
ter de fence. He talk loud an’ he say dat he want ’im fer ter fetch a
turn er kindlin’ when he start home, an’ den he say ter Riley, ‘Be tied
in de bag once mo’, an’ den when Wiley gits in tie ’im in dar hard an’
fas’. Wet de string in yo’ mouf, an’ pull it des ez tight ez you kin. Den
you come on home; yo’ mammy want you.’
“De las’ time Wiley Wolf got in de bag, little Riley tied it so tight
dat he couldn’t ’a’ got it loose ef he’d ’a’ tried. He tied it tight, he
did, an’ den he ’low, ‘I got ter go home fer ter git some kindlin’, an’
when I do dat, I’ll come back an’ play twel supper-time.’ But ef he yever
is went back dar, I ain’t never hear talk un it.”