Lucien and Lillian, cuddled together in the bottom of their boat, were
soon fast asleep. In dreams of home their loneliness and their troubles
were all forgotten. Sometimes in the starlight, sometimes in the dark
shadows of the overhanging trees, the boat drifted on. At last, toward
morning, it was caught in an eddy and carried nearer the bank, where the
current was almost imperceptible. Here the clumsy old bateau rocked and
swung, sometimes going lazily forward, and then as lazily floating back
again.
As the night faded away into the dim gray of morning, the bushes above
the boat were thrust softly aside and a black face looked down upon the
children. Then the black face disappeared as suddenly as it came. After
awhile it appeared again. It was not an attractive face. In the dim
light it seemed to look down on the sleeping children with a leer that
was almost hideous. It was the face of a woman. Around her head was a
faded red handkerchief, tied in a fantastic fashion, and as much of her
dress as could be seen was ragged, dirty, and greasy. She was not
pleasant to look upon, but the children slept on unconscious of her
presence.
Presently the woman came nearer. On the lower bank a freshet had
deposited a great heap of sand, which was now dry and soft. The woman
sat down on this, hugging her knees with her arms, and gazed at the
sleeping children long and earnestly. Then she looked up and down the
river, but nothing was to be seen for the fog that lay on the water. She
shook her head and muttered:
“Hit ’s p’izen down yer for dem babies. Yit how I gwine git um out er
dar?”
She caught hold of the boat, turned it around, and, by means of the
chain, drew it partially on the sand-bank. Then she lifted Lillian from
the boat, wrapping the quilt closer about the child, carried her up the
bank, and laid her beneath the trees where no dew had fallen. Returning,
she lifted Lucien and placed him beside his sister. But the change
aroused him. He raised himself on his elbow and rubbed his eyes. The
negro woman, apparently by force of habit, slipped behind a tree.
“Where am I?” Lucien exclaimed, looking around in something of a fright.
He caught sight of the frazzled skirt of the woman’s dress. “Who is
there behind that tree?” he cried.
“Nobody but me, honey—nobody ner nothin’ but po’ ole Crazy Sue. Don’t be
skeerd er me. I ain’t nigh ez bad ez I looks ter be.”
It was now broad daylight, and Lucien could see that the hideous
ugliness of the woman was caused by a burn on the side of her face and
neck.
“Wasn’t I in a boat?”
“Yes, honey; I brung you up yer fer ter keep de fog fum pizenin’ you.”
“I dreamed the Bad Man had me,” said Lucien, shivering at the bare
recollection.
“No, honey; ’t want nobody ner nothin’ but po’ ole Crazy Sue. De boat
down dar on de sand-bank, an’ yo’ little sissy layin’ dar soun’ asleep.
Whar in de name er goodness wuz you-all gwine, honey?” asked Crazy Sue,
coming nearer.
“We were going down the river hunting for Daddy Jake. He’s a runaway
now. I reckon we’ll find him after a while.”
“Is you-all Marse Doc. Gaston’ chillun?” asked Crazy Sue, with some show
of eagerness.
“Why, of course we are,” said Lucien.
Crazy Sue’s eyes fairly danced with joy. She clasped her hands together
and exclaimed:
“Lord, honey, I could shout,—I could des holler and shout; but I ain’t
gwine do it. You stay right dar by yo’ little sissy till I come back; I
want ter run an’ make somebody feel good. Now, don’t you move, honey.
Stay right dar.”
With that Crazy Sue disappeared in the bushes. Lucien kept very still.
In the first place, he was more than half frightened by the strangeness
of his surroundings, and, in the second place, he was afraid his little
sister would wake and begin to cry. He felt like crying a little
himself, for he knew he was many miles from home, and he felt very cold
and uncomfortable. Indeed, he felt very lonely and miserable; but just
when he was about to cry and call Daddy Jake, he heard voices near him.
Crazy Sue came toward him in a half-trot, and behind her—close behind
her—was Daddy Jake, his face wreathed in smiles and his eyes swimming in
tears. Lucien saw him and rushed toward him, and the old man stooped and
hugged the boy to his black bosom.
“Why, honey,” he exclaimed, “whar de name er goodness you come f’um!
Bless you! ef my eyes wuz sore de sight un you would make um well. How
you know whar yo’ Daddy Jake is?”
[Illustration: “LUCIEN SAW HIM AND RUSHED TOWARD HIM.”]
“Me and sister started out to hunt you,” said Lucien, whimpering a
little, now that he had nothing to whimper for, “and I think you are
mighty mean to run off and leave us all at home.”
“Now you talkin’, honey,” said Daddy Jake, laughing in his old fashion.
“I boun’ I’m de meanes’ ole nigger in de Nunited State. Yit, ef I’d ’a’
know’d you wuz gwine ter foller me up so close, I’d ’a’ fotch you wid
me, dat I would! An’ dar’s little Missy,” he exclaimed, leaning over the
little girl, “an’ she’s a-sleepin’ des ez natchul ez ef she wuz in her
bed at home. What I tell you-all?” he went on, turning to a group of
negroes that had followed him,—Randall, Cupid, Isaiah, and others,—“What
I tell you-all? Ain’t I done bin’ an’ gone an’ tole you dat deze chillun
wuz de out-doin’est chillun on de top-side er de roun’ worl’?”
The negroes—runaways all—laughed and looked pleased, and Crazy Sue
fairly danced. They made so much fuss that they woke Lillian, and when
she saw Daddy Jake she gave one little cry and leaped in his arms. This
made Crazy Sue dance again, and she would have kept it up for a long
time, but Randall suggested to Daddy Jake that the boat ought to be
hauled ashore and hidden in the bushes. Crazy Sue stayed with the
children while the negro men went after the boat. They hauled it up the
bank by the chain, and then they lifted and carried it several hundred
yards away from the river, and hid it in the thick bushes and grass.
“Now,” said Daddy Jake, when they had returned to where they left the
children, “we got ter git away f’um yer. Dey ain’t no tellin’ w’at gwine
ter happen. Ef deze yer chillun kin slip up on us dis away w’at kin a
grown man do?”
The old man intended this as a joke, but the others took him at his
word, and were moving off. “Wait!” he exclaimed. “De chillun bleeze ter
go whar I go. Sue, you pick up little Missy dar, an’ I’ll play hoss fer
dish yer chap.”
Crazy Sue lifted Lillian in her arms, Daddy Jake stooped so that Lucien
could climb up on his back, and then all took up their march for the
middle of Hudson’s cane-brake. Randall brought up the rear in order, as
he said, to “stop up de holes.”
It was a narrow, slippery, and winding path in which the negroes trod—a
path that a white man would have found difficult to follow. It seemed to
lead in all directions; but, finally, it stopped on a knoll high and dry
above the surrounding swamp. A fire was burning brightly, and the smell
of frying meat was in the air. On this knoll the runaway negroes had
made their camp, and for safety they could not have selected a better
place.
It was not long before Crazy Sue had warmed some breakfast for the
children. The negroes had brought the food they found in the boat, and
Crazy Sue put some of the biscuits in a tin bucket, hung the bucket on a
stick, and held it over the fire. Then she gave them some bacon that had
been broiled on a stone, and altogether they made a hearty breakfast.
During the morning most of the negro men stayed in the cane-brake, some
nodding and some patching their clothes, which were already full of
patches. But after dinner, a feast of broiled fish, roasted sweet
potatoes, and ash-cake, they all went away, leaving Crazy Sue to take
care of the children. After the men had all gone, the woman sat with her
head covered with her arms. She sat thus for a long time. After a while
Lucien went to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothin’, honey; I wuz des a-settin’ yer a-studyin’ an’ a-studyin’. Lots
er times I gits took dat a-way.”
“What are you studying about?” said Lucien.
“’Bout folks. I wuz des a-studyin’ ’bout folks, an’ ’bout how come I
whar I is, w’en I oughter be somers else. W’en I set down dis a-way, I
gits dat turrified in de min’ dat I can’t stay on de groun’ sca’cely.
Look like I want ter rise up in de elements an’ fly.”
“What made you run away?” Lucien asked with some curiosity.
“Well, you know, honey,” said Crazy Sue, after a pause, “my marster
ain’t nigh ez good ter his niggers ez yo’ pa is ter his’n. ’Tain’t dat
my marster is any mo’ strick, but look like hit fret ’im ef he see one
er his niggers settin’ down anywheres. Well, one time, long time ago, I
had two babies, an’ dey wuz twins, an’ dey wuz des ’bout ez likely
little niggers ez you ever did see. De w’ite folks had me at de house
doin’ de washin’ so I could be where I kin nurse de babies. One time I
wuz settin’ in my house nursin’ un um, an’ while I settin’ dar I went
fast ter sleep. How long I sot dar ’sleep, de Lord only knows, but w’en
I woked up, Marster wuz stan’in in de do’, watchin’ me. He ain’t say
nothin, yit I knowed dat man wuz mad. He des turn on his heel an’ walk
away. I let you know I put dem babies down an’ hustled out er dat house
mighty quick.
[Illustration: POOR OLD SUE TELLS HER STORY.]
“Well, sir, dat night de foreman come ’roun’ an’ tole me dat I mus’ go
ter de fiel’ de nex’ mornin’. Soon ez he say dat, I up an’ went ter de
big house an’ ax Marster w’at I gwine do wid de babies ef I went ter de
fiel’. He stood an’ look at me, he did, an’ den he writ a note out er
his pocket-book, an’ tol’ me ter han’ it ter de overseer. Dat w’at I
done dat ve’y night, an’ de overseer, he took an’ read de note, an’ den
he up an’ say dat I mus’ go wid de hoe-han’s, way over ter de two-mile
place.
“I went, kaze I bleeze ter go; yit all day long, whiles I wuz hoein’ I
kin year dem babies cryin’. Look like sometimes dey wuz right at me, an’
den ag’in look like dey wuz way off yander. I kep’ on a-goin’ an’ I kep’
on a-hoein’, an’ de babies kep’ on a-famishin’. Dey des fade away, an’
bimeby dey died, bofe un um on the same day. On dat day I had a fit an’
fell in de fier, an’ dat how come I burnt up so.
“Look like,” said the woman, marking on the ground with her bony
forefinger—“look like I kin year dem babies cryin’ yit, an’ dat de
reason folks call me Crazy Sue, kaze I kin year um cryin’ an’ yuther
folks can’t. I’m mighty glad dey can’t, kaze it ’ud break der heart.”
“Why didn’t you come and tell Papa about it?” said Lucien, indignantly.
“Ah, Lord, honey!” exclaimed Crazy Sue, “yo’ pa is a mighty good man,
an’ a mighty good doctor, but he ain’t got no medicine wa’t could ’a’
kyored me an’ my marster.”
In a little while Daddy Jake put in an appearance, and the children soon
forgot Crazy Sue’s troubles, and began to think about going home.
“Daddy Jake,” said Lucien, “when are you going to take us back home?”
“I want to go right now,” said Lillian.
Daddy Jake scratched his head and thought the matter over.
“Dey ain’t no use talkin’,” said he, “I got ter carry you back an’ set
you down in sight er de house, but how I gwine do it an’ not git
kotched? Dat w’at troublin’ me.”
“Why, Papa ain’t mad,” said Lucien. “I heard him tell that mean old
overseer he had a great mind to take his buggy whip to him for hitting
you.”
“Ain’t dat man dead?” exclaimed Daddy Jake in amazement.
“No, he ain’t,” said Lucien. “Papa drove him off the place.”
“Well, I be blest!” said the old man with a chuckle. “W’at kinder head
you reckon dat w’ite man got?—Honey,” he went on, growing serious again,
“is you _sholy sho_ dat man ain’t dead?”
“Didn’t I see him after you went away? Didn’t I hear Papa tell him to go
away? Didn’t I hear Papa tell Mamma he wished you had broken his neck?
Didn’t I hear Papa tell Mamma that you were a fool for running away?”
Lucien flung these questions at Daddy Jake with an emphasis that left
nothing to be desired.
“Well,” said Daddy Jake, “dat mus’ be so, an’ dat bein’ de case, we’ll
des start in de mornin’ an’ git home ter supper. We’ll go over yander
ter Marse Meredy Ingram’s an’ borry his carriage an’ go home in style. I
boun’ you, dey’ll all be glad to see us.”
Daddy Jake was happy once more. A great burden had been taken from his
mind. The other negroes when they came in toward night seemed to be
happy, too, because the old man could go back home; and there was not
one but would have swapped places with him. Randall was the last to
come, and he brought a big, fat chicken.
“I wuz cornin’ ’long cross de woods des now,” he said, winking his eye
and shaking his head at Daddy Jake, “an’, bless gracious, dis chicken
flew’d right in my han’. I say ter myse’f, I did, ‘Ole lady, you mus’
know we got comp’ny at our house,’ an’ den I clamped down on ’er, an’
yer she is. Now, ’bout dark, I’ll take ’er up yander an’ make Marse
Ingram’s cook fry ’er brown fer deze chillun, an’ I’ll make ’er gimme
some milk.”
Crazy Sue took the chicken, which had already been killed, wet its
feathers thoroughly, rolled it around in the hot embers, and then
proceeded to pick and clean it.
Randall’s programme was carried out to the letter. Mr. Meredith Ingram’s
cook fried the chicken for him, and put in some hot biscuit for good
measure, and the milker gave him some fresh milk, which she said would
not be missed.
The children had a good supper, and they would have gone to sleep
directly afterward, but the thought of going home with Daddy Jake kept
them awake. Randall managed to tell Daddy Jake, out of hearing of the
children, that Dr. Gaston and some of his negroes had been seen at
Ross’s mill that morning.
“Well,” said Daddy Jake, “I bleeze ter beat Marster home. Ef he go back
dar widout de chillun, my mistiss’ll drap right dead on de flo’.” This
was his only comment.
Around the fire the negroes laughed and joked, and told their
adventures. Lillian felt comfortable and happy, and as for Lucien, he
himself felt a hero. He had found Daddy Jake, and now he was going to
carry him back home.
Once, when there was a lull in the talk, Lillian asked why the frogs
made so much fuss.
“I speck it’s kaze dey er mad wid Mr. Rabbit,” said Crazy Sue. “Dey er
tryin’ der best ter drive ’im outen de swamp.”
“What are they mad with the Rabbit for?” asked Lucien, thinking there
might be a story in the explanation.
“Hit’s one er dem ole-time fusses,” said Crazy Sue. “Hit’s most too ole
ter talk about.”
“Don’t you know what the fuss was about?” asked Lucien.
“Well,” said Crazy Sue, “one time Mr. Rabbit an’ Mr. Coon live close ter
one anudder in de same neighborhoods. How dey does now, I ain’t
a-tellin’ you; but in dem times dey wa’n’t no hard feelin’s ’twix’ um.
Dey des went ’long like two ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit, he wuz a fisherman,
and Mr. Coon, he wuz a fisherman—”
“And put ’em in pens,” said Lillian, remembering an old rhyme she had
heard.
“No, honey, dey ain’t no Willium-Come-Trimbletoe in dis. Mr. Rabbit an’
Mr. Coon wuz bofe fishermans, but Mr. Rabbit, he kotch fish, an’ Mr.
Coon, he fished fer frogs. Mr. Rabbit, he had mighty good luck, an’ Mr.
Coon, he had mighty bad luck. Mr. Rabbit, he got fat an’ slick, an’ Mr.
Coon, he got po’ an’ sick.
“Hit went on dis a-way tell one day Mr. Coon meet Mr. Rabbit in de big
road. Dey shook han’s, dey did, an’ den Mr. Coon, he ’low:
“‘Brer Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance er fish?’
“Mr. Rabbit laugh an’ say: ‘I kotch um outen de river, Brer Coon. All I
got ter do is ter bait my hook,’ sezee.
“Den Mr. Coon shake his head an’ ’low: ‘Den how come I ain’t kin ketch
no frogs?’
“Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an’ scratched fer fleas, an’ den he
’low: ‘Hit’s kaze you done make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de
dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch an’ kotch de ole King
Frog; an’ ever sence dat time, w’enever you er passin’ by, you kin year
um sing out, fus’ one an’ den anudder—_Yer he come! Dar he goes! Hit ’im
in de eye; hit ’im in de eye! Mash ’im an’ smash ’im; mash ’im an’ smash
’im!_ Yasser, dat w’at dey say. I year um constant, Brer Coon, an’ dat
des w’at dey say.’
[Illustration: “MR. RABBIT SQUALL OUT, ‘COON DEAD!’”]
“Den Mr. Coon up an’ say: ‘Ef dat de way dey gwine on, how de name er
goodness kin I ketch um, Brer Rabbit? I bleeze ter have sump’n ter eat
fer me an’ my fambly connection.’
“Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de cornder er his mouf, an’ den he say:
‘Well, Brer Coon, bein’ ez you bin so sociable ’long wid me, an’ ain’t
never showed yo’ toofies w’en I pull yo’ tail, I’ll des whirl in an’
he’p you out.’
“Mr. Coon, he say: ‘Thanky, thanky-do, Brer Rabbit.’
“Mr. Rabbit hung his fish on a tree lim’, an’ say: ‘Now, Brer Coon, you
bleeze ter do des like I tell you.’
“Mr. Coon ’lowed dat he would ef de Lord spared ’im.
“Den Mr. Rabbit say: ‘Now, Brer Coon, you des rack down yander, an’ git
on de big san’-bar ’twix’ de river an’ de branch. W’en you git dar you
mus’ stagger like you sick, and den you mus’ whirl roun’ an’ roun’ an’
drap down like you dead. After you drap down, you must sorter jerk yo’
legs once er twice, an’ den you mus’ lay right still. Ef fly light on
yo’ nose, let ’im stay dar. Don’t move; don’t wink yo’ eye; don’t switch
yo’ tail. Des lay right dar, an’ ’t won’t be long ’fo’ you year f’um me.
Yit don’t you move till I give de word.’
“Mr. Coon, he paced off, he did, an’ done des like Mr. Rabbit tol’ ’im.
He staggered roun’ on de san’-bank, an’ den he drapped down dead. Atter
so long a time, Mr. Rabbit come lopin’ ’long, an’ soon’s he git dar, he
squall out, ‘Coon dead!’ Dis rousted de frogs, an’ dey stuck dey heads
up fer ter see w’at all de rippit wuz ’bout. One great big green un up
an’ holler, _W’at de matter? W’at de matter?_ He talk like he got a bad
col’.
“Mr. Rabbit ’low: ‘Coon dead!’
“Frog say: _Don’t believe it! Don’t believe it!_
“N’er frog say: _Yes, he is! Yes, he is!_ Little bit er one say: _No, he
ain’t! No, he ain’t!_
“Dey kep’ on ’sputin’ an’ ’sputin’, tell bimeby hit look like all de
frogs in de neighborhoods wuz dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain’t
a-yearin’ ner a-keerin’ wa’t dey do er say. He sot dar in de san’ like
he gwine in mournin’ fer Mr. Coon. De Frogs kep’ gittin’ closer an’
closer. Mr. Coon, he ain’t move. W’en a fly’d git on ’im Mr. Rabbit he’d
bresh ’im off.
“Bimeby he ’low: ‘Ef you want ter git ’im outen de way, now’s yo’ time,
Cousin Frogs. Des whirl in an’ bury him deep in de san’.’
“Big ole Frog say: _How we gwine ter do it? How we gwine ter do it?_
“Mr. Rabbit ’low: ‘Dig de san’ out fum under ’im an’ let ’im down in de
hole.’
[Illustration: “DEN DE FROGS DEY WENT TO WORK SHO NUFF.”]
“Den de Frogs dey went ter work sho nuff. Dey mus’ ’a’ bin a hunderd un
um, an’ dey make dat san’ fly, mon. Mr. Coon, he ain’t move. De Frogs,
dey dig an’ scratch in de san’ tell atter while dey had a right smart
hole, an’ Mr. Coon wuz down in dar.
“Bimeby big Frog holler: _Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?_
“Mr. Rabbit ’low: ‘Kin you jump out?’
“Big Frog say: _‘Yes, I kin! Yes, I kin!’_
“Mr. Rabbit say: ‘Den’t ain’t deep nuff.’
“Den de Frogs dey dig an’ dey dig, tell, bimeby, Big Frog say: _Dis deep
nuff? Dis deep nuff?_
“Mr. Rabbit ’low: ‘Kin you jump out?’
“Big Frog say: _I dess kin! I dess kin!_
“Mr. Rabbit say: ‘Dig it deeper.’
“De Frogs keep on diggin’ tell bimeby, big Frog holler out: _Dis deep
nuff? Dis deep nuff?_
“Mr. Rabbit ’low: ‘Kin you jump out?’
“Big Frog say: _No, I can’t! No, I can’t! Come he’p me! Come he’p me!_
“Mr. Rabbit bust out laughin’, and holler out:
“‘RISE UP, SANDY, AN’ GIT YO’ MEAT!’ an’ Mr. Coon riz.”
Lucien and Lillian laughed heartily at this queer story, especially the
curious imitation of frogs both big and little that Crazy Sue gave.
Lucien wanted her to tell more stories, but Daddy Jake said it was
bedtime; and the children were soon sound asleep.
The next morning Daddy Jake had them up betimes. Crazy Sue took Lillian
in her arms, and Daddy Jake took Lucien on his back. As they had gone
into the cane-brake, so they came out. Randall and some of the other
negroes wanted to carry Lillian, but Crazy Sue wouldn’t listen to them.
She had brought the little girl in, she said, and she was going to carry
her out. Daddy Jake, followed by Crazy Sue, went in the direction of Mr.
Meredith Ingram’s house. It was on a hill, more than a mile from the
river, and was in a grove of oak-trees. As they were making their way
through a plum orchard, not far from the house, Crazy Sue stopped.
“Brer Jake,” she said, “dis is all de fur I’m gwine. I’m ’mos’ too close
ter dat house now. You take dis baby an’ let dat little man walk.
’Tain’t many steps ter whar you gwine.” Crazy Sue wrung Daddy Jake’s
hand, stooped and kissed the children, and with a “God bless you all!”
disappeared in the bushes, and none of the three ever saw her again.
[Illustration: “THE OLD NEGRO PUT HIS HANDS TO HIS MOUTH AND CALLED.”]
Mr. Meredith Ingram was standing out in his front yard, enjoying a pipe
before breakfast. He was talking to himself and laughing when Daddy Jake
and the children approached.
“Howdy, Mars’ Meredy,” said the old negro, taking off his hat and bowing
as politely as he could with the child in his arms. Mr. Ingram looked at
him through his spectacles and over them.
“Ain’t that Gaston’s Jake?” he asked, after he had examined the group.
“Yasser,” said Daddy Jake, “an’ deze is my marster’s little chillun.”
Mr. Ingram took his pipe out of his mouth.
“Why, what in the world!—Why, what under the sun!—Well, if this doesn’t
beat—why, what in the nation!”—Mr. Ingram failed to find words to
express his surprise.
Daddy Jake, however, made haste to tell Mr. Ingram that the little ones
had drifted down the river in a boat, that he had found them, and wished
to get them home just as quickly as he could.
“My marster bin huntin’ fer um, suh,” said the old negro, and I want ter
beat him home, kaze ef he go dar widout deze chillun, my mistiss’ll be a
dead ’oman—she cert’n’y will, suh.”
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Ingram. “If this don’t beat—why, of
course, I’ll send them home. I’ll go with ’em myself. Of course I will.
Well, if this doesn’t—George! hitch up the carriage. Fetch out Ben Bolt
and Rob Roy, and go and get your breakfast. Jake, you go and help him,
and I’ll take these chaps in the house and warm ’em up. Come on, little
ones. We’ll have something to eat and then we’ll go right home to Pappy
and Mammy.” They went in, Mr. Ingram muttering to himself, “Well, if
this doesn’t beat—”
After breakfast Mr. Ingram, the children, Daddy Jake, and George, the
driver, were up and away, as the fox-hunters say. Daddy Jake sat on the
driver’s seat with George, and urged on the horses. They traveled
rapidly, and it is well they did, for when they came in sight of the
Gaston place, Daddy Jake saw his master entering the avenue that led to
the house. The old negro put his hands to his mouth and called so loudly
that the horses jumped. Doctor Gaston heard him and stopped, and in a
minute more had his children in his arms, and that night there was a
happy family in the Gaston house. But nobody was any happier than Daddy
Jake.
HOW A WITCH WAS CAUGHT
The little boy sat in a high chair and used his legs as drumsticks, much
to the confusion of Uncle Remus, as it appeared. After a while the old
man exclaimed:
“Well, my goodness en de gracious! how you ever in de roun’ worl’ er
anywheres else speck me fer ter make any headway in tellin’ a tale wiles
all dish yer racket gwine on? I don’t want ter call nobody’s pa, kase he
mos’ allers talks too loud, en if I call der ma’t won’t make so mighty
much difference, kase she done got so usen ter it dat she dunner w’en
dey er makin’ any fuss. I believe dat ef everything wuz ter git right
good en still on deze premises des one time, you’ ma would in about die
wid de headache. Anyway, she’d be mighty sick, bekaze she ain’t usen ter
not havin’ no fuss, en she des couldn’t git ’long widout it.
“I tell you right now, I’d be afeard fer ter tell any tale roun’ yer,
kaze de fust news I know’d I’d git my eyes put out, er my leg broke, er
sump’n’ n’er. I knows deze yer w’ite chillun, mon! dat I does; I knows
um. Dey’ll git de upper hand er de niggers ef de Lord spar’s um. En he
mos’ inginner’lly spar’s um.
“Well, now, ef you want ter hear dish yer tale w’at I bin tu’nin’ over
in my min’ you des got ter come en set right yer in front er me, whar I
kin keep my two eyes on you; kaze I ain’t gwine ter take no resks er no
foolishness. Now, den, you des better behave, bekaze hit don’t cost me
nothin’ fer ter cut dis tale right short off.
“One time der wuz a miller man w’at live by a river en had a mill. He
wuz a mighty smart man. He tuck so much toll dat he tuck ’n buyed ’im a
house, en’ he want ter rent dat ’ar house out ter folks, but de folks
dey ’lowed dat de house wuz ha’nted. Dey’d come ’en rent de house, dey
would, en move in dar, en den go upsta’rs en go ter bed. Dey’d go ter
bed, dey would, but dey couldn’t sleep, en time it got day dey’d git out
er dat house.
“De miller man, he ax’d um w’at de matter wuz, but dey des shuck der
head en’ ’low de house wuz ha’nted. Den he tuck ’n try ter fine out w’at
kind er ha’nt she wuz dat skeer folks. He sleep in de house, but he
ain’t see nothin’, en de mos’ w’at he year wuz a big ole gray cat
a-promenadin’ roun’ en hollerin’. Bimeby hit got so dat dey want no fun
in havin’ de ha’nted house, en w’en folks’d come ’long de miller man,
he’d des up en tell um dat de house ’uz ha’nted. Some ’ud go up en some
wouldn’t, but dem w’at went up didn’t stay, kaze des ’bout bedtime dey’d
fetch a yell en des come a-rushin’ down, en all de money in de Nunited
States er Georgy wouldn’t git um fer ter go back up dar.
“Hit went on dis away twel one time a preacher man com’ ’long dar en say
he wanted some’rs ter stay. He was a great big man, en he look like he
wuz good accordin’. De miller man say he hate mighty bad for to
discommerdate ’im, but he des pintedly ain’t got no place whar he kin
put ’im ’cep’ dat ’ar ha’nted house. De preacher man say he des soon
stay dar ez anywhar’s, kase he bin livin’ in deze low-groun’s er sorrer
too long fer ter be sot back by any one-hoss ha’nts. De miller man
’lowed dat he wuz afeard de ha’nts ’ud worry ’im might’ly, but de
preacher man ’low, he did, dat he use ter bein’ worried, en he up en
tell de miller man dat he’d a heap rather stay in de house wid de ha’nt,
no matter how big she is, dan ter stay out doors in de rain.
“So de miller man, he ’low he ain’t got no mo’ ’pology fer ter make,
bekaze ef de preacher man wuz ready fer ter face de ha’nts and set up
dar en out blink um, dey wouldn’t be nobody in de roun’ worl’ no gladder
dan ’im. Den de miller man showed de preacher man how ter git in de
house en had ’im a great big fier built. En atter de miller man wuz done
gone, de preacher man drawed a cheer up ter de fier en waited fer de
ha’nts, but dey ain’t no ha’nts come. Den w’en dey ain’t no ha’nts come,
de preacher man tuck ’n open up he satchel en got ’im out some spar’
ribs en sot um by de fier fer ter cook, en den he got down en said he
pra’rs, en den he got up en read he Bible. He wuz a mighty good man,
mon, en he prayed en read a long time. Bimeby, w’en his spar’ ribs git
done, he got some bread out’n he satchel, en fixed fer ter eat his
supper.
“By de time he got all de meat off’n one er de ribs, de preacher man
listened, en he year’d a monst’us scramblin’ en scratchin’ on de wall.
He look aroun’, he did, en dar wuz a great big black cat a-sharpenin’
’er claws on de door facin’. Folks, don’t talk! dat ’ar cat wuz er
sight! Great long w’ite toofs en great big yaller eye-balls a-shinin’
like dey wuz lit up way back in ’er head. She stood dar a minit, dat ole
black cat did, en den she ’gun ter sidle up like she wuz gwine ter mount
dat preacher man right dar en den. But de preacher man, he des shoo’d at
’er, en it seem like dis sorter skeer’d ’er, kaze she went off.
[Illustration: “SHE STOOD DAR A MINIT, DAT OLE BLACK CAT DID.”]
“But de preacher man, he kep’ his eye open, en helt on ter his spar’
rib. Present’y he year de ole black cat comin’ back, en dis time she
fotch wid ’er a great big gang er cats. Dey wuz all black des like she
wuz, en der eye-balls _shineded_ en der lashes wuz long en w’ite. Hit
look like de preacher man wuz a-gwine ter git surroundered.
“Dey come a-sidlin’ up, dey did, en de ole black cat made a pass at de
preacher man like she wuz a-gwine ter t’ar he eyes out. De preacher man
dodged, but de nex’ pass she made de preacher man fotch ’er wipe with
his spar’ rib en cut off one er ’er toes. Wid dat de ole black cat fotch
a yell dat you might a yeard a mile, en den she gin ’erself a sort er a
twis’ en made her disappearance up de chimbley, en w’en she do dat all
de yuther cats made der disappearance up de chimbley. De preacher man he
got up, he did, en looked und’ de bed fer ter see ef he kin fine any mo’
cats, but dey wuz all done gone.
“Den he tuck ’n pick up de cat toe w’at he done knock off wid de spar’
rib, en wrop it up in a piece er paper en put it in he pocket. Den he
say his pra’rs some mo’, en went ter bed en slep’ right straight along
twel broad daylight, en nuthin’ ain’t dast ter bodder ’im.
“Nex’ mornin’ de preacher man got up, he did, en say his pra’rs en eat
his breakkus, en den he ’low ter hisse’f dat he’ll go by en tell de
miller man dat he mighty much erblige. ’Fo’ he start, hit come ’cross he
min’ ’bout de cats w’at pester ’im de night befo’, and he tuck ’n feel
in he pockets fer de big black cat toe w’at he done cut off wid de spar’
rib. But it seems like de toe done grow in de night, en bless goodness!
w’en he unwrop it ’t want nuthin’ less dan a great big finger wid a ring
on it.
“So de preacher man tuck ’n fix up all his contrapments, en den call on
de miller man en tol’ ’im he wuz mighty much erblige kaze he let ’im
stay in de house. De miller man wuz ’stonish’ fer ter see de preacher
man, kaze he knew dat w’en folks stay all night in dat house dey ain’t
come down no mo’. He wuz ’stonish’, but he didn’t say much. He des stan’
still en wunder.
“But de preacher man, he up ’n ax ’bout de miller man’s wife, en say he
wants ter see ’er en tell ’er good-bye, bein’ ez how dey ’d all bin so
good. So de miller man, he tuck ’n kyar de preacher inter de room whar
his wife wuz layin’ in bed. De ole ’oman had de counterpin drawed up
und’ ’er chin, but she look mighty bad roun’ de eyes. Yit, she tuck ’n’
howdied de preacher man en tole ’im he wuz mighty welcome.
“Dey talk en talk, dey did, en atter w’ile de preacher man hoi’ out his
han’ fer ter tell de ’oman good-bye; but de ’oman, she belt out ’er lef’
han’, she did, like she want dat fer ter git shucken. But de preacher
man wouldn’t shake dat un. He say dat ain’t nigh gwine ter do, bekaze
w’en folks got any perliteness lef’ dey don’t never hol’ out de lef’
han’. De ’oman she say her right wuz cripple, but her ole man ’low he
ain’t never hear ’bout dat befo’, en den he tuck’n make ’er pull it out
from und’ de kivver, en den dey seed dat one er ’er fingers wuz done
clean gone. De miller man he up ’n ’low:
“‘How come dis?’
“De ’oman she ’low, ‘I cut it off.’
“De miller man he ’low, ‘How you cut it off?’
“De ’oman she ’low, ‘I knock it off?’
“De miller man he ’low, ‘Wharbouts you knock it off?’
“De ’oman she ’low, ‘I broke it off’
“De miller man he ’low, ‘When you break it off?’
“Den de ’oman she ain’t say nuthin’. She des lay dar, she did, en pant
en look skeered. De preacher man he study a little en den he say he
speck he kin kyo’ dat han’, en he tuck de finger out ’n he pocket en
tried it on de ’oman’s han’, en it fit! Yassar! it fit in de place right
smick smack smoove. Den de preacher man he up en tell de miller man dat
de ’oman wuz a witch, en wid dat de ’oman fetched a yell en kivvered ’er
head wid de counterpin.
“Yit dis ain’t do ’er no good, kaze de preacher man say he done look in
de books en de onliest way fer ter kyo’ a witch is ter bu’n ’er; en it
ain’t look so bad, nuther, kaze when dey tied ’er she tuck ’n tu’n ter
be a great big black cat, en dat’s de way she wuz w’en she wuz burnt.”
THE LITTLE BOY AND HIS DOGS
“Uncle Remus’s little patron seemed to be so shocked at the burning of
the woman that the old man plunged at once into a curious story about a
little boy and his two dogs.
“One time,” said Uncle Remus, scratching his head as if by that means to
collect his scattered ideas, “dere wuz a ’oman livin’ ’longside er de
big road, en dish yer ’oman she had one little boy. Seem like ter me dat
he mus’ ’a’ bin des ’bout yo’ size. He mout ’a’ bin a little broader in
de shoulder en a little longer in de leg, yit, take ’im up one side en
down de udder, he wuz des ’bout yo’ shape en size. He wuz a mighty smart
little boy, en his mammy sot lots by ’im. Seem like she ain’t never have
no luck ’cept’n ’long wid dat boy, kaze dey wuz one time w’en she had a
little gal, en, bless yo’ soul! somebody come ’long en tote de little
gal off, en w’en dat happen de ’oman ain’t have no mo’ little gal, en de
little boy ain’t have no mo’ little sister. Dis make bofe er um mighty
sorry, but look like de little boy wuz de sorriest, kaze he show it de
mosest.
“Some days he’d take a notion fer ter go en hunt his little sister, en
den he’d go down de big road en clam a big pine-tree, en git right spang
in de top, en look all roun’ fer ter see ef he can’t see his little
sister some’rs in de woods. He couldn’t see ’er, but he’d stay up dar in
de tree en swing in de win’ en ’low ter hisself dat maybe he mout see
’er bimeby.
“One day, w’iles he wuz a-settin’ up dar, he see two mighty fine ladies
walkin’ down de road. He clam down out’n de tree, he did, en run en tol’
his mammy. Den she up en ax:
“‘How is dey dress, honey?’
“‘Mighty fine, mammy, mighty fine, puffy-out petticoats en long green
veils.’
“‘How des dey look, honey?’
“‘Spick span new, mammy.’
“‘Dey ain’t none er our kin, is dey, honey?’
“‘Dat dey ain’t, mammy—dey er mighty fine ladies.’
“De fine ladies, dey come on down de road, dey did, en stop by de
’oman’s house, en beg ’er fer ter please en gi’ um some water. Dey
little boy, he run en fetch ’em a gourd full, en dey put de gourd und’
der veils, en drunk, en drunk, en drunk des like dey wuz mighty nigh
perish fer water. De little boy watch um. ’Reckly he holler out:
“‘Mammy, mammy! W’at you recken? Dey er lappin’ de water.’ De woman
hollered back:
“‘I recken dat’s de way de quality folks does, honey.’
“Den de ladies beg fer some bread, en de little boy tuck um a pone. Dey
eat it like dey wuz mighty nigh famish fer bread. Bimeby de little boy
holler out en say:
“‘Mammy, mammy! W’at you recken? Dey er got great long tushes.’ De
’oman, she holler back:
“’ I recken all de quality folks is got um, honey.’
“Den de ladies ax fer some water fer to wash der han’s, en de little boy
brung um some. He watch um, en bimeby he holler out:
“‘Mammy, mammy! W’at you recken? Dey got little bit er hairy han’s en
arms.’ De ’oman, she holler back:
“‘I recken all de quality folks is got um, honey.’
“Den de ladies beg de ’oman fer ter please en let de little boy show um
whar de big road forks. But de little boy don’t want ter go. He holler
out:
“‘Mammy, folks don’t hatter be showed whar de road forks’; but de oman
she ’low:
“‘I recken de quality folks does, honey.’
“De little boy, he ’gun ter whimpie en cry kaze he don’t want ter go wid
de ladies, but de ’oman say he oughter be ’shame er hisse’f fer ter be
gwine on dat away ’fo’ de quality folks, en mo’ ’n dat, he mout run upon
his little sister en fetch ’er home.
“Now dish yer little boy had too mighty bad dogs. One er um wuz name
Minnyminny Morack, en de t’er one wuz name Follerlinsko, en dey wuz so
bad dey hatter be tied in de yard day en night, ’cep’ w’en dey wuzent
a-huntin’. So de little boy, he went en got a pan er water en sot ’im
down in de middle er de flo’, en den he went en got ’im a willer lim’,
en he stuck it in de groun’. Den he ’low:
“‘Mammy, w’en de water in dish yer pan tu’ns ter blood, den you run out
en tu’n loose Minnyminny Morack en Follerlinsko, en den w’en you see dat
dar wilier lim’ a-shakin’, you run en sick um on my track.’
“De ’oman, she up an’ say she’d tu’n de dogs loose, en den de little boy
he stuck his han’s in he pockets en went on down de road a wisserlin’
des same ez enny yuther little boy, ’cep’ dat he wuz lots smarter. He
went on down de road, he did, en de fine quality ladies dey come on
behin’.
“De furder he went de faster he walk. Dis make de quality ladies walk
fas’, too, en ’t want so mighty long ’fo’ de little boy year um makin’ a
mighty kuse fuss, en w’en he t’un ’roun’, bless gracious! dey wuz
a-pantin’, kaze dey wuz so tired en hot. De little boy ’low ter hisse’f
dat it mighty kuse how ladies kin pant same es a wil’ varment, but he
say he speck dat de way de quality ladies does w’en dey gits hot en
tired, en he make like he can’t year um, kaze he want ter be nice en
perlite.
“Atter a w’ile, w’en de quality ladies t’ink de little boy want lookin’
at um, he seed one er um drap down on ’er all-fours en trot ’long des
like a varmint, en’t want long ’fo’ de yuther one drapt down on ’er
all-fours. Den de little boy ’lowed:
“_Shoo!_ Ef dat de way quality ladies res’ derse’f w’en dey git tired I
reckon a little chap ’bout my size better be fixin fer ter res’
hisse’f.’
“So he look ’roun’, he did, en he tuck ’n pick ’im out a great big
pine-tree by de side er de road, en ’gun to clam it. Den w’en dey see
dat, one er de quality ladies ’low:
“‘My goodness! W’at in de worl’ you up ter now?’ Little boy he say,
sezee:
“‘I’m des a-clamin’ a tree fer ter res’ my bones.’ Ladies, dey ’low:
“‘Whyn’t you res’ um on de groun’?’ Little boy say, sezee:
“‘Bekaze I like ter git up whar it cool en high.
“De quality ladies, dey tuck ’n walk ’roun’ en ’roun’ de tree like dey
wuz medjun it fer ter see how big it is. Bimeby, atter w’ile dey say,
sezee:
“‘Little boy, little boy! you better come down frum dar en show us de
way ter de forks er de road.’ Den de little boy ’low:
“‘Des keep right on, ladies—you’ll fin’ de forks er de road; you can’t
miss um. I’m afeard fer ter come down, kaze I might fall en hurt some er
you all.’ De ladies dey say, sezee:
“‘You better come down yer ’fo’ we run en tell yo’ mammy how bad you
is.’ De little boy ’low:
“‘W’iles you er tellin’ ’er please um’ tell ’er how skeerd I is.’
“Den de quality ladies got mighty mad. Dey walked ’roun’ dat tree en
fairly snorted. Dey pulled off der bonnets, en der veils, en der
dresses, en, lo en beholes! de little boy seen dey wuz two great big
pant’ers. Dey had great big eyes, en big sharp tushes, en great long
tails, en dey look up at de little boy en growl en grin at ’im twel he
come mighty nigh havin’ a chill. Dey tried ter clam de tree, but dey had
done trim der claws so dey could git on gloves, en dey couldn’t clam no
mo’.
“Den one er um sot down in de road en made a kuse mark in de san’, en
der great long tails tu’n’d ter axes, en no sooner is der tails tu’n ter
axes den dey ’gun ter cut de tree down. I ain’t dast ter tell you how
sharp dem axes wuz, kase you wouldn’t nigh b’lieve me. One er um stood
on one side er de tree, en de yuther one stood on de yuther side, en dey
whack at dat tree like dey wuz takin’ a holiday. Dey whack out chips ez
big ez yo’ hat, en’t want so mighty long ’fo’ de tree wuz ready fer ter
fall.
“But w’iles de little boy wuz settin’ up dar, skeerd mighty nigh ter
def, hit come inter his min’ dat he had some eggs in his pocket w’at he
done brung wid ’im fer ter eat w’enever he git hongry. He tuck out one
er de eggs en broke it, en say: ‘Place, fill up!’ en, bless yo’ soul! de
place fill up sho ’nuff, en de tree look des ’zackly like nobody ain’t
bin a-cuttin’ on it.
“But dem ar pant’ers dey wuz werry vig’rous. Dey des spit on der han’s
en cut away. W’en dey git de tree mighty nigh cut down de little boy he
pull out ’n’er egg en broke it, en say, ‘Place, fill up!’ en by de time
he say it de tree wuz done made soun’ agin. Dey kep’ on dis away twel de
little boy ’gun ter git skeerd agin. He done broke all he eggs, ’ceptin’
one, en dem ar creeturs wuz des a-cuttin’ away like dey wuz venomous,
w’ich dey mos’ sholy wuz.
“Des ’bout dat time de little boy mammy happen ter stumble over de pan
er water w’at wuz settin’ down on de flo’, en dar it wuz all done tu’n
ter blood. Den she tuck ’n run en unloose Minnyminny Morack en
Follerlinsko. Den w’en she do dat she see de wilier lim’ a-shakin’, en
den she put de dogs on de little boy track, en away dey went. De little
boy year um a-comin’, en he holler out:
“‘Come on, my good dogs. Here, dogs, here.’
“De pant’ers dey stop choppin’ en lissen. One ax de yuther one w’at she
year. Little boy say:
“‘You don’ year nothin’. Go on wid yo’ choppin.
“De pant’ers dey chop some mo’, en den dey think dey year de dogs
a-comin’. Den dey try der bes fer ter git away, but’t want no use. Dey
ain’t got time fer ter change der axes back inter tails, en co’se dey
can’t run wid axes draggin’ behin’ um. So de dogs cotch um. De little
boy, he ’low:
“‘Shake um en bite um. Drag um ’roun’ en ’roun’ twel you drag um two
mile.’ So de dogs dey drag um ’roun’ two mile. Den de little boy say,
sezee:
“‘Shake um en t’ar um. Drag um ’roun’ en ’roun’ twel you drag um ten
mile.’ So dey drag um ten mile, en by de time dey got back, de pant’ers
wuz col’ en stiff.
“Den de little boy clum down out ’n de tree, en sot down fer ter res’
’hisse’f. Bimeby atter w’ile, he ’low ter hisse’f dat bein’ he hay so
much fun, he b’lieve he takes his dogs en go way off in de woods fer ter
see ef he can’t fin’ his little sister. He call his dogs, he did, en
went off in de woods, en dey ain’t bin gone so mighty fur ’fo’ he seed a
house in de woods away off by itse’f.
“De dogs dey went up en smelt ’roun’, dey did, en come wid der bristles
up, but de little boy ’low he’d go up dar anyhow en see w’at de dogs wuz
mad ’bout. So he call de dogs en went todes de house, en w’en he got
close up he saw a little gal totin’ wood en water. She wuz a mighty
purty little gal, kaze she had a milk-white skin, en great long yaller
hair; but ’er cloze wuz all in rags, en she wuz cryin’ kaze she hatter
work so hard. Minnyminny Morack en Follerlinsko wagged der tails w’en
dey seed de little gal, en de little boy know’d by dat dat she wuz his
sister.
“So he went up en ax er w’at ’er name is, en she say she dunner w’at ’er
name is, kaze she so skeerd she done fergit. Den he ax ’er w’at de name
er goodness she cryin’ ’bout, en she say she cryin’ kaze she hatter work
so hard. Den he ax ’er who de house belong ter, en she ’low it b’long
ter a great big ole black B’ar, en dis old B’ar make ’er tote wood en
water all de time. She say de water is ter go in de big wash-pot, en de
wood is fer ter make de pot bile, en de pot wuz ter cook folks w’at de
great big ole B’ar brung home ter he chilluns.
“De little boy didn’t tell de little gal dat he wuz ’er br’er, but he
’low dat he was gwine ter stay en eat supper wid de big ole B’ar. De
little girl cried en ’low he better not, but de little boy say he ain’t
feared fer ter eat supper wid a B’ar. So dey went in de house, en w’en
de little boy got in dar, he seed dat de B’ar had two great big
chilluns, en one er um wuz squattin’ on de bed, en de yuther one wuz
squattin down in de h’ath. De chilluns, dey wuz bofe er um name Cubs,
fer short, but de little boy want skeerd er um, kaze dar wuz his dogs
fer ter make way wid um ef dey so much ez roll der eye-ball.
“De ole B’ar wuz a mighty long time comin’ back, so de little gal she up
’n fix supper, anyhow, en de little boy he tuck ’n scrouge Cubs fus on
one side en den on yuther, en him en de little gal got much ez dey want.
Atter supper de little boy tole de little gal dat he’d take en comb ’er
ha’r des ter w’ile away de time; but de little gal ha’r ain’t bin comb
fer so long, en it am got in such a tankle, dat it make de po’ creetur
cry fer ter hear anybody talkin’ ’bout combin’ un it. Den de little boy
’low he ain’t gwine ter hurt ’er, en he tuck ’n warm some water in a pan
en put it on ’er ha’r, en den he comb en curlt it des ez nice as you
mos’ ever see.
“W’en de ole B’ar git home he wuz mighty tuck ’n back w’en he seed he
had com’ny, en w’en he see um all settin’ down like dey come den fer ter
stay. But he wuz mighty perlite, en he shuck han’s all ’roun’, en set
down by de fier en dry his boots, en ax ’bout de craps, en ’low dat de
wedder would be monstus fine ef dey could git a little season er rain.
“Den he tuck ’n make a great ’miration over de little gal’s ha’r, en he
ax de little boy how in de roun’ worl’ kin he curl it en fix it so nice.
De little un ’low it’s easy enough. Den de ole B’ar say he b’lieve he
like ter git his ha’r curlt up dat way, en de little boy say:
“‘Fill de big pot wid water.’
“De ole B’ar filled de pot wid water. Den de little boy say:
“‘Buil’ a fier und’ de pot en heat de water hot.’
“W’en de water got scaldin’ hot, de little boy say:
“‘All ready, now. Stick yo’ head in. Hit ’s de onliest way fer ter make
yo’ ha’r curl.’
“Den de ole B’ar stuck he head in de water, en dot wuz de las’ er him,
bless gracious! De scaldin’ water curlt de ha’r twel it come off, en I
speck dat whar dey get de idee ’bout puttin’ b’ar grease on folks’ ha’r.
De young b’ars dey cry like ever’ting w’en dey see how der daddy bin
treated, en dey want bite and scratch de little boy en his sister, but
dem dogs—dat Minnyminny Morack en dat Follerlinsko—dey des laid holt er
dem dar b’ars, en dey want enough lef’ er um ter feed a kitten.”
“What did they do then?” asked the little boy who had been listening to
the story. The old man took off his spectacles and cleaned the glasses
on his coat-tail.
[Illustration: “ALL READY, NOW. STICK YO’ HEAD IN.”]
“Well, sir,” he went on, “de little boy tuck ’n kyard his sister home,
an’ his mammy says she ain’t never gwine ter set no sto’ by folks wid
fine cloze, kaze dey so ’ceitful; no, never, so long as de Lord mout
spar’ ’er. En den, atter dat, dey tuck ’n live terge’er right straight
’long, en ef it hadn’t but a bin fer de war, dey’d a bin a-livin’ dar
now. Bekaze war is a mighty dangersome business.”
HOW BLACK SNAKE CAUGHT THE WOLF
“One time,” said Uncle Remus, putting the “noses” of the chunks together
with his cane, so as to make a light in his cabin, “Brer Rabbit en ole
Brer Wolf wuz gwine down de road terge’er, en Brer Wolf, he ’low dat
times wuz mighty hard en money skace. Brer Rabbit, he ’gree ’long wid
’im, he did, dat times wuz mighty tight, en he up en say dat ’t wuz in
about much ez he kin do fer ter make bofe en’s meet. He ’low, he did:
“‘Brer Wolf, you er gittin’ mighty ga’nt, en ’t won’t be so mighty long
’fo’ we’ll batten be tuck up en put in de po’-house. W’at make dis?’
says Brer Rabbit, sezee: ‘I be bless ef I kin tell, kaze yer er all de
creeturs gittin’ ga’nt w’iles all de reptules is a-gittin’ seal fat. No
longer ’n yistiddy, I wuz comin’ along throo de woods, w’en who should I
meet but ole Brer Snake, en he wuz dat put dat he ain’t kin skacely pull
he tail ’long atter he head. I ’low ter mese’f, I did, dat dish yer
country gittin’ in a mighty bad way w’en de creeturs is got ter go
’roun’ wid der ribs growin’ terge’er w’iles de reptules layin’ up in de
sun des nat’ally fattenin’ on der own laziness. Yessar, dat w’at I
’lowed.’
“Brer Wolf, he say, he did, dat if de reptules wuz gittin’ de ’vantage
er de creeturs dat away, dat hit wuz ’bout time fer ter clean out de
reptules er leaf de country, en he ’low, fuddermo’, dat he wuz ready fur
ter jine in wid de patter-rollers en drive um out.
“But Brer Rabbit, he ’low, he did, dat de bes’ way fer ter git ’long wuz
ter fin’ out whar’bouts de reptules hed der smoke-’house en go in dar en
git some er de vittles w’at by good rights b’long’d ter de creeturs.
Brer Wolf say maybe dis de bes’ way, kaze ef de reptules git word dat de
patter-rollers is a-comin’ dey ’ll take en hide de gingercakes, en der
simmon beer, en der w’atzis-names, so dat de creeturs can’t git um. By
dis time dey come ter de forks er de road, en Brer Rabbit he went one
way, en Brer Wolf he went de yuther.
“Whar Brer Wolf went,” Uncle Remus went on, with increasing gravity, “de
goodness knows, but Brer Rabbit, he went on down de road todes he own
house, en w’iles he wuz lippitin’ long, nibblin’ a bite yer en a bite
dar, he year a mighty kuse fuss in de woods. He lay low, Brer Rabbit
did, en lissen. He look sharp, he did, en bimeby he ketch a glimp’ er
ole Mr. Black Snake gwine ’long thoo de grass. Brer Rabbit, he lay low
en watch ’im. Mr. Black Snake crope ’long, he did, des like he wuz
greased. Brer Rabbit say ter hisse’f:
“‘Hi! dar goes one er de reptules, en ez she slips she slides ’long.’
“Yit, still he lay low en watch. Mr. Black Snake crope ’long, he did, en
bimeby he come whar dey wuz a great big poplar-tree. Brer Rabbit, he
crope on his belly en follow ’long atter. Mr. Black Snake tuck ’n circle
all ’roun’ de tree, en den he stop en sing out:
“‘Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario wo!
Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario wo!’
“En den, mos’ ’fo’ Brer Rabbit kin wink he eye, a door w’at wuz in de
tree flew’d open, en Mr. Black Snake tuck ’n crawl in. Brer Rabbit ’low,
he did:
“‘Ah-yi! Dar whar you stay! Dar whar you keeps yo’ simmon beer! Dar whar
you hides yo’ backbone en spar’ ribs. Ah-yi!’
“W’en Mr. Black Snake went in de house, Brer Rabbit crope up, he did, en
lissen fer ter see w’at he kin year gwine on in dar. But he ain’t year
nothin’. Bimeby, w’iles he settin’ ’roun’ dar, he year de same song:
“‘Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario, wo!
Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario wo!’
“En mos’ ’fo’ Brer Rabbit kin hide in de weeds, de door hit flew’d open,
en out Mr. Black Snake slid. He slid out, he did, en slid off, en atter
he git out er sight, Brer Rabbit, he tuck ’n went back ter de
poplar-tree fer ter see ef he kin git in dar. He hunt ’roun’ en he hunt
’roun’, en yit ain’t fin’ no door. Den he sat up on he behin’ legs, ole
Brer Rabbit did, en low:
“‘Hey! w’at kinder contrapshun dish yer? I seed a door dar des now, but
dey ain’t no door dar now.’
“Ole Brer Rabbit scratch he head, he did, en bimeby hit come inter he
min’ dat maybe de song got sump’n ’n’er ter do wid it, en wid dat he
chuned up, he did, en sing:
“‘_Watsilla, watsilla,
Bandario, wo-haw!_’
“Time he say fus’ part, de door sorter open, but w’en he say de las’
part hit slammed shet ag’in. Den he chune up some mo’:
“‘Watsilla, watsilla,
Bandario, wo-haw!’
“Time he say de fus’ part de door open little ways, but time he say de
las’ part hit slammed shet ag’in. Den Brer Rabbit ’low he ’d hang ’roun’
dar en fin’ out w’at kind er hinges dat er door wuz a-swingin’ on. So he
stays ’roun’ dar, he did, twel bimeby Mr. Black Snake came ’long back.
Brer Rabbit crope up, he did, en he year ’im sing de song:
“‘Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario wo!
Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario wo!’
“Den de door open, en Mr. Black Snake, he slid in, en Brer Rabbit, he
lipped off in de bushes en sung de song by hisse’f. Den he went home en
tuck some res’, en nex’ day he went back; en w’en Mr. Black Snake come
out en went off, Brer Rabbit, he tuck ’n sing de song, en de door hewed
open, en in he went. He went in, he did, en w’en he got in dar, he fin’
lots er goodies. He fin’ cakes en sausages, en all sort er nice doin’s.
Den he come out, en de nex’ day he went he tole Ole Brer Wolf, en Brer
Wolf, he’low dat, bein’ ez times is hard, he b’lieve he ’ll go ’long en
sample some er Mr. Black Snake’s doin’s.
“Dey went, dey did, en soon ez dey fin’ dat Mr. Black Snake is gone,
Brer Rabbit he sing de song, en de door open, en in he went. He went in
dar, he did, en he gobbled up his bellyful, en w’iles he doin’ dis Brer
Wolf he gallop ’roun’ en ’roun’, tryin’ fer ter git in. But de door done
slam shet, en Brer Wolf ain’t know de song. Bimeby Brer Rabbit he come
out, he did, lickin’ he chops en wipin’ he mustash, en Brer Wolf ax ’im
w’at de name er goodness is de reason he ain’t let ’im go in ’long wid
’im.
“Brer Rabbit, he vow, he did, dat he ’spected any gump ’ud know dat
somebody got ter stay outside en watch w’iles de yuther one wuz on de
inside. Brer Wolf say he ain’t thunk er dat, en den he ax Brer Rabbit
fer ter let ’im in, en please be so good ez ter stay out dar en watch
w’iles he git some er de goodies.
“Wid dat Brer Rabbit, he sung de song:
“‘Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario wo!
Watsilla, watsilla,
Consario wo!’
“He sung de song, he did, en de door flew’d open, en Brer Wolf he lipt
in, en gun ter gobble up de goodies. Brer Rabbit, he stayed outside, en
make like he gwine ter watch. Brer Wolf, he e’t en e’t, en he keep on
a-eatin’. Brer Rabbit, he tuck en stan’ off in de bushes, en bimeby he
year Mr. Black Snake a-slidin’ thoo de grass. Brer Rabbit, he ain’t say
nothin’. He ’low ter hisse’f, he did, dat he was dar ter watch, en dat
w’at he gwine ter do ef de good Lord spar’ ’im. So he set dar en watch,
en Mr. Black Snake, he come a-slidin’ up ter de house en sing de song,
en den de door flew’d open en in he went.
“Brer Rabbit set dar en watch so hard, he did, dat it look like he eyes
gwine to pop out. ’T want long ’fo’ he year sump’n ’n’er like a scuffle
gwine on in de poplar-tree, en, fus’ news you know, Brer Wolf come
tumberlin’ out. He come tumberlin’ out, he did, en down he fell, kaze
Mr. Black Snake got ’im tie hard en fas’ so he ain’t kin run.
[Illustration: “EN EVE’Y TIME HE SWUNG MR. BLACK SNAKE TUCK ’N LASH ’IM
WID HE TAIL.”]
“Den, atter so long a time, Mr. Black Snake tuck ’n tie Brer Wolf up ter
a lim’, en dar dat creetur swung ’twixt de hevin en de yeth. He swung en
swayed, en eve’y time he swung Mr. Black Snake tuck ’n lash ’im wid he
tail, en eve’y time he lash ’im Brer Rabbit holler out, he did:
“‘Sarve ’im right! sarve ’im right!’
“En I let you know,” said the old man, refilling his pipe, “dat w’en Mr.
Black Snake git thoo wid dat creetur, he ain’t want no mo’ goodies.”
WHY THE GUINEAS STAY AWAKE
One night when the little boy was waiting patiently for Uncle Remus to
tell him a story, the guineas began to scream at a great rate, and they
kept it up for some time.
“Ah, Lord!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, blowing the ashes from a sweet potato
that had been roasting in the embers. “Ah, Lord! dem ar creeturs is
mighty kuse creeturs. I boun’ you ef you go up dar whar dey is right
now, you’ll fin’ some kind er varmint slippin’ ’roun’ und’ de bushes.
Hit mout be ole Brer Fox. I won’t say p’intedly dat it’s Brer Fox,” the
old man continued, with the air of one who is willing to assert only
what he can prove, “yit it mout be. But ne’er min’ ’bout dat; Brer Fox
er no Brer Fox, dem guinea hens ain’t gwine ter be kotch. De varments
kin creep up en slip up ez de case may be, but dey ain’t gwine to slip
up en ketch dem creeturs asleep.”
“Don’t the guineas ever sleep, Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired.
His curiosity was whetted.
“Oh, I ’speck dey does sleep,” replied the old man. “Yasser, dey er
bleege ter sleep, but dey ain’t bin kotch at it—leastways, dey aint bin
kotch at it not sence Brer Fox crope up on um long time ago. He kotch um
a-snorin’ den, but he ain’t kotch um sence, en he ain’t gwine kotch um
no mo’.
“You may go ter bed now,” Uncle Remus went on, in a tone calculated to
carry conviction with it, “you may go ter bed en go ter sleep right now,
but wake up w’enst you will en you’ll year dem guineas a-cacklin’ en a
confabbin’ out dar des same ez ef’t wuz broad daylight. Seem like dey
ain’t gwine ter fergit de time w’en Brer Fox crope up on um, en kotch um
’sleep.”
“When was that, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked, as he settled
himself in the split-bottom chair in anticipation of a story.
“Well,” said the old man, noticing the movement, “you nee’n ter primp
yo’se’f fer no great long tale, honey, kaze dish yer tale ain’t skacely
long nuff fer ter tie a snapper on. Yit sech es ’t is you er mo’ dan
welcome.
“One time ’way long back yander dem guineas wuz des ez drowsy w’en night
come ez any er de yuther folks. Dey ’d go ter roos’, dey would, en dey
’d drap off ter sleep time der head totch de piller.”
“The pillow, Uncle Remus!” exclaimed the little boy.
“Well,” said the old man, rubbing his hand over his weatherbeaten face
to hide a smile, “hit’s all de same. In dem days dey could ’a’ had
pillers ef dey ’d a-wanted um, en bolsters, too, fer dat matter, en
likewise fedder-beds, kaze dey wouldn’t ’a’ had ter go no fur ways fer
de fedders.
“But ne’er mind ’bout dat; no sooner did dey git up on de roos’ dan dey
drap off ter sleep, en dey kep’ on dat away twel bimeby one time Brer
Fox made up he min’ dat he better be kinder sociable en pay um a call
atter dey done gone ter bed.
“Dar wuz times,” continued Uncle Remus, as if endeavoring to be
perfectly fair and square to all the parties concerned, “w’en Brer Fox
tuck a notion fer ter walk ’bout in de daytime, but mos’ allers
inginer’lly he done he pomernadin’ ’twix’ sundown en sun-up. I dunner
w’at time er night hit wuz w’en Brer Fox call on de guineas, but I
speck’t wuz long todes de shank er de evenin’, ez you may say.
“Yit, soon er late, w’en he got ter whar de guineas live at, he foun’ um
all soun’ asleep. Now, some folks w’en dey go anywhars fer ter make
deyse’f sociable, en fin’ eve’ybody fas’ asleep, would ’a’ tu’n ’roun’
en made der way back home; but Brer Fox ain’t dat kind er man. Dem
guineas roos’ so low en dey look so fine en fat dat it make Brer Fox
feel like dey wuz his fus’ cousin.
“He sot down on his hunkers, Brer Fox did, en he look at um en grin. Den
he ’low ter hisse’f:
“‘I’ll des shake han’s wid one un um en den I’ll go.’
“Well,” continued Uncle Remus, “Brer Fox went up en shuck han’s wid one
un um, en he must ’a’ squoze mighty hard, kaze de guinea make a mighty
flutterment; en he mus’ ’a’ helt on wid a mighty tight grip, kaze w’en
he tuck off his hat en bowed good-by de guinea went ’long wid ’im.
“Well, suh,” said the old man solemnly, “you never is year tell er sech
a racket ez dem guineas kicked up w’en dey ’skiver dat Brer Fox done
make off wid one un um. Dey squall en dey squall twel dey rousted up de
whole neighborhoods. De dogs got ter barkin’, de owls got ter hootin’,
de hosses got ter kickin’, de cows got ter lowin’, en de chickens got
ter crowin’.
“En mo’ dan dat,” Uncle Remus continued, “de guineas wuz dat skeered dat
dey tu’n right pale on de neck en on de gills, en ef you don’t b’lieve
me you kin go up dar in de gyarden en look at um fer yo’se’f.”
But the little boy had no idea of going. He saw by Uncle Remus’s air of
preoccupation that the story was not yet concluded.
“En mo’ dan dat,” said the old man, after a short pause, “dey got skeerd
so bad dat from dat day ter dis dey don’t sleep soun’ at night. Dey may
squat ’roun’ in de shade en nod in de daytime, dough I ain’t kotch um at
it, en dey may sort er nod atter dey go ter roos’ at night; but ef a
betsey bug flies by um, er yit ef a sparrer flutters in de bushes, dey
er wide awake; dey mos’ sholy is.
“Hit seem like ter me,” Uncle Remus continued, “dat dey mus’ be ha’nted
in der dreams by ole Brer Fox, kaze all times er night you kin year um
gwine on:
“‘_L-o-o-o-o-k, look, look! Dar he is, dar he is! Go ’way, go ’way!_’
“Some folks say dat dey holler, ‘_Pot-rack! pot-rack!_’ but dem w’at
talk dat away is mostly w’ite folks, en dey ain’t know nuthin’ ’t all
’bout dem ole times. Mars John en Miss Sally mout know, but ef dey does
I ain’t year um sesso.”
HOW THE TERRAPIN WAS TAUGHT TO FLY
Uncle Remus had the weakness of the genuine story-teller. When he was
in the humor, the slightest hint would serve to remind him of a story,
and one story would recall another. Thus, when the little boy chanced
to manifest some curiosity in regard to the whippoorwill, which,
according to an old song, had performed the remarkable feat of
carrying the sheep’s corn to mill, the old man took great pains to
describe the bird, explaining, in his crude way, how it differed from
the chuck-will’s-widow, which is frequently mistaken for the
whippoorwill, especially in the South. Among other things, he told the
child how the bird could fly through the darkness and flap its wings
without making the slightest noise.
The little boy had a number of questions to ask about this, and the talk
about flying reminded Uncle Remus of a story. He stopped short in his
explanations and began to chuckle. The little boy asked him what the
matter was.
“Shoo, honey!” said the old man, “w’en you git ole ez I is, en yo’
’membunce cropes up en tickles you, you ’ll laugh too, dat you will.
Talkin’ all ’bout dish yer flyin’ business fotch up in my min’ de time
w’en ole Brer Tarrypin boned ole Brer Buzzard fer ter l’arn him how ter
fly. He got atter ’im, en he kep’ atter ’im; he begged en ’swaded, en
’swaded en he begged. Brer Buzzard tole ’im dat dey wuz mos’ too much un
’im in one place, but Brer Tarrypin, he des kep on atter ’im, en bimeby
Brer Buzzard ’low dat ef nothin’ else ain’t gwine do ’im, he’ll des
whirl in en gin ’im some lessons in flying fer ole ’quaintance sakes.
“Dis make ole Brer Tarrypin feel mighty good, en he say he ready fer ter
begin right now, but Brer Buzzard say he ain’t got time des den, but
he’ll be sho’ en come ’roun’ de nex’ day en gin ole Brer Tarrypin de
fus’ lesson.
“Ole Brer Tarrypin, he sot dar en wait, he did, en dough he nodded yer
en dar thro’ de night, hit look like ter ’im dat day ain’t never gwine
ter come. He wait en he wait, he did, but bimeby de sun riz, en’t want
so mighty long atter dat ’fo’ yer come Brer Buzzard sailin’ ’long. He
sailed ’roun’ en ’roun’, en eve’y time he sail ’roun’ he come lower, en
atter w’ile he lit.
“He lit, he did, en pass de time er day wid Brer Tarrypin en ax ’im is
he ready. Brer Tarrypin ’low he been ready too long ter talk ’bout, en
w’en Brer Buzzard year dis, he tuck ’n squot in de grass en ax Brer
Tarrypin fer ter crawl upon he back. But Brer Buzzard back mighty slick,
en de mo’ Brer Tarrypin try fer ter crawl up, de mo’ wa’l he slip back.
But he tuck ’n crawl up atter w’ile, en w’en he git sorter settled down,
he ’low, he did:
“‘You kin start now, Brer Buzzard, but you’ll hatter be mighty keerful
not ter run over no rocks en stumps, kaze ef dish yer waggin gits ter
joltin’, I ’m a goner,’ sezee.
“Brer Buzzard, he tuck ’n start off easy, en he move so slick en smoove
en swif’ dat Brer Tarrypin laugh en ’low dat he ain’t had no sech sweet
ridin’ sence he crossed de river in a flat. He sail ’roun’ en ’roun’, he
did, en gun Brer Tarrypin a good ride, en den bimeby he sail down ter de
groun’ en let Brer Tarryin slip off’n he back.
“Nex’ day he come ’roun’ agin, ole Brer Buzzard did, en gun Brer
Tarrypin ’n’er good ride, en de nex’ day he done de same, en he keep on
doin’ dis away, twel atter w’ile Brer Tarrypin got de consate dat he kin
do some fly’n’ on he own hook. So he up en ax Brer Buzzard for call
’roun’ one mo’ time, en gin ’im a good start.”
Here Uncle Remus paused to chuckle a moment, and then went on—
“Gentermens! It tickles me eve’y time it come in my min’, dat it do!
Well, sir, ole Brer Buzzard wuz dat full er rascality dat he ain’t got
no better sense dan ter come, en de nex’ day he sail up, he did, bright
en yearly. He lit on de grass, en ole Brer Tarrypin, he crope up on he
back, en den Brer Buzzard riz. He riz up in de elements, now, en w’en he
git up dar he sorter fetched a flirt en a swoop en slid out from under
Brer Tarrypin.
“Ole Brer Tarrypin, he flapped he foots en wagged he head en shuck he
tail, but all dis ain’t done no good. He start off right-side up, but he
ain’t drap fur, ’fo’ he ’gun ter turn somersets up dar, en down he come
on he back—_kerblam—m—m—_! En ef it hadn’t but er bin fer de strenk er
he shell, he’d er got bust wide open. He lay dar, ole Brer Tarrypin did,
en try ter ketch he breff, en he groan en he pant like eve’y minnit
gwine ter be nex’.
[Illustration: “BRER TARRYPIN, HOW YOU FEEL?”]
“Ole Brer Buzzard, he sail ’roun’, he did, en look at Brer Tarrypin, en
bimeby he lit fer ter make inquirements.
“‘Brer Tarrypin, how you feel?’ sezee.
“‘Brer Buzzard, I’m teetotally ruint,’ sezee.
“‘Well, Brer Tarrypin, I tole you not ter try ter fly,’ sezee.
“‘Hush up, Brer Buzzard!’ sezee; ‘I flew’d good ez anybody, but you
fergot ter l’arn me how ter light. Flyin’ is easy as fallin’, but I
don’t speck I kin l’arn how ter light, en dat’s whar de trouble come
in,’ sezee.”
Uncle Remus laughed as heartily at the result of Brother Terrapin’s
attempts to fly as if he had heard of them for the first time; but
before the little boy could ask him any questions, he remarked:
“Well, de goodness en de gracious! dat put me in min’ er de time w’en
ole Brer Rabbit make a bet wid Brer Fox.”
“How was that, Uncle Remus?” the child inquired.
“Ef I ain’t make no mistakes,” responded Uncle Remus, with the air of
one who was willing to sacrifice everything to accuracy, “ole Brer
Rabbit bet Brer Fox dat he kin go de highest up in de elements, en not
clam no holler tree nudder. Brer Fox, he tuck ’im up, en dey ’pinted de
day fer de trial ter come off.
“W’iles dey wuz makin’ all der ’rangerments, Brer Fox year talk dat Brer
Rabbit have done gone en hire Brer Buzzard fer ter tote ’im ’way ’bove
de tops er de trees. Soon’s he year dis, Brer Fox went ter Brer Buzzard,
he did, en tole ’im dat he gin ’im a pot er gol’ ef he’d whirl in en
kyar Brer Rabbit clean out ’n de county. Brer Buzzard ’low dat he wuz de
ve’y man fer ter do dat kind er bizness.
“So den w’en de time come fer de trial, Brer Fox, he wuz dar, en Brer
Rabbit, he wuz dar, en Brer Buzzard, he wuz dar, en lots er de yuther
creeturs. Dey flung cross en piles fer ter see w’ich gwine ter start
fus’, en it fell ter Brer Fox. He look ’roun’, old Brer Fox did, en wink
at Brer Buzzard, an Brer Buzzard, he wink back good ez he kin. Wid dat,
Brer Fox tuck a runnin’ start en clam a leanin’ tree. Brer Rabbit say
dat better dan he ’spected Brer Fox kin do, but he ’low he gwine ter
beat dat. Den he tuck ’n jump on Brer Buzzard back, en Brer Buzzard riz
en sail off wid ’im. Brer Fox laugh w’en he see dis, en ’low, sezee:
“‘Folks, ef you all got any intruss in ole Brer Rabbit, you des better
tell ’im good-by, kaze you won’t see ’im no mo’ in dese diggin’s.’
“Dis make all de yuther creeturs feel mighty good, kaze in dem days ole
Brer Rabbit wuz a tarrifier, dat he wuz. But dey all sot dar, dey did,
en keep der eye on Brer Buzzard, w’ich he keep on gittin’ higher en
higher, en littler en littler. Dey look en dey look, en bimeby dey
sorter see Brer Buzzard flop fus’ one wing, en den de yuther. He keep on
floppin’ dis away, en eve’y time he flop, he git nigher en nigher de
groun’. He flop en fall, en flop en fall, en circle ’roun’, en bimeby he
come close ter de place whar he start fum, en him en Brer Rabbit come
down _ker-flip_! En Brer Rabbit ain’t no sooner hit de groun’ dan he
rush off in de bushes, en sot dar fer ter see w’at gwine ter happen
nex’.”
“But, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, “why didn’t Brother Buzzard
carry Brother Rabbit off, and get the pot of gold?”
“Bless yo’ soul, honey, dey wuz some mighty good reasons in de way! W’en
ole Brer Buzzard got ’way up in de elements, he ’low, he did:
“‘We er gwine on a mighty long journey, Brer Rabbit.’
“Brer Rabbit he laugh like a man w’at’s a-drivin’ a plow-hoss wid a
badoon bit.
“‘You may be a-gwine on a long journey, Brer Buzzard; I don’t ’spute
dat,’ sezee, ‘but it’ll be atter you done kyar’d me back whar we start
fum.’
“Den Brer Buzzard he up en tell Brer Rabbit ’bout de bargain he done
make wid Brer Fox. Dis make Brer Rabbit laugh wuss ’n befo’.
“‘Law, Brer Buzzard’, sezee, ‘w’en it come ter makin’ dat kinder
bargain, you oughter make it wid me, kaze I’m a long ways a better
trader dan w’at Brer Fox is.’
“Brer Buzzard he don’t ’spon’ ter dat, but he keep on flyin’ higher en
higher, en furder en furder away. Bimeby Brer Rabbit ’gun ter git kinder
oneasy, en he ’low:
“‘Look like ter me we done got fur ’nuff, Brer Buzzard,’ sezee, ’en I’ll
be mighty much erbleege ef you kyar me back.’
“Brer Buzzard keep on flyin’ furder. Bimeby Brer Rabbit ax ’im ag’in,
but Brer Buzzard keep on flyin’ furder. Den ole Brer Rabbit he ’low,
sezee:
“‘Ef I got ter des nat’ally _make_ you go back, I speck I better start
in right now,’ sezee.
“Wid dat Brer Rabbit retch down, he did, en bit Brer Buzzard under de
wing.”
The little boy clapped his hands and laughed at this, and Uncle Remus
laughed in sympathy.
“Yesser,” the old man went on, “ole Brer Rabbit retch down en bit Brer
Buzzard under de wing, right spang in he most ticklish en tender-some
spot. Co’se dis make Brer Buzzard shet he wing quick, en w’en he shet he
wing, he bleedge ter fall some. Den w’en he open de wing out en ketch
hisse’f, Brer Rabbit holler out: