"YOU'VE been looking like you were rather under the weather for
the past week or two, Uncle Remus," said a gentleman to the old
man.
"You'd be sorter puny, too, boss, if you'd er bin whar I bin."
"Where have you been?"
"Pear ter me like eve'ybody done year 'bout dat. Dey ain't no ole
nigger my age an' size dat's had no rattliner time dan I is."
"A kind of picnic?"
"Go long, boss! w'at you speck I be doin' sailin' 'roun' ter dese
yer cullud picnics? Much mo' an' I wouldn't make bread by wukkin'
fer't, let 'lone follerin' up a passel er boys an' gals all over
keration. Boss, ain't you year 'bout it, sho' 'nuff?"
"I haven't, really. What was the matter?"
"I got strucken wid a sickness, an' she hit de ole nigger a joe-
darter 'fo' she tu'n 'im loose."
"What kind of sickness?"
"Hit look sorter cu'ous, boss, but ole an' steddy ez I is, I
tuck'n kotch de meezles."
"Oh, get out! You are trying to get up a sensation."
"Hit's a natal fack, boss, I declar' ter grashus ef 'tain't. Dey
sorter come on wid a col', like--leas'ways dat's how I commence
fer ter suffer, an' den er koff got straddle er de col'--one dese
yer koffs w'at look like hit goes ter de foundash'n. I kep' on
linger'n' 'roun' sorter keepin' one eye on the rheumatiz an' de
udder on de distemper, twel, bimeby, I begin fer ter feel de
trestle-wuk give way, an' den I des know'd dat I wuz gwineter
gitter racket. I slipt inter bed one Chuseday night, an' I never
slip out no mo' fer mighty nigh er mont'.
"Nex' mornin' de meezles 'd done kivered me, an' den ef I didn't
git dosted by de ole 'oman I'm a Chinee. She gimme back rashuns
er sassafac tea. I des natchully hankered an' got hongry atter
water, an ev'y time I sing out fer water I got b'ilin' hot
sassafac tea. Hit got so dat w'en I wake up in de mornin' de ole
'oman 'd des come long wid a kittle er tea an' fill me up. Dey
tells me 'roun' town dat chilluns don't git hurted wid de
meezles, w'ich ef dey don't I wanter be a baby de nex' time dey
hits dis place. All dis yer meezles bizness is bran'-new ter me.
In ole times, 'fo' de wah, I ain't heer tell er no seventy-fi'-
year-ole nigger grapplin' wid no meezles. Dey ain't ketchin' no
mo', is dey, boss?"
"Oh, no--I suppose not."
"'Kase ef dey is, you k'n des put my name down wid de migrashun
niggers."