THE notable difference existing between the negroes in the
interior of the cotton States and those on the seaboard--a
difference that extends to habits and opinions as well as to
dialect--has given rise to certain ineradicable prejudices which
are quick to display themselves whenever an opportunity offers.
These prejudices were forcibly, as well as ludicrously,
illustrated in Atlanta recently. A gentleman from Savannah had
been spending the summer in the mountains of north Georgia, and
found it convenient to take along a body-servant. This body-
servant was a very fine specimen of the average coast negro--
sleek, well-conditioned, and consequential--disposed to regard
with undisguised contempt everything and everybody not indigenous
to the rice-growing region--and he paraded around the streets
with quite a curious and critical air. Espying Uncle Remus
languidly sunning himself on a corner, the Savannah darkey
approached.
"Mornin', sah."
"I'm sorter up an' about," responded Uncle Remus, carelessly and
calmly. "How is you stannin' it?"
"Tanky you, my helt' mos' so-so. He mo' hot dun in de mountain.
Seem so lak man mus' git need*1 de shade. I enty fer see no
rice-bud in dis pa'ts."
"In dis w'ich?" inquired Uncle with a sudden affectation of
interest.
"In dis pa'ts. In dis country. Da plenty in Sawanny."
"Plenty whar?"
"Da plenty in Sawanny. I enty fer see no crab an' no oscher; en
swimp, he no stay 'roun'. I lak some rice-bud now."
"You er talkin' 'bout deze yer sparrers, w'ich dey er all head,
en 'lev'm un makes one mouffle,*2 I speck," suggested Uncle
Remus. "Well, dey er yer," he continued, "but dis ain't no
climate whar de rice-birds flies inter yo' pockets en gits out de
money an' makes de change derse'f; an' de isters don't shuck off
der shells en run over you on de street, an' no mo' duz de s'imp
hull derse'f an' drap in yo' mouf. But dey er yer, dough. De
scads 'll fetch um."
"Him po' country fer true," commented the Savannah negro; "he no
like Sawanny. Down da, we set need de shade an' eaty de rice-bud,
an' de crab, an' de swimp tree time de day; an' de buckra man
drinky him wine, an' smoky him seegyar all troo de night. Plenty
fer eat an' not much fer wuk."
"Hit's mighty nice, I speck," responded Uncle Remus, gravely. "De
nigger dat ain't hope up 'longer high feedin' ain't got no grip.
But up yer whar fokes is gotter scramble 'roun' an' make der own
livin', de vittles w'at's kumerlated widout enny sweatin' mos'
allers gener'ly b'longs ter some yuther man by rights. One hoe-
cake an' a rasher er middlin' meat las's me fum Sunday ter
Sunday, an' I'm in a mighty big streak er luck w'en I gits dat."
The Savannah negro here gave utterance to a loud, contemptuous
laugh, and began to fumble somewhat ostentatiously with a big
brass watch-chain.
"But I speck I struck up wid a payin' job las' Chuseday,"
continued Uncle Remus, in a hopeful tone.
"Wey you gwan do?"
"Oh, I'm a waitin' on a culled gemmun fum Savannah--wunner deze
yer high livers you bin tellin' 'bout."
"How dat?"
"I loant 'im two dollars," responded Uncle Remus, grimly, "an'
I'm a waitin' on 'im fer de money. Hit's wunner deze yer jobs
w'at las's a long time."
The Savannah negro went off after his rice-birds, while Uncle
Remus leaned up against the wall and laughed until he was in
imminent danger of falling down from sheer exhaustion.
*1 Underneath.
*2 Mouthful.