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Title: Daddy Jake the Runaway, and Short Stories Told after Dark

Author: Joel Chandler Harris

Illustrator: E. W. Kemble

Release date: November 29, 2019 [eBook #60804]
                Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

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DADDY JAKE
THE RUNAWAY


[Illustration: JUDGE RABBIT AND THE FAT MAN.]


[Illustration]


[Illustration]


DADDY JAKE
THE RUNAWAY

And Short Stories Told after Dark

by

“UNCLE REMUS”

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS


[Illustration]






New York
The Century Co.
1898

Copyright, 1889, by
Joel Chandler Harris.

The De Vinne Press, New York.




                                CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE

 DADDY JAKE, THE RUNAWAY:

    CHAPTER I                                                          1

    CHAPTER II                                                        28

    CHAPTER III                                                       53

 HOW A WITCH WAS CAUGHT                                               83

 THE LITTLE BOY AND HIS DOGS                                          93

 HOW BLACK SNAKE CAUGHT THE WOLF                                     108

 WHY THE GUINEAS STAY AWAKE                                          118

 HOW THE TERRAPIN WAS TAUGHT TO FLY                                  123

 THE CREATURE WITH NO CLAWS                                          134

 UNCLE REMUS’S WONDER STORY                                          139

 THE RATTLESNAKE AND THE POLECAT                                     149

 HOW THE BIRDS TALK                                                  152

 THE FOOLISH WOMAN                                                   165

 THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA                                 171

 BROTHER RABBIT AND THE GINGERCAKES                                  183

 BROTHER RABBIT’S COURTSHIP                                          188




                             ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE

 JUDGE RABBIT AND THE FAT MAN,                              FRONTISPIECE

 “THE YOUNGSTERS SAW DADDY JAKE, AND WENT RUNNING AFTER
   HIM.”                                                               9

 “THE FIELD-HANDS WERE SINGING AS THEY PICKED THE OPENING
   COTTON.”                                                           19

 “‘MAYBE HE KNOWS WHERE DADDY JAKE IS,’ SAID LILLIAN.”                25

 “THE FIELD-HANDS DISCUSSED THE MATTER.”                              29

 THE MILLER AND HIS CHILDREN.                                         41

 “AN’ OLE MAN JAKE, HE DAR TOO.”                                      49

 “LUCIEN SAW HIM, AND RUSHED TOWARD HIM.”                             57

 POOR OLD SUE TELLS HER STORY.                                        63

 “MR. RABBIT SQUALL OUT, ‘COON DEAD!’”                                71

 “DEN DE FROGS DEY WENT TO WORK SHO NUFF.”                            75

 “THE OLD NEGRO PUT HIS HANDS TO HIS MOUTH AND CALLED.”               79

 “SHE STOOD DAR A MINIT, DAT OLE BLACK CAT DID.”                      87

 “‘ALL READY, NOW. STICK YO’ HEAD IN.’”                              105

 “EN EVE’Y TIME HE SWUNG MR. BLACK SNAKE TUCK ’N LASH ’IM
   WID HE TAIL.”                                                     115

 “‘BRER TARRYPIN, HOW YOU FEEL?’”                                    127

 BILLY BIG-EYE AND TOMMY LONG-WING.                                  159

 SIMON SHAKES THE PEBBLES.                                           175




                               DADDY JAKE
                              THE RUNAWAY




                        DADDY JAKE, THE RUNAWAY


                               CHAPTER I

One fine day in September, in the year 1863, there was quite an uproar
on the Gaston plantation, in Putnam County, in the State of Georgia.
Uncle Jake, the carriage-driver, was missing. He was more than fifty
years old, and it was the first time he had been missing since his
mistress had been big enough to call him. But he was missing now. Here
was his mistress waiting to order the carriage; here was his master
fretting and fuming; and here were the two little children, Lucien and
Lillian, crying because they didn’t know where Uncle Jake was—“Daddy
Jake,” who had heretofore seemed always to be within sound of their
voices, ready and anxious to amuse them in any and every way.

Then came the news that Daddy Jake had actually run away. This was,
indeed, astounding news, and although it was brought by the son of the
overseer, none of the Gastons would believe it, least of all Lucien and
Lillian. The son of the overseer also brought the further information
that Daddy Jake, who had never had an angry word for anybody, had struck
the overseer across the head with a hoe-handle, and had then taken to
the woods. Dr. Gaston was very angry, indeed, and he told the overseer’s
son that if anybody was to blame it was his father. Mrs. Gaston, with
her eyes full of tears, agreed with her husband, and Lucien and Lillian,
when they found that Daddy Jake was really gone, refused to be
comforted. Everybody seemed to be dazed. As it was Saturday, and
Saturday was a holiday, the negroes stood around their quarters in
little groups discussing the wonderful event. Some of them went so far
as to say that if Daddy Jake had taken to the woods it was time for the
rest of them to follow suit; but this proposition was hooted down by the
more sensible among them.

Nevertheless, the excitement on the Gaston plantation ran very high when
it was discovered that a negro so trusted and so trustworthy as Daddy
Jake had actually run away; and it was not until all the facts were
known that the other negroes became reconciled to Daddy Jake’s absence.
What were the facts? They were very simple, indeed; and yet, many lads
and lasses who read this may fail to fully comprehend them.

In the first place, the year in which Daddy Jake became a fugitive was
the year 1863, and there was a great deal of doubt and confusion in the
South at that time. The Conscription Act and the Impressment Law were in
force. Under the one, nearly all the able-bodied men and boys were
drafted into the army; and under the other, all the corn and hay and
horses that the Confederacy needed were pressed into service. This state
of things came near causing a revolt in some of the States, especially
in Georgia, where the laws seemed to bear most heavily. Something of
this is to be found in the history of that period, but nothing
approaching the real facts has ever been published. After the
Conscription Act was passed the planters were compelled to accept the
services of such overseers as they could get, and the one whom Dr.
Gaston had employed lacked both experience and discretion. He had never
been trained to the business. He was the son of a shoemaker, and he
became an overseer merely to keep out of the army. A majority of those
who made overseeing their business had gone to the war either as
volunteers or substitutes, and very few men capable of taking charge of
a large plantation were left behind.

At the same time overseers were a necessity on some of the plantations.
Many of the planters were either lawyers or doctors, and these, if they
had any practice at all, were compelled to leave their farming interests
to the care of agents; there were other planters who had been reared in
the belief that an overseer was necessary on a large plantation; so
that, for one cause and another, the overseer class was a pretty large
one. It was a very respectable class, too; for, under ordinary
circumstances, no person who was not known to be trustworthy would be
permitted to take charge of the interests of a plantation, for these
were as varied and as important as those of any other business.

But in 1863 it was a very hard matter to get a trustworthy overseer; and
Dr. Gaston, having a large practice as a physician, had hired the first
person who applied for the place, without waiting to make any inquiries
about either his knowledge or his character; and it turned out that his
overseer was not only utterly incompetent, but that he was something of
a rowdy besides. An experienced overseer would have known that he was
employed, not to exercise control over the house-servants, but to look
after the farm-hands; but the new man began business by ordering Daddy
Jake to do various things that were not in the line of his duty.
Naturally, the old man, who was something of a boss himself, resented
this sort of interference. A great many persons were of the opinion that
he had been spoiled by kind treatment; but this is doubtful. He had been
raised with the white people from a little child, and he was as proud in
his way as he was faithful in all ways. Under the circumstances, Daddy
Jake did what other confidential servants would have done; he ignored
the commands of the new overseer, and went about his business as usual.
This led to a quarrel—the overseer doing most of the quarreling. Daddy
Jake was on his dignity, and the overseer was angry. Finally, in his
fury, he struck the old negro with a strap which he was carrying across
his shoulders. The blow was a stinging one, and it was delivered full in
Uncle Jake’s face. For a moment the old negro was astonished. Then he
became furious. Seizing an ax-handle that happened to be close to his
hand, he brought it down upon the head of the overseer with full force.
There was a tremendous crash as the blow fell, and the overseer went
down as if he had been struck by a pile-driver. He gave an awful groan,
and trembled a little in his limbs, and then lay perfectly still. Uncle
Jake was both dazed and frightened. He would have gone to his master,
but he remembered what he had heard about the law. In those days a negro
who struck a white man was tried for his life, and if his guilt could be
proven, he was either branded with a hot iron and sold to a speculator,
or he was hanged.

The certainty of these punishments had no doubt been exaggerated by
rumor, but even the rumor was enough to frighten the negroes. Daddy Jake
looked at the overseer a moment, and then stopped and felt of him. He
was motionless and, apparently, he had ceased to breathe. Then the old
negro went to his cabin, gathered up his blanket and clothes, put some
provisions in a little bag, and went off into the woods. He seemed to be
in no hurry. He walked with his head bent, as if in deep thought. He
appeared to understand and appreciate the situation. A short time ago he
was the happy and trusted servant of a master and mistress who had
rarely given him an unkind word; now he was a fugitive—a runaway. As he
passed along by the garden palings he heard two little children playing
and prattling on the other side. They were talking about him. He paused
and listened.

“Daddy Jake likes me the best,” Lucien was saying, “because he tells me
stories.”

“No,” said Lillian, “he likes me the best, ’cause he tells me all the
stories and gives me some gingercake, too.”

The old negro paused and looked through the fence at the little
children, and then he went on his way. But the youngsters saw Daddy
Jake, and went running after him.

“Let me go, Uncle Jake!” cried Lucien. “Le’ me go, too!” cried Lillian.
But Daddy Jake broke into a run and left the children standing in the
garden, crying.

It was not very long after this before the whole population knew that
Daddy Jake had knocked the overseer down and had taken to the woods. In
fact, it was only a few minutes, for some of the other negroes had seen
him strike the overseer and had seen the overseer fall, and they lost no
time in raising the alarm. Fortunately the overseer was not seriously
hurt. He had received a blow severe enough to render him unconscious for
a few minutes,—but this was all; and he was soon able to describe the
fracas to Dr. Gaston, which he did with considerable animation.

“And who told you to order Jake around?” the doctor asked.

“Well, sir, I just thought I had charge of the whole crowd.”

“You were very much mistaken, then,” said Doctor Gaston, sharply; “and
if I had seen you strike Jake with your strap, I should have been
tempted to take my buggy-whip and give you a dose of your own medicine.”

As a matter of fact, Doctor Gaston was very angry, and he lost no time
in giving the new overseer what the negroes called his “walking-papers.”
He paid him up and discharged him on the spot, and it was not many days
before everybody on the Gaston plantation knew that the man had fallen
into the hands of the Conscription officers of the Confederacy, and that
he had been sent on to the front.

At the same time, as Mrs. Gaston herself remarked, this fact, however
gratifying it might be, did not bring Daddy Jake back. He was gone, and
his absence caused a great deal of trouble on the plantation. It was
found that half-a-dozen negroes had to be detailed to do the work which
he had voluntarily taken upon himself—one to attend to the
carriage-horses, another to look after the cows, another to feed the
hogs and sheep, and still others to look after the thousand and one
little things to be done about the “big house.” But not one of them, nor
all of them, filled Daddy Jake’s place.

[Illustration: “THE YOUNGSTERS SAW DADDY JAKE, AND WENT RUNNING AFTER
HIM.”]

Many and many a time Doctor Gaston walked up and down the veranda
wondering where the old negro was, and Mrs. Gaston, sitting in her
rocking-chair, looked down the avenue day after day, half expecting to
see Daddy Jake make his appearance, hat in hand and with a broad grin on
his face. Some of the neighbors, hearing that Uncle Jake had become a
fugitive, wanted to get Bill Locke’s “track-dogs” and run him down, but
Doctor Gaston and his wife would not hear to this. They said that the
old negro wasn’t used to staying in the woods, and that it wouldn’t be
long before he would come back home.

Doctor Gaston, although he was much troubled, looked at the matter from
a man’s point of view. Here was Daddy Jake’s home; if he chose to come
back, well and good; if he didn’t, why, it couldn’t be helped, and that
was an end of the matter. But Mrs. Gaston took a different view. Daddy
Jake had been raised with her father; he was an old family servant; he
had known and loved her mother, who was dead; he had nursed Mrs. Gaston
herself when she was a baby; in short, he was a fixture in the lady’s
experience, and his absence worried her not a little. She could not bear
to think that the old negro was out in the woods without food and
without shelter. If there was a thunderstorm at night, as there
sometimes is in the South during September, she could hardly sleep for
thinking about the old negro.

Thinking about him led Mrs. Gaston to talk about him very often,
especially to Lucien and Lillian, who had been in the habit of running
out to the kitchen while Daddy Jake was eating his supper and begging
him to tell a story. So far as they were concerned, his absence was a
personal loss. While Uncle Jake was away they were not only deprived of
a most agreeable companion, but they could give no excuse for not going
to bed. They had no one to amuse them after supper, and, as a
consequence, their evenings were very dull. The youngsters submitted to
this for several days, expecting that Daddy Jake would return, but in
this they were disappointed. They waited and waited for more than a
week, and then they began to show their impatience.

“I used to be afraid of runaways,” said Lillian one day, “but I’m not
afraid now, ’cause Daddy Jake is a runaway.” Lillian was only six years
old, but she had her own way of looking at things.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Lucien, who was nine, and very robust for his age; “I
never was afraid of runaways. I know mighty well they wouldn’t hurt me.
There was old Uncle Fed; he was a runaway when Papa bought him. Would he
hurt anybody?”

“But there might be some bad ones,” said Lillian, “and you know Lucinda
says Uncle Fed is a real, sure-enough witch.”

“Lucinda!” exclaimed Lucien, scornfully. “What does Lucinda know about
witches? If one was to be seen she wouldn’t stick her head out of the
door to see it. She’d be scared to death.”

“Yes, and so would anybody,” said Lillian, with an air of conviction. “I
know I would.”

“Well, of course,—a little girl,” explained Lucien. “Any little girl
would be afraid of a witch, but a great big double-fisted woman like
Lucinda ought to be ashamed of herself to be afraid of witches, and
that, too, when everybody knows there aren’t any witches at all, except
in the stories.”

“Well, I heard Daddy Jake telling about a witch that turned herself into
a black cat, and then into a big black wolf,” said Lillian.

“Oh, that was in old times,” said Lucien, “when the animals used to talk
and go on like people. But you never heard Daddy Jake say he saw a
witch,—now, did you?”

“No,” said Lillian, somewhat doubtfully; “but I heard him talking about
them. I hope no witch will catch Daddy Jake.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Lucien. “Daddy Jake carried his rabbit-foot with him,
and you know no witch can bother him as long as he has his rabbit-foot.”

“Well,” said Lillian, solemnly, “if he’s got his rabbit-foot and can
keep off the witches all night, he won’t come back any more.”

“But he _must_ come,” said Lucien. “I’m going after him. I’m going down
to the landing to-morrow, and I’ll take the boat and go down the river
and bring him back.”

“Oh, may I go, too?” asked Lillian.

“Yes,” said Lucien, loftily, “if you’ll help me get some things out of
the house and not say anything about what we are going to do.”

Lillian was only too glad to pledge herself to secrecy, and the next day
found the two children busily preparing for their journey in search of
Daddy Jake.

The Gaston plantation lay along the Oconee River in Putnam County, not
far from Roach’s Ferry. In fact, it lay on both sides of the river, and,
as the only method of communication was by means of a bateau, nearly
everybody on the plantation knew how to manage the boat. There was not
an hour during the day that the bateau was not in use. Lucien and
Lillian had been carried across hundreds of times, and they were as much
at home in the boat as they were in a buggy. Lucien was too young to
row, but he knew how to guide the bateau with a paddle while others used
the oars.

This fact gave him confidence, and the result was that the two children
quietly made their arrangements to go in search of Daddy Jake. Lucien
was the “provider,” as he said, and Lillian helped him to carry the
things to the boat. They got some meal-sacks, two old quilts, and a good
supply of biscuits and meat. Nobody meddled with them, for nobody knew
what their plans were, but some of the negroes remarked that they were
not only unusually quiet, but very busy—a state of things that is looked
upon by those who are acquainted with the ways of children as a very bad
sign, indeed.

The two youngsters worked pretty much all day, and they worked hard; so
that when night came they were both tired and sleepy. They were tired
and sleepy, but they managed to cover their supplies with the
meal-sacks, and the next morning they were up bright and early. They
were up so early, indeed, that they thought it was a very long time
until breakfast was ready; and, at last, when the bell rang, they
hurried to the table and ate ravenously, as became two travelers about
to set out on a voyage of adventure.

It was all they could do to keep their scheme from their mother. Once
Lillian was on the point of asking her something about it, but Lucien
shook his head, and it was not long before the two youngsters embarked
on their journey. After seating Lillian in the bateau, Lucien unfastened
the chain from the stake, threw it into the boat, and jumped in himself.
Then, as the clumsy affair drifted slowly with the current, he seized
one of the paddles, placed the blade against the bank, and pushed the
bateau out into the middle of the stream.

It was the beginning of a voyage of adventure, the end of which could
not be foretold; but the sun was shining brightly, the mocking-birds
were singing in the water-oaks, the blackbirds were whistling blithely
in the reeds, and the children were light-hearted and happy. They were
going to find Daddy Jake and fetch him back home, and not for a moment
did it occur to them that the old negro might have gone in a different
direction. It seemed somehow to those on the Gaston plantation that
whatever was good, or great, or wonderful had its origin “down the
river.” Rumor said that the biggest crops were grown in that direction,
and that there the negroes were happiest. The river, indeed, seemed to
flow to some far-off country where everything was finer and more
flourishing. This was the idea of the negroes themselves, and it was
natural that Lucien and Lillian should be impressed with the same
belief. So they drifted down the river, confident that they would find
Daddy Jake. They had no other motive—no other thought. They took no
account of the hardships of a voyage such as they had embarked on.

Lazily, almost reluctantly as it seemed, the boat floated down the
stream. At first, Lucien was inclined to use the broad oar, but it
appeared that when he paddled on one side the clumsy boat tried to turn
its head up stream on the other side, and so, after a while, he dropped
the oar in the bottom of the boat.

The September sun was sultry that morning, but, obeying some impulse of
the current, the boat drifted down the river in the shade of the
water-oaks and willows that lined the eastern bank. On the western bank
the Gaston plantation lay, and as the boat floated lazily along the
little voyagers could hear the field-hands singing as they picked the
opening cotton. The song was strangely melodious, though the words were
ridiculous.

                  My dog’s a ’possum dog,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_
                  He cross de creek upon a log,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_

                  He run de ’possum up a tree,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_
                  He good enough fer you an’ me,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_

                  Kaze when it come his fat’nin time,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_
                  De ’possum eat de muscadine,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_

                  He eat till he kin skacely stan’,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_
                  An’ den we bake him in de pan,
                    _Here, Rattler! here!_

[Illustration: “THE FIELD-HANDS WERE SINGING AS THEY PICKED THE OPENING
COTTON.”]

It was to the quaint melody of this song that the boat rocked and
drifted along. One of the negroes saw the children and thought he knew
them, and he called to them, but received no reply; and this fact was so
puzzling that he went back and told the other negroes that there was
some mistake about the children. “Ef dey’d ’a’ bin our chillun,” he
said, “dey’d ’a’ hollered back at me, sho’.” Whereupon the field-hands
resumed their work and their song, and the boat, gliding southward on
the gently undulating current, was soon lost to view.

To the children it seemed to be a very pleasant journey. They had no
thought of danger. The river was their familiar friend. They had crossed
and recrossed it hundreds of times. They were as contented in the bateau
as they would have been in their mother’s room. The weather was warm,
but on the river and in the shade of the overhanging trees the air was
cool and refreshing. And after a while the current grew swifter, and the
children, dipping their hands in the water, laughed aloud.

Once, indeed, the bateau, in running over a long stretch of shoals, was
caught against a rock. An ordinary boat would have foundered, but this
boat, clumsy and deep-set, merely obeyed the current. It struck the
rock, recoiled, touched it again, and then slowly turned around and
pursued its course down the stream. The shoals were noisy but harmless.
The water foamed and roared over the rocks, but the current was deep
enough to carry the bateau safely down. It was not often that a boat
took that course, but Lucien and Lillian had no sense of fear. The
roaring and foaming of the water pleased them, and the rushing and
whirling of the boat, as it went dashing down the rapids, appeared to be
only part of a holiday frolic. After they had passed the shoals, the
current became swifter, and the old bateau was swept along at a rapid
rate. The trees on the river bank seemed to be running back toward home,
and the shadows on the water ran with them.

Sometimes the boat swept through long stretches of meadow and marsh
lands, and then the children were delighted to see the sandpipers and
killdees running along the margin of the water. The swallows, not yet
flown southward, skimmed along the river with quivering wing, and the
kingfishers displayed their shining plumage in the sun. Once a moccasin,
fat and rusty, frightened by the unexpected appearance of the young
voyagers, dropped into the boat; but, before Lucien could strike him
with the unwieldy oar, he tumbled overboard and disappeared. Then the
youngsters ate their dinner. It was a very dry dinner; but they ate it
with a relish. The crows, flying lazily over, regarded them curiously.

“I reckon they want some,” said Lucien.

“Well, they can’t get mine,” said Lillian, “’cause I _jest_ about got
enough for myself.”

They passed a white man who was sitting on the river bank, with his coat
off, fishing.

“Where under the sun did you chaps come from?” he cried.

“Up the river,” replied Lucien.

“Where in the nation are you going?”

“Down the river.”

“Maybe he knows where Daddy Jake is,” said Lillian. “Ask him.”

“Why, he wouldn’t know Daddy Jake from a side of sole leather,”
exclaimed Lucien.

By this time the boat had drifted around a bend in the river. The man on
the bank took off his hat with his thumb and forefinger, rubbed his head
with the other fingers, drove away a swarm of mosquitoes, and muttered,
“Well, I’ll be switched!” Then he went on with his fishing.

Meanwhile the boat drifted steadily with the current. Sometimes it
seemed to the children that the boat stood still, while the banks, the
trees, and the fields moved by them like a double panorama.
Queer-looking little birds peeped at them from the bushes; fox-squirrels
chattered at them from the trees; green frogs greeted them by plunging
into the water with a squeak; turtles slid noiselessly off the banks at
their approach; a red fox that had come to the river to drink
disappeared like a shadow before the sun; and once a great white crane
rose in the air, flapping his wings heavily.

Altogether it was a very jolly journey, but after a while Lillian began
to get restless.

“Do you reckon Daddy Jake will be in the river when we find him?” she
asked.

Lucien himself was becoming somewhat tired, but he was resolved to go
right on. Indeed, he could not do otherwise.

“Why, who ever heard of such a thing?” he exclaimed. “What would Daddy
Jake be doing in the water?”

“Well, how are we’s to find him?”

“Oh, we’ll find him.”

“But I want to find him right now,” said Lillian, “and I want to see
Mamma, and Papa, and my dollies.”

“Well,” said Lucien with unconscious humor, “if you don’t want to go,
you can get out and walk back home.” At this Lillian began to cry.

[Illustration: “‘MAYBE HE KNOWS WHERE DADDY JAKE IS,’ SAID LILLIAN.”]

“Well,” said Lucien, “if Daddy Jake was over there in the bushes and was
to see you crying because you didn’t want to go and find him, he’d run
off into the woods and nobody would see him any more.”

Lillian stopped crying at once, and, as the afternoon wore on, both
children grew more cheerful; and even when twilight came, and after it
the darkness, they were not very much afraid. The loneliness—the sighing
of the wind through the trees, the rippling of the water against the
sides of the boat, the hooting of the big swamp-owl, the cry of the
whippoorwill, and the answer of its cousin, the chuck-will’s-widow—all
these things would have awed and frightened the children. But, shining
steadily in the evening sky, they saw the star they always watched at
home. It seemed to be brighter than ever, this familiar star, and they
hailed it as a friend and fellow-traveler. They felt that home couldn’t
be so far away, for the star shone in its accustomed place, and this was
a great comfort.

After a while the night grew chilly, and then Lucien and Lillian wrapped
their quilts about them and cuddled down in the bottom of the boat.
Thousands of stars shone overhead, and it seemed to the children that
the old bateau, growing tired of its journey, had stopped to rest; but
it continued to drift down the river.


                               CHAPTER II

You may be sure there was trouble on the Gaston place when night came
and the children did not return. They were missed at dinner-time; but it
frequently happened that they went off with some of the plantation
wagons, or with some of the field-hands, and so nothing was thought of
their absence at noon; but when night fell and all the negroes had
returned from their work, and there was still no sign of the children,
there was consternation in the big house and trouble all over the
plantation. The field-hands, returned from their work, discussed the
matter at the doors of their cabins and manifested considerable anxiety.

[Illustration: “THE FIELD-HANDS DISCUSSED THE MATTER.”]

At first the house-servants were sent scurrying about the place hunting
for the truants. Then other negroes were pressed into service, until,
finally, every negro on the place was engaged in the search, and torches
could be seen bobbing up and down in all parts of the plantation. The
negroes called and called, filling the air with their musical halloos,
but there was no reply save from the startled birds, or from the dogs,
who seemed to take it for granted that everybody was engaged in a grand
’possum hunt, and added the strength of their own voices to the general
clamor.

While all this was going on, Mrs. Gaston was pacing up and down the long
veranda wringing her hands in an agony of grief. There was but one
thought in her mind—the _river_, the RIVER! Her husband in the midst of
his own grief tried to console her, but he could not. He had almost as
much as he could do to control himself, and there was in his own
mind—the RIVER!

The search on the plantation and in its vicinity went on until nearly
nine o’clock. About that time Big Sam, one of the plough-hands, who was
also a famous fisherman, came running to the house with a frightened
face.

“Marster,” he exclaimed, “de boat gone—she done gone!”

“Oh, I knew it!” exclaimed Mrs. Gaston—“the river, the river!”

“Well!” said Doctor Gaston, “the boat must be found. Blow the horn!”

Big Sam seized the dinner-horn and blew a blast that startled the echoes
for miles around. The negroes understood this to be a signal to return,
and most of them thought that the children had been found, so they came
back laughing and singing, and went to the big house to see the
children.

“Wh’abouts you fine um, marster?” asked the foreman.

“They haven’t been found, Jim,” said Dr. Gaston. “Big Sam says that the
boat is gone from the landing, and that boat must be found to-night.”

“Marster,” said a negro, coming forward out of the group, “I seed a boat
gwine down stream dis mornin’. I wuz way up on de hill—”

“And you didn’t come and tell me?” asked Dr. Gaston in a severe tone.

“Well, suh, I hollered at um, an’ dey ain’t make no answer, an’ den it
look like ter me ’t wuz dem two Ransome boys. Hit mos’ drap out’n my
min’. An’ den you know, suh, our chillun ain’t never had no doin’s like
dat—gittin’ in de boat by dey own-alone se’f an’ sailin’ off dat a-way.”

“Well,” said Dr. Gaston, “the boat must be found. The children are in
it. Where can we get another boat?”

“I got one, suh,” said Big Sam.

“Me, too, marster,” said another negro.

“Then get them both, and be quick about it!”

“Ah-yi, suh,” was the response, and in a moment the group was scattered,
and Big Sam could be heard giving orders in a loud and an energetic tone
of voice. For once he was in his element. He could be foreman on the
Oconee if he couldn’t in the cotton-patch. He knew every nook and cranny
of the river for miles up and down; he had his fish-baskets sunk in many
places, and the overhanging limbs of many a tree bore the marks of the
lines of his set-hooks. So for once he appointed himself foreman, and
took charge of affairs. He and Sandy Bill (so-called owing to the
peculiar color of his hair) soon had their boats at the landing. The
other negroes were assembled there, and the most of them had torches.

“Marster,” said Big Sam, “you git in my boat, an’ let little Willyum
come fer ter hol’ de torch. Jesse, you git in dar wid Sandy Bill. Fling
a armful er light’ood in bofe boats, boys, kaze we got ter have a light,
and dey ain’t no tellin’ how fur we gwine.”

The fat pine was thrown in, everything made ready, and then the boats
started. With one sweep of his broad paddle, Big Sam sent his boat into
the middle of the stream, and, managed by his strong and willing arms,
the clumsy old bateau became a thing of life. Sandy Bill was not far
behind him.

The negroes used only one paddle in rowing, and each sat in the stern of
his boat, using the rough but effective oar first on one side and then
the other.

[Illustration]

From a window, Mrs. Gaston watched the boats as they went speeding down
the river. By her side was Charity, the cook.

“Isn’t it terrible!” she exclaimed, as the boats passed out of sight.
“Oh, what shall I do?”

“’T would be mighty bad, Mist’iss, _ef_ dem chillun wuz los’; but dey
ain’t no mo’ los’ dan I is, an’ I’m a-standin’ right yer in de cornder
by dish yer cheer.”

“Not lost! Why, of course they are lost. Oh, my darling little
children!”

“No ’m, dey ain’t no mo’ los’ dan you is. Dey tuck dat boat dis mornin’,
an’ dey went atter ole man Jake—dat’s whar dey er gone. Dey ain’t gone
nowhar else. Dey er in dat boat right now; dey may be asleep, but dey er
in dar. Ain’t I year um talkin’ yistiddy wid my own years? Ain’t I year
dat ar Marse Lucien boy ’low ter he sister dat he gwine go fetch ole man
Jake back? Ain’t I miss a whole can full er biscuits? Ain’t I miss two
er dem pies w’at I lef’ out dar in de kitchen? Ain’t I miss a great big
hunk er light-bread? An’ who gwine dast ter take um less’n it’s dem ar
chillun? Dey don’t fool me, mon. I’m one er de oldest rats in de barn—I
is dat!”

Charity’s tone was emphatic and energetic. She was so confident that her
theory was the right one that she succeeded in quieting her mistress
somewhat.

“An’ mo’ ’n dat,” she went on, seeing the effect of her remarks, “dem
chillun ’ll come home yer all safe an’ soun’. Ef Marster an’ dem niggers
don’t fetch um back, dey ’ll come deyse’f; an’ old man Jake ’ll come wid
um. You min’ wa’t I tell you. You go an’ go ter bed, honey, an’ don’t
pester yo’se’f ’bout dem chillun. I’ll set up yer in the cornder an’
nod, an’ keep my eyes on w’at’s gwine on outside.”

But Mrs. Gaston refused to go to bed. She went to the window, and away
down the river she could see the red light of the torches projected
against the fog. It seemed as if it were standing still, and the
mother’s heart sank within her at the thought. Perhaps they had found
the boat—empty! This and a thousand other cruel suggestions racked her
brain.

But the boats were not standing still; they were moving down the river
as rapidly as four of the stoutest arms to be found in the county could
drive them. The pine torches lit up both banks perfectly. The negroes
rowed in silence a mile or more, when Big Sam said:

“Marster, kin we sing some?”

“Does it seem to be much of a singing matter, Sam?” Dr. Gaston asked,
grimly.

“No, suh, it don’t; but singin’ he’ps ’long might’ly w’en you workin’,
mo’ speshually ef you er doin’ de kind er work whar you kin sorter hit a
lick wid the chune—kinder keepin’ time, like.”

Dr. Gaston said nothing, and Big Sam went on:

“’Sides dat, Marster, we-all useter sing ter dem chillun, an’ dey knows
our holler so well dat I boun’ you ef dey wuz ter year us singin’ an’
gwine on, dey’d holler back.”

“Well,” said Dr. Gaston, struck by the suggestion, “sing.”

“Bill,” said Big Sam to the negro in the other boat, “watch out for me;
I’m gwine away.”

“You’ll year fum me w’en you git whar you gwine,” Sandy Bill replied.

With that Big Sam struck up a song. His voice was clear and strong, and
he sang with a will.

            Oh. Miss Malindy, you er lots too sweet for me;
              I cannot come to see you
            Ontil my time is free—
              Oh, den I’ll come ter see you,
            An’ take you on my knee.

            Oh, Miss Malindy, now don’t you go away;
              I cannot come to see you
            Ontil some yuther day—
              Oh, den I’ll come ter see you—
            Oh, den I’ll come ter stay.

            Oh, Miss Malindy, you is my only one;
              I cannot come ter see you
            Ontil de day is done—
              Oh, den I’ll come ter see you,
            And we’ll have a little fun.

            Oh, Miss Malindy, my heart belongs ter you;
              I cannot come ter see you
            Ontil my work is thoo’.
              Oh, den I’ll come ter see you,
            I ’ll come in my canoe.

The words of the song, foolish and trivial as they are, do not give the
faintest idea of the melody to which it was sung. The other negroes
joined in, and the tremulous tenor of little Willyum was especially
effective. The deep dark woods on either side seemed to catch up and
echo back the plaintive strain. To a spectator on the bank, the scene
must have been an uncanny one—the song with its heart-breaking melody,
the glistening arms and faces of the two gigantic blacks, the flaring
torches, flinging their reflections on the swirling waters, the great
gulfs of darkness beyond—all these must have been very impressive. But
these things did not occur to those in the boats, least of all to Dr.
Gaston. In the minds of all there was but one thought—the children.

The negroes rowed on, keeping time to their songs. Their arms appeared
to be as tireless as machinery that has the impulse of steam. Finally
Big Sam’s boat grounded.

“Hol’ on dar, Bill!” he shouted. “Watch out!” He took the torch from the
little negro and held it over his head, and then behind him, peering
into the darkness beyond. Then he laughed.

“De Lord he’p my soul!” he exclaimed; “I done clean fergit ’bout
Moccasin Shoals! Back yo’ boat, Bill.” Suiting the action to the word,
he backed his own, and they were soon away from the shoals.

“Now, den,” he said to Bill, “git yo’ boat in line wid mine, an’ hol’
yo’ paddle in yo’ lap.” Then the boats, caught by the current, moved
toward the shoals, and one after the other touched a rock, turned
completely around, and went safely down the rapids, just as the
children’s boat had done in the forenoon. Once over the shoals, Big Sam
and Sandy Bill resumed their oars and their songs, and sent the boats
along at a rapid rate.

A man, sitting on the river bank, heard them coming, and put out his
torch by covering it with sand. He crouched behind the bushes and
watched them go by. After they had passed he straightened himself, and
remarked:

“Well, I’ll be switched!” Then he relighted his torch, and went on with
his fishing. It was the same man that Lucien and Lillian had seen.

The boats went on and on. With brief intervals the negroes rowed all
night long, but Dr. Gaston found no trace of his children. In sheer
desperation, however, he kept on. The sun rose, and the negroes were
still rowing. At nine o’clock in the morning the boats entered Ross’s
mill-pond. This Dr. Gaston knew was the end of his journey. If the boat
had drifted into this pond, and been carried over the dam, the children
were either drowned or crushed on the rocks below. If their boat had not
entered the pond, then they had been rescued the day before by some one
living near the river.

It was with a heavy heart that Dr. Gaston landed. And yet there were no
signs of a tragedy anywhere near. John Cosby, the miller, fat and
hearty, stood in the door of the mill, his arms akimbo, and watched the
boats curiously. His children were playing near. A file of geese was
marching down to the water, and a flock of pigeons was sailing overhead,
taking their morning exercise. Everything seemed to be peaceful and
serene. As he passed the dam on his way to the mill, Dr. Gaston saw that
there was a heavy head of water, but possibly not enough to carry a
large bateau over; still—the children were gone!

[Illustration: THE MILLER AND HIS CHILDREN]

The puzzled look on the miller’s face disappeared as Dr. Gaston
approached.

“Well, the gracious goodness!” he exclaimed. “Why, howdy, Doc.—howdy!
Why, I ’m right down glad to see you. Whichever an’ whichaway did you
come?”

“My little children are lost,” said Dr. Gaston, shaking the miller’s
hand. The jolly smile on John Cosby’s face disappeared as suddenly as if
it had been wiped out with a sponge.

“Well, now, that’s too bad—too bad,” he exclaimed, looking at his own
rosy-cheeked little ones standing near.

“They were in a bateau,” said Dr. Gaston, “and I thought maybe they
might have drifted down here and over the mill-dam.”

The miller’s jolly smile appeared again. “Oh, no, Doc.—no, no! Whichever
an’ whichaway they went, they never went over that dam. In time of a
freshet, the thing might be did; but not now. Oh, no! Ef it lies betwixt
goin’ over that dam an’ bein’ safe, them babies is jest as safe an’
soun’ as mine is.”

“I think,” said Dr. Gaston, “that they started out to hunt Jake, my
carriage-driver, who has run away.”

“Jake run away!” exclaimed Mr. Cosby, growing very red in the face.
“Why, the impident scoundull! Hit ain’t been three days sence the ole
rascal wuz here. He come an’ ’lowed that some of your wagons was
a-campin’ out about two mile from here, an’ he got a bushel of meal,
an’ said that if you didn’t pay me the money down I could take it out
in physic. The impident ole scoundull! An’ he was jest as
’umble-come-tumble as you please—a-bowin’, an’ a-scrapin’, an’
a-howdy-do-in’.”

But the old miller’s indignation cooled somewhat when Dr. Gaston briefly
told him of the incident which caused the old negro to run away.

“Hit sorter sticks in my gizzard,” he remarked, “when I hear tell of a
nigger hittin’ a white man; but I don’t blame Jake much.”

“And now,” said Dr. Gaston, “I want to ask your advice. You are a
level-headed man, and I want to know what you think. The children got in
the boat, and came down the river. There is no doubt in my mind that
they started on a wild-goose chase after Jake; but they are not on the
river now, nor is the boat on the river. How do you account for that?”

“Well, Doc., if you want my naked beliefs about it, I’ll give ’em to
you, fa’r an’ squar’. It’s my beliefs that them youngsters have run up
agin old Jake somewhar up the river, an’ that they are jest as safe’an’
soun’ as you is. Them’s my beliefs.”

“But what has become of the boat?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. Old Jake is jest as cunning as any other nigger.
He took an’ took the youngsters out, an’ arterwards he drawed the boat
out on dry land. He rightly thought there would be pursuit, an’ he
didn’t mean to be ketched.”

“Then what would you advise me to do?” asked Dr. Gaston.

The old man scratched his head.

“Well, Doc., I’m a-talkin’ in the dark, but it’s my beliefs them
youngsters ’ll be at home before you can get there to save your life.
Jake may not be there, but if he’s found the boy an’ gal, he ’ll carry
’em safe home. Now you mind what I tell you.”

Dr. Gaston’s anxiety was too great to permit him to put much confidence
in the old miller’s prediction. What he said seemed reasonable enough,
but a thousand terrible doubts had possession of the father’s mind. He
hardly dared go home without the children. He paced up and down before
the mill, a most miserable man. He knew not where to go or what to do.

Mr. Cosby, the miller, watched him awhile, and shook his head. “If Doc.
don’t find them youngsters,” he said to himself, “he ’ll go plum
deestracted.” But he said aloud:

“Well, Doc., you an’ the niggers must have a breathing-spell. We’ll go
up to the house an’ see ef we can’t find somethin’ to eat in the
cubberd, an’ arterwards, in the time you are restin’, we’ll talk about
findin’ the youngsters. If there’s any needcessity, I’ll go with you. My
son John can run the mill e’en about as good as I can. We’ll go up yan
to ’Squire Ross’s an’ git a horse or two, an’ we’ll scour the country on
both sides of the river. But you’ve got to have a snack of somethin’ to
eat, an’ you’ve got to take a rest. Human natur’ can’t stand the
strain.”

Torn as he was by grief and anxiety, Dr. Gaston knew this was good
advice. He gratefully accepted John Cosby’s invitation to breakfast, as
well as his offer to aid in the search for the lost children. After
Doctor Gaston had eaten, he sat on the miller’s porch and tried to
collect his thoughts so as to be able to form some plan of search. While
the two men were talking, they heard Big Sam burst out laughing. He
laughed so loud and heartily that Mr. Cosby grew angry, and went into
the back yard to see what the fun was about. In his heart the miller
thought the negroes were laughing at the food his wife had set before
them, and he was properly indignant.

“Well, well,” said he, “what’s this I hear? Two high-fed niggers
a-laughin’ beca’se their master’s little ones are lost and gone! And has
it come to this? A purty pass, a mighty purty pass!” Both the negroes
grew very serious at this.

“Mars’ John, we-all was des projickin’ wid one an’er. You know how
niggers is w’en dey git nuff ter eat. Dey feel so good dey ’bleege ter
holler.”

Mr. Cosby sighed, and turned away. “Well,” said he, “I hope niggers ’s
got souls, but I know right p’int-blank that they ain’t got no hearts.”

Now, what was Big Sam laughing at?

He was laughing because he had found out where Lucien and Lillian were.
How did he find out? In the simplest manner imaginable. Sandy Bill and
Big Sam were sitting in Mr. Cosby’s back yard eating their breakfast,
while little Willyum was eating his in the kitchen. It was the first
time the two older negroes had had an opportunity of talking together
since they started from home the day before.

“Sam,” said Sandy Bill, “did you see whar de chillun landed w’en we come
’long des a’ter sun-up dis mornin’?”

“Dat I didn’t,” said Sam, wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand—“dat I didn’t, an’ ef I had I’d a hollered out ter Marster.”

“Dat w’at I wuz feared un,” said Sandy Bill.

“Feared er what?” asked Big Sam.

“Feared you’d holler at Marster ef you seed whar dey landed. Dat how
come I ter run foul er yo’ boat.”

“Look yer, nigger man, you ain’t done gone ’stracted, is you?”

“Shoo, chile! don’t talk ter me ’bout gwine ’stracted. I got ez much
sense ez Ole Zip Coon.”

“Den whyn’t you tell Marster? Ain’t you done see how he troubled in he
min’?”

“I done see dat, en it makes me feel bad; but t’er folks got trouble,
too, lots wuss’n Marster.”

“Is dey los’ der chillun?”

“Yes—Lord! dey done los’ eve’ybody. But Marster ain’t los’ no chillun
yit.”

“Den wat we doin’ way down yer?” asked Big Sam in an angry tone.

[Illustration: “AN’ OLE MAN JAKE, HE DAR TOO.”]

“Le’ me tell you,” said Sandy Bill, laying his hand on Big Sam’s
shoulder; “le’ me tell you. Right cross dar fum whar I run foul er yo’
boat is de biggest cane-brake in all creation.”

“I know ’im,” said Big Sam. “Dey calls ’im Hudson’s cane-brake.”

“Now you talkin’,” said Sandy Bill. “Well, ef you go dar you ’ll fin’
right in the middle er dat cane-brake a heap er niggers dat you got
’quaintance wid—Randall Spivey, an’ Crazy Sue, an’ Cupid Mitchell, an’
Isaiah Little—dey er all dar; an’ ole man Jake, he dar too.”

“Look yer, nigger,” Sam exclaimed, “how you know?”

“I sent ’im dar. He come by me in de fiel’ an’ tole me he done kilt de
overseer, an’ I up an’ tell ’im, I did, ‘Make fer Hudson’s cane-brake,’
an’ dar ’s right whar he went.”

It was at this point that Big Sam’s hearty laughter attracted the
attention of Dr. Gaston and Mr. Cosby.

“Now, den,” said Sandy Bill, after the miller had rebuked them and
returned to the other side of the house, “now, den, ef I’d ’a’ showed
Marster whar dem chillun landed, en tole ’im whar dey wuz, he’d ’a’ gone
’cross dar, en seed dem niggers, an’ by dis time nex’ week ole Bill
Locke’s nigger-dogs would ’a’ done run um all in jail. You know how
Marster is. He think kaze he treat his niggers right dat eve’ybody else
treat der’n des dat a-way. But don’t you worry ’bout dem chillun.”

Was it possible for Sandy Bill to be mistaken?


                              CHAPTER III

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:

“‘Is you gwine back, Brer Buzzard?’

“Brer Buzzard ain’t say nuthin’, en den Brer Rabbit retch down en bit
’im under de yuther wing. It keep on dis away twel it got so dat Brer
Rabbit kin guide Brer Buzzard along des same ez ef he done bin broke ter
harness, en dat’s de way he made ’im kyar ’im back.”

The little boy enjoyed these stories very much, and was very sorry to
see that Uncle Remus was not in the humor for telling any more. Perhaps
his store was exhausted. At any rate, the old man flatly refused to
cudgel his memory for another legend.




                       THE CREATURE WITH NO CLAWS


“W’en you git a leetle bit older dan w’at you is, honey,” said Uncle
Remus to the little boy, “you’ll know lots mo’ dan you does now.”

The old man had a pile of white oak splits by his side, and these he was
weaving into a chair-bottom. He was an expert in the art of “bottoming
chairs,” and he earned many a silver quarter in this way. The little boy
seemed to be much interested in the process.

“Hit’s des like I tell you,” the old man went on; “I done had de speunce
un it. I done got so now dat I don’t b’lieve w’at I see, much less w’at
I year. It got ter be whar I kin put my han’ on it en fumble wid it.
Folks kin fool deyse’f lots wuss dan yuther folks kin fool um, en ef you
don’t b’lieve w’at I’m a-tellin’ un you, you kin des ax Brer Wolf de
nex’ time you meet ’im in de big road.”

“What about Brother Wolf, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked, as the old
man paused to refill his pipe.

“Well, honey, ’t ain’t no great long rigamarole; hit’s des one er deze
yer tales w’at goes in a gallop twel hit gits ter de jumpin’-off place.

“One time Brer Wolf wuz gwine ’long de big road feelin’ mighty proud en
high-strung. He wuz a mighty high-up man in dem days, Brer Wolf wuz, en
mos’ all de yuther creeturs wuz feard tin ’im. Well, he wuz gwine ’long
lickin’ his chops en walkin’ sorter stiff-kneed, w’en he happen ter look
down ’pon de groun’ en dar he seed a track in de san’. Brer Wolf stop,
he did, en look at it, en den he ’low:

“‘Heyo! w’at kind er creetur dish yer? Brer Dog ain’t make dat track, en
needer is Brer Fox. Hit’s one er deze yer kind er creeturs w’at ain’t
got no claws. I’ll des ’bout foller ’im up, en ef I ketch ’im he’ll
sholy be my meat.’

“Dat de way Brer Wolf talk. He followed ’long atter de track, he did, en
he look at it close, but he ain’t see no print er no claw’. Bimeby de
track tuck ’n tu’n out de road en go up a dreen whar de rain done wash
out. De track wuz plain dar in de wet san’, but Brer Wolf ain’t see no
sign er no claws.

“He foller en foller, Brer Wolf did, en de track git fresher en fresher,
but still he ain’t see no print er no claw. Bimeby he come in sight er
de creetur, en Brer Wolf stop, he did, en look at ’im. He stop
stock-still en look. De creetur wuz mighty quare lookin’, en he wuz
cuttin’ up some mighty quare capers. He had big head, sharp nose, en bob
tail, en he wuz walkin’ ’roun’ en ’roun’ a big dog-wood tree, rubbin’
his sides ag’in it. Brer Wolf watch ’im a right smart while, en den he
’low:

“‘Shoo! dat creetur done bin in a fight en los’ de bes’ part er he tail,
en mo’ ’n dat, he got de eatch, kaze ef he ain’t got de eatch w’at make
he scratch hisse’f dat away? I lay I ’ll let ’im know who he foolin’
’long wid.’

“Atter while, Brer Wolf went up a leetle nigher de creetur, en holler
out:

“‘Heyo, dar! w’at you doin’ scratchin’ yo’ scaly hide on my tree, en
tryin’ fer ter break hit down?’

“De creetur ain’t make no answer. He des walk ’roun’ en ’roun’ de tree
scratchin’ he sides en back. Brer Wolf holler out:

“‘I lay I ’ll make you year me ef I hatter come dar whar you is.’

“De creetur des walk ’roun’ en ’roun’ de tree, en ain’t make no answer.
Den Brer Wolf hail ’im ag’in, en talk like he mighty mad:

“‘Ain’t you gwine ter min’ me, you imperdent scoundul? Ain’t you gwine
ter mozey outer my woods en let my tree ’lone?’

“Wid dat, Brer Wolf march todes des creetur des like he gwine ter squ’sh
’im in de groun’. De creetur rub hisse’f ag’in de tree en look like he
feel mighty good. Brer Wolf keep on gwine todes ’im, en bimeby w’en he
git sorter close de creetur tuck ’n sot up on his behime legs des like
you see squir’ls do. Den Brer Wolf, he ’low, he did:

“‘Ah-yi! you beggin’, is you? But ’t ain’t gwine ter do you no good. I
mout er let you off ef you’d a-minded me w’en I fus’ holler atter you,
but I ain’t gwine ter let you off now. I’m a-gwine ter l’arn you a
lesson dat’ll stick by you.’

“Den de creetur sorter wrinkle up his face en mouf, en Brer Wolf ’low:

“‘Oh, you neenter swell up en cry, you ’ceitful vilyun. I’m a-gwine ter
gi’ you a frailin’ dat I boun’ yer won’t forgit.’

“Brer Wolf make like he gwine ter hit de creetur, en den——”

Here Uncle Remus paused and looked all around the room and up at the
rafters. When he began again his voice was very solemn.

——“Well, suh, dat creetur des fotch one swipe dis away, en ’n’er swipe
dat away, en mos’ ’fo’ you kin wink yo’ eye-balls, Brer Wolf hide wuz
mighty nigh teetotally tor’d off’n ’im. Atter dat de creetur sa’ntered
off in de woods, en ’gun ter rub hisse’f on ’n’er tree.”

“What kind of a creature was it, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

“Well, honey,” replied the old man in a confidential whisper, “hit
wa’n’t nobody on de top-side er de yeth but ole Brer Wildcat.”




                       UNCLE REMUS’S WONDER STORY


There was one story that the little boy whom Uncle Remus delighted to
entertain asked for with great regularity, perhaps because it has in it
an element of witchcraft, and was as marvelous as it was absurd.
Sometimes Uncle Remus pretended to resent this continued demand for the
story, although he himself, like all the negroes, was very
superstitious, and believed more or less in witches and witchcraft.

“Dat same ole tale,” he would say. “Well! well! well! W’en is we gwine
ter year de las’ un it? I done tole you dat tale so much dat it make my
flesh crawl, kaze I des know dat some er deze yer lonesome nights I’ll
be a-settin’ up yer by de fier atter you done gone. I’ll be a-settin’ up
yer dreamin’ ’bout gwine ter bed, en sumpin’ ’n’er ’ll come a-clawin’ at
de do’, en I’ll up en ax, ‘Who dat?’ En dey’ll up en ’spon’, ‘Lemme in.’
En I’ll ondo de do’, en dat ole creetur’ll walk in, en dat’ll be de las’
er po’ ole Remus’ En den w’en dat come ter pass, who gwine take time fer
ter tell you tales? Dat w’at I like ter know.”

The little boy, although he well knew that there were no witches, would
treat this statement with gravity, as the story to him was as
fascinating as one of the “Thousand and One Nights.”

“Well, Uncle Remus,” he would say, “just tell it this time!” Whereupon
the old negro, with the usual preliminary flourishes, began:

“One time, ’way back yander, w’en de moon wuz lots bigger dan w’at she
is now, dar wuz er ole Witch-Wolf livin’ ’way off in de swamp, en dish
yer ole Witch-Wolf wuz up to ter all sorts er contrariness. Look like
she wuz cross-ways wid de whole er creation. W’en she wa’n’t doin’
devilment, she wuz studyin’ up devilment. She had a mighty way, de ole
Witch-Wolf did, dat w’en she git hungry she’d change ’erse’f ter be a
’oman. She could des shet ’er eye en smack ’er mouf, en stiddier bein’ a
big black wolf, wid long claws en green eye-balls, she’d come ter be the
likelies’ lookin’ gal dat you mos’ ever seed.

“It seem like she love ter eat folks, but’fo’ she kin eat urn she hatter
marry um; en w’en she take a notion, she des change ’erse’f ter be a
likely lookin’ gal, en sails in en git married. Den w’en she do dat, she
des take en change ’erse’f back ter be a wolf, en eat um up raw. Go whar
you kin, en whar you mout, en yit I don’t ’speck you kin fin’ any wuss
creetur dan w’at dis ole Witch-Wolf wuz.

“Well, sir, at de same time w’en dis ole Witch-Wolf gwine on dis away,
dey wuz a man livin’ in de neighborhood w’at she took a mighty notion
fer ter marry. De man had lan’, but she ain’t want de lan’; de man had
hosses, but she ain’t want de hosses; de man had cows, but she ain’t
want de cows. She des nat’ally want de man hisse’f, kaze he mighty fat
en nice.”

“Did she want to marry him, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked, as
though the tale were true, as indeed it seemed to be while Uncle Remus
was telling it and acting it.

“Tooby sho’, honey! Dat ’zactly w’at she want. She want ter marry ’im,
en eat ’im up. Well, den, w’en she git eve’ything good en ready, she des
tuck ’n back ’er years, en bat ’er eyes, en smack ’er mouf, and dar she
wuz—a likely young gal! She up en got ter de lookin’-glass, she did, en
swinge ’er ha’r wid de curlin’-tongs, en tie ribbons on ’er cloze, en
fix up ’er beau-ketchers. She look nice, fit ter kill, now. Den she tuck
’n pass by de man house, en look back en snicker, en hol’ ’er head on
one side, en sorter shake out ’er cloze, en put ’er han’ up fer ter see
ef de ha’rpins in der place. She pass by dis away lots er times, en
bimeby de man kotch a glimp’ un ’er; en no sooner is he do dis dan she
wave her hankcher. De man he watch ’er en watch er, en bimeby, atter she
kep’ on whippin’ by, he come out en hail ’er. En den she tuck ’n stop,
en nibble at ’er fan en fumble wid ’er hankcher, en dey tuck ’n stan’
dar, dey did, en pass de time er day. Atter dat de sun never riz en set
widout she hol’ some confab wid de man; en ’t want long ’fo’ de man took
a notion dat she de very gal fer a wife, w’at he bin a-huntin’ fer. Wid
dat dey des got right down ter ole-fashion courtin’. Dey’d laugh, dey’d
giggle, dey ’d’spute, dey’d pout. You ain’t never seen folks a-courtin’,
is you, honey?”

The little boy never had, and he said so.

“Well, den,” Uncle Remus would continue, “you ain’t none de wuss off fer
dat, kaze dey ain’t nuthin’ in de roun’ worl’ dat’ll turn yo’ stomach
quicker. But dar dey wuz, en de ole Witch-Wolf make sho’ she wuz gwine
ter git de man; let lone dat, de man he make sho’ he wuz gwine ter git
de gal. Yit de man he belt back, en ef de Witch-Wolf hadn’t er bin
afeard she’d drap de fat in de fier, she’d er des come right out en pop
de question den en dar. But de man he helt back en helt back, en bimeby
he say ter hisse’f, he did, dat he ’speck he better make some
inquirements ’bout dis yer gal. Yit who sh’ll he go ter?

“He study en study, en atter w’ile hit come ’cross he min’ dat he better
go en ax ole Jedge Rabbit ’bout ’er, bein’ ez he bin livin’ ’roun’ dar a
mighty long time.

“Ole Jedge Rabbit,” Uncle Remus would explain, “done got ole in age en
gray in de min’. He done sober up en settle down, en I let you know dey
want many folks in dem diggin’s but w’at went ter ole Jedge Rabbit w’en
dey git in trouble. So de man he went ter Jedge Rabbit house en rap at
de do’. Jedge Rabbit, he ’low, he did, ‘Who dat?’

“Man he up en ’spon’, ‘Hit’s me.’

“Den Jedge Rabbit ’gin ter talk like one er deze yer town lawyers. He
’low, he did, ‘Mighty short name fer grown man. Gimme de full
entitlements.’

“Man he gun um ter ’im, en den ole Jedge Rabbit open de do’ en let ’im
in. Dey sot dar by de fier, dey did, twel bimeby’t want long ’fo’ de man
’gun ter tell ’im ’bout dish yer great gal w’at he bin courtin’ ’long
wid. Bimeby Jedge Rabbit ax ’im, sezee, ‘W’at dish yer great gal name?’

“Man he ’low, ‘Mizzle-Mazzle,’

“Jedge Rabbit look at de man sort er like he takin’ pity on ’im, en den
he tuk he cane en make a mark in de ashes. Den he ax de man how ole is
dish yer great gal. Man tol’ ’im. Jedge Rabbit make ’n’er mark in de
ashes. Den he ax de man is she got cat eyes. Man sort er study ’bout
dis, but he say he ’speck she is. Jedge Rabbit make ’n’er mark. Den he
ax is ’er years peaked at de top. Man ’low he disremember, but he speck
dey is. Jedge Rabbit make ’n’er mark in de ashes. Den he ax is she got
yaller ha’r. Man say she is. Jedge Rabbit make ’n’er mark. Den he ax is
’er toofs sharp. Man say dey is. Jedge Rabbit make ’n’er mark. Atter he
done ax all dis, Jedge Rabbit got up, he did, en went ’cross de room ter
de lookin’-glass. W’en he see hisse’f in dar, he tuck ’n shet one eye,
_s-l-o-w_. Den he sot down en leant back in de cheer, en ’low, sezee:

“‘I done had de idee in my head dat ole Mizzle-Mazzle done moof out ’n
de country, en yit yer she is gallopin’ ’roun’ des ez natchul ez a dead
pig in de sunshine!’

“Man look ’stonish, but he ain’t say nuthin’. Jedge Rabbit keep on
talkin’.

“‘You ain’t never bin trouble’ wid no trouble yit, but ef you wan’ ter
be trouble’ wid trouble dat’s double en thribble trouble, you des go en
marry ole Mizzle-Mazzle,’ sezee. ‘You nee’nter b’lieve me less ’n you
wan’ ter,’ sezee. ‘Des go ’long en marry ’er,’ sezee.

“Man he look skeerd. He up en ’low, he did, ‘W’at de name er goodness I
gwine do?’

“Ole Jedge Rabbit look sollumcolly. ‘You got any cows?’ sezee.

“Man say he got plenty un um.

“‘Well, den,’ sez ole Jedge Rabbit, sezee, ‘ax ’er ef she kin keep
house. She’ll say yasser. Ax ’er ef she kin cook. She’ll say yasser. Ax
er ef she kin scour. She’ll say yasser. Ax ’er ef she kin wash cloze.
She’ll say yasser. Ax ’er ef she kin milk de red cow. Den see w’at she
say.’

“Man, he ’low, he did, dat he mighty much erbleege ter ole Jedge Rabbit,
en wid dat he make he bow en tuck he leaf. He went home, he did, en w’en
he git dar, sho’ ’nuff dar wuz dish yer nice-lookin’ gal a pommynadin’
up en down de road, en shakin’ ’er hankcher. Man, he hail ’er, he did,
en ax ’er how she come on. She ’low she purty well, en how do he do. Man
say he feelin’ sort er po’ly. Den she up en ax ’im w’at de matter. Man
say he ’speck he feel po’ly kaze he so powerful lonesome. Den dish yer
nice-lookin’ gal, she ax ’im w’at make he so powerful lonesome. Man he
say he ’speck he so powerful lonesome kase he want ter marry.

“Time de man come out so flat-footed ’bout marryin’, de gal, she ’gun
ter work wid ’er fan, en chaw at ’er hankcher. Den, atter w’ile, she up
en ax ’im who he wan’ ter marry. Man ’low he ain’t no ways ’tickler,
kase he des want somebody fer ter take keer er de house w’en he gone, en
fer ter set down by de fier, en keep ’im comp’ny w’en he at home. Den he
up en ax de gal kin she keep house. De gal she ’low, ‘Yasser!’ Den he ax
’er ef she kin cook. She ’low, ‘Yasser!’ Den he ax ’er ef she kin scour.
She ’low, ‘Yasser!’ Den he ax ’er ef she kin wash cloze. She ’low,
‘Yasser!’ Den he ax ’er ef she kin milk de red cow. Wid dat she flung up
’er han’s, en fetched a squall dat make de man jump.

“‘Law!’ sez she, ‘does you speck I’m a-gwine ter let dat cow hook me?’

“Man, he say de cow des ez gentle ez a dog.

“‘Does you speck I’m a-gwine ter let dat cow kick me crank-sided?’ sez
she.

“Man, he ’low, he did, dat de cow won’t kick, but dat ar gal she tuck ’n
make mo’ skuses dan dey is frogs in de spring branch, but bimeby she say
she kin try. But she ’low dat fus’ ’fo’ she try dat she’ll show ’im how
she kin keep house. So the nex’ mornin’ yer she come, en I let you know
she sailed in dar, en sot dat house ter rights ’fo’ some wimmen folks
kin tun ’roun’. Man, he say, he did, dat she do dat mighty nice.

“Nex’ day, de gal sot in en got dinner. Man say, he did, dat dey ain’t
nobody w’at kin beat dat dinner. Nex’ day, she sot in en scoured, en she
make that flo’ shine same ez a lookin’-glass. Man, he say dey ain’t
nobody in dat neighborhoods kin beat dat scourin’. Nex’ day, she come
fer ter milk de red cow, en de man, he ’low ter hisse’f, he did, dat he
gwine ter see w’at make she don’t like ter milk dat cow.

“De gal come, she did, en git de milk-piggin’, en scald it out, en den
she start fer de cow-lot. Man, he crope ’long atter de gal fer ter watch
’er. Gal went on, en w’en she come ter de lot dar wuz de red cow
stan’in’ in de fence-cornder wallopin’ ’er cud. Gal, she sorter shuck de
gate, she did, en holler, ‘Sook, cow! Sook, cow!’ Cow, she pearten up at
dat, kaze she know w’en folks call ’er dat away, she gwine ter come in
fer a bucket er slops.

“She pearten up, de red cow did, en start todes de gate, but,
gentermens! time she smell dat gal, she ’gun a blate like she smell
blood, en paw’d de groun’ en shuck ’er head des like she fixin’ fer ter
make fight. Man, he ’low ter hisse’f dat dish yer kinder business mighty
kuse, en he keep on watchin’. Gal, she open de gate, but stiddier de cow
makin’ fight, she ’gun ter buck. Gal, she say, ‘So, cow! so, cow, so!’
but de cow she hist her tail in de elements, en run ’roun’ dat lot like
de dogs wuz atter ’er. Gal, she foller on, en hit sorter look like she
gwine ter git de cow hemmed up in a cornder, but de cow ain’t got no
notion er dis, en bimeby she whirl en make a splunge at de gal, en ef de
gal hadn’t er lipt de fence quick es she did de cow would er got ’er. Ez
she lipt de fence, de man seed ’er foots, en, lo en beholes, dey wuz
wolf foots! Man, he holler out:

“‘You oughter w’ar shoes w’en you come a-milkin’ de red cow!’ en wid
dat, de ole Witch-Wolf gun a twist, en fetched a yell, en made ’er
disappearance in de elements.”

Here Uncle Remus paused awhile. Then he shook his head, and exclaimed:

“’T ain’t no use! Dey may fool folks, but cows knows wil’ creeturs by
der smell.”




                    THE RATTLESNAKE AND THE POLECAT


“I lay ’t won’t be long,” said Uncle Remus, as the little boy drew his
chair closer to the broad fireplace, “’fo’ I’ll hatter put on a backlog
en pile’ up de chunks. Dem w’at gits up ’bout de crack er day like I
does is mighty ap’ fer ter fin’ de a’r sorter fresh deze mornin’s. Fus’
news you know old Jack Frost ’ll be a-blowin’ his horn out dar in de
woods, en he ’ll blow it so hard dat he ’ll jar down de hick’ry-nuts, de
scalybarks, de chinkapins, en de bullaces, en den ole Brer ’Possum will
begin fer ter take his promenades, en ef I don’t ketch ’im hit ’ll be
kaze I’m too stiff in my j’ints fer ter toiler ’long atter de dogs.

“Dish yer kinder freshness in de a’r w’at make yo’ breff smoke w’en you
blow it outen yo’ mouf,” continued Uncle Remus, “puts me in de min’ er
de time w’en Brer Polecat wuz a-huntin’ fer a new house. De wedder wuz
gittin’ kinder shivery, en Brer Polecat he sot out ter fin’ a good warm
place whar he kin stay w’en de freeze come on.

“He mozey ’long, Brer Polecat did, twel he come ter Brer Rattlesnake
house, w’ich it wuz in a holler tree. Brer Polecat knock at de do’. Brer
Rattlesnake ’low, ‘Who dat?’

“Brer Polecat ’spon’, ‘Hit’s me; open de do’.’

“Brer Rattlesnake say, ‘W’at you want?’

“Brer Polecat say, ‘Hit mighty cool out yer.’

“Brer Rattlesnake ’low, ‘Dat w’at I year folks say.’

“Brer Polecat up en ’spon’, sezee, ‘Hit too col’ fer ter stan’ out yer.’

“‘Dat w’at I year tell,’ says Brer Rattlesnake, sezee.

“‘I wanter come in dar whar hit’s warm,’ says Brer Polecat, sezee.

“Brer Rattlesnake ’low dat two in dat house would be a big crowd.

“Brer Polecat say he got de name er bein’ a mighty good housekeeper.

“Brer Rattlesnake say hit mighty easy fer anybody fer ter keep tother
folks’ house.

“Brer Polecat say he gwine come in anyhow.

“Brer Rattlesnake ’low, ‘Dey ain’t no room in yer fer you.’

“Brer Polecat laugh en say: ‘Shoo, Brer Rattlesnake! eve’ybody gives me
room. I go ’long de road, I does, en meet Mr. Man. I walks right todes
’im, en he bleege ter gi’ me room. I meet all de critturs, en dey bleege
ter gi’ me room.’

“Brer Rattlesnake say, ‘Dat w’at I year tell.’

“Brer Polecat ’low, ‘Don’t you pester yo’se’f ’bout room. You des lemme
git in dar whar you is, en _I’ll make room_!’

“Wid dat Brer Rattlesnake shot de do’ er his house en sprung de latch,
en atter so long a time Brer Polecat went pacin’ off some’rs else.”




                           HOW THE BIRDS TALK


Uncle Remus was not a “field hand”; that is to say, he was not required
to plow and hoe and engage in the rough work on the plantation.

It was his business to keep matters and things straight about the house,
and to drive the carriage when necessary. He was the confidential family
servant, his attitude and his actions showing that he considered himself
a partner in the various interests of the plantation. He did no great
amount of work, but he was never wholly idle. He tanned leather, he made
shoes, he manufactured horse-collars, fish-baskets, foot-mats,
scouring-mops, and ax-handles for sale; he had his own watermelon- and
cotton-patches; he fed the hogs, looked after the cows and sheep, and,
in short, was the busiest person on the plantation.

He was reasonably vain of his importance, and the other negroes treated
him with great consideration. They found it to their advantage to do so,
for Uncle Remus was not without influence with his master and mistress.
It would be difficult to describe, to the satisfaction of those not
familiar with some of the developments of slavery in the South, the
peculiar relations existing between Uncle Remus and his mistress, whom
he called “Miss Sally.” He had taken care of her when she was a child,
and he still regarded her as a child.

He was dictatorial, overbearing and quarrelsome. These words do not
describe Uncle Remus’s attitude, but no other words will do. Though he
was dictatorial, overbearing and quarrelsome, he was not even grim.
Beneath everything he said there was a current of respect and affection
that was thoroughly understood and appreciated. All his quarrels with
his mistress were about trifles, and his dictatorial bearing was
inconsequential. The old man’s disputes with his “Miss Sally” were
thoroughly amusing to his master, and the latter, when appealed to,
generally gave a decision favorable to Uncle Remus.

Perhaps an illustration of one of Uncle Remus’s quarrels will give a
better idea than any attempt at description. Sometimes, after tea, Uncle
Remus’s master would send the house-girl for him, under pretense of
giving him orders for the next day, but really for the purpose of
hearing him quarrel. The old man would usually enter the house by way of
the dining-room, leaving his hat and his cane outside. He would then go
to the sitting-room and announce his arrival, whereupon his master would
tell him what particular work he wanted done, and then Uncle Remus would
say, very humbly:

“Miss Sally, you ain’t got no cold vittles, nor no piece er pie, nor
nuthin’, layin’ ’roun’ yer, is you? Dat ar Tildy gal say you all have a
mighty nice dinner ter-day.”

“No, there’s nothing left. I gave the last to Rachel.”

“Well, I dunner w’at business dat ar nigger got comin’ up yer eatin’
Mars John out er house en home. I year tell she l’arnin’ how to cook, en
goodness knows, ef eatin’ gwine ter make anybody cook good, she de bes’
cook on dis hill.”

“Well, she earns what she eats, and that’s more than I can say for some
of the others.”

“I lay ef ole miss’ wuz ’live, she ’d sen’ dat ar nigger ter de
cotton-patch. She would, mon; she’d sen’ er dar a-whirlin’. Nigger w’at
wrop up ’er ha’r wid a string ain’t never seed de day w’en dey kin go on
de inside er ole miss’ kitchen, let ’lone mommuck up de vittles. Now, I
boun’ you dat!”

“Well, there’s nothing here for you, and if there was you wouldn’t get
it.”

“No, ’m, dat’s so. I done know dat long time ago. All day long, en half
de night, hit ’s ‘Remus, come yer,’ en ‘Remus, go dar,’ ’ceppin’ w’en it
’s eatin’-time, en w’en dat time come, dey ain’t nobody dast ter name de
name er Remus. Dat Rachel nigger new ter de business, yet she mighty
quick fer ter l’arn how ter tote off de vittles, en how ter make all de
chillun on de place do ’er er’ns.”

“John,” to her husband, “I put some cold potatoes for the children on
the sideboard in the dining-room. Please see if they are still there.”

“Nummine ’bout gittin’ up, Mars John. All de taters is dar. Old Remus
ain’t never ’grudge w’at dem po’ little chillun gits. Let ’lone dat; dey
comes down ter my house, en dey looks so puny en lonesome dat I ’vides
my own vittles wid um. Goodness knows, I don’t ’grudge de po’ creeturs
de little dey gits. Good-night, Mars John! Good-night, Miss Sally!”

“Take the potatoes, Remus,” said Mars John.

“I’m mighty much erbleege ter you,” said Uncle Remus, putting the
potatoes in his pocket, “en thanky too; but I ain’t gwine ter have folks
sayin’ dat ole Remus tuck ’n sneaked up yer en tuck de vittles out er
deze yer chillun’s mouf, dat I ain’t.”

The tone in which Uncle Remus would carry on his quarrels was
inimitable, and he generally succeeded in having his way. He would
sometimes quarrel with the little boy to whom he told the stories, but
either by dint of coaxing, or by means of complete silence, the
youngster usually managed to restore the old man’s equanimity.

“Uncle Remus,” said the boy, “it ’s mighty funny that the birds and the
animals don’t talk like they used to.”

“Who say dey don’t?” the old man cried, with some show of indignation.
“Who say dey don’t? Now, dat ’s des w’at I’d like ter know.”

Uncle Remus’s manner implied that he was only waiting for the name of
the malicious person to go out and brain him on the spot.

“Well,” replied the child, “I often listened at them, but I never hear
them say a word.”

“Ah-yi!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, in a tone of exultation; “dat’s diffunt.
Now, dat’s diffunt. De creeturs talk des ’bout like dey allus did, but
folks ain’t smart ez dey used ter wuz. You kin year de creeturs talkin’,
but you dunner w’at dey say. Yit I boun’ you ef I wuz ter pick you up,
en set you down in de middle er de Two-Mile Swamp, you’d year talkin’
all night long.”

The little boy shivered at the suggestion.

“Uncle Remus, who talks out there in the swamp?”

“All de creeturs, honey, all de creeturs. Mo’ speshually ole man Owl, en
all he famberly connexion.”

“Have you ever heard them, Uncle Remus?”

“Many’s en many’s de time, honey. W’en I gits lonesome wid folks, I des
up en takes down my walkin’ cane, I does, en I goes off dar whar I kin
year um, en I sets dar en feels dez es familious ez w’en I’m a-settin’
yer jawin’ ’long er you.”

“What do they say, Uncle Remus?”

“It seems like ter me,” said the old man, frowning, as if attempting to
recall familiar names, “dat one er um name Billy Big-Eye, en t’er one
name Tommy Long-Wing. One er um sets in a poplar-tree on one side er de
swamp, en t’er one sets in a pine on t’er side,” Uncle Remus went on, as
the child went a little closer to him. “W’en night come, good en dark,
Billy Big-Eye sorter cle’r up he th’oat en ’low:

“‘_Tom!_ Tommy _Long_-Wing! _Tom!_ Tommy _Long_-Wing!’”

Uncle Remus allowed his voice to rise and fall, giving it a far-away but
portentous sound, the intonation being a weirdly-exact imitation of the
hooting of a large swamp-owl. The italicized words will give a faint
idea of this intonation.

“Den,” Uncle Remus went on, “ole Tommy Long-Wing he’d wake up en holler
back:

“‘_Who_—who dat a-_call_in’? _Who_—who dat a-_call_in’?’

“‘_Bill_—Billy _Big_-Eye! _Bill_—Billy _Big_-Eye!’

“‘_Whyn’t_ you come _down_—come _down_ ter _my_ house?’

“‘I _coodn’t_—I _coodn’t_ come down to _yo’_ house!’

“‘_Tom_—Tommy _Long_-Wing! Why _coodn’t_ you?’

“‘Had _coom_penny, _Bill_—Billy _Big_-Eye! Had _coom_penny!’

“‘_Who_—who wuz de _coom_penny?’

“‘_Heel_ Tap ’n _his_ wife, _Deel_ Tap ’n _his_ wife, en I don’t know
_who_-all, _who_-all, _who_-all!’

“Ez ter Heel Tap en Deel Tap,” Uncle Remus continued, noticing a puzzled
expression on the child’s face, “I dunno ez I ever bin know anybody
edzackly wid dat name. Some say dat’s de name er de Peckerwoods en de
Yallerhammers, but I speck w’en we git at de straight un it, dey er all
in de Owl famberly.”

“Who heard them talking that way, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

[Illustration: BILLY BIG-EYE AND TOMMY LONG-WING.]

“Goodness en de gracious, honey!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, “you don’t
’speckt er ole nigger like I is fer ter note all deze yer folks’ name in
he head, does you? S’pose’n de folks w’at year um done gone and move
off, w’at good it gwine do you fer ter git der name? S’pose’n dey wuz
settin’ right yer ’long side er you, w’at good dat gwine do? De trufe’s
de trufe, en folks’ name ain’t gwine make it no trufer. Yit w’en it come
ter dat, I kin go ter de do’ dar, en fetch a whoop, en fin’ you lots er
niggars w’at done bin year dat Owl famberly gwine on in de swamp dar. En
you ne’en ter go no fudder dan Becky’s Bill, nudder. W’en dat niggar wuz
growin’ up, he went frolickin’ ’roun’, en one night he come froo de
Two-Mile Swamp.

“He come froo dar,” Uncle Remus went on, emphasizing the seriousness of
the situation by a severe frown, “des ez soople in de min’ ez w’at you
is dis blessid minnit. He come ’long, he did, en de fus’ news you know a
great big ole owl flew’d up in a tree en snap he bill des like somebody
crackin’ a whip. Becky’s Bill make like he ain’t take no notice, but he
sorter men’ he gait. Present’y, ole Mr. Owl flew’d up in ’n’er tree
little ways ahead, en smack he mouf. Den he holler out:

“‘_Who_ cooks—_who_ cooks—_who_ cooks fer _you_-all?’

“Becky’s Bill move on—he make like he ain’t year nothing. Ole Mr. Owl
holler out:

“‘_Who_ cooks—_who_ cooks—who _cooks_ fer _you_-all?’

“By dat time Becky’s Bill done git sorter skeerd, en he stop en say:

“‘Well, sir, endurin’ er de week, mammy, she cooks, but on Sundays, en
mo’ speshually ef dey got comp’ny, den ole Aunt Dicey, she cooks.’

“Ole Mr. Owl, he ruffle up he fedders, he did, en smack he mouf, en look
down at Becky’s Bill, en ’low:

“‘_Who_ cooks—_who_ cooks—_who_ cooks fer _you_-all?’

“Becky’s Bill, he take off he hat, he did, en ’low, sezee:

“‘Well, sir, hit’s des like I tell you. Mo’ inginer’lly endurin’ er de
week, mammy, she cooks, but on Sundays, mo’ speshually w’en dey got
comp’ny, ole Aunt Dicey, she cooks.’

“Ole Mr. Owl, he keep axin’, en Becky’s Bill keep on tellin’ twel,
bimeby, Becky’s Bill, he got skeerd, en tired, en mad, en den he le’pt
out fum dar en he run home like a quarter-hoss; en now ef you git ’im in
dat swamp you got ter go ’long wid ’im.”

The little boy sat and gazed in the fire after Uncle Remus had paused.
He evidently had no more questions to ask. After a while the old man
resumed:

“But ’t ain’t des de owls dat kin talk. I des want you ter git up in de
mornin’ en lissen at de chickens. I kin set right yer en tell you des
zackly w’at you ’ll year um say.”

The little boy laughed, and Uncle Remus looked up into the rafters to
hide a responsive smile.

“De old Dominicker Hen, she ’ll fly off’n ’er nes’ in de hoss-trough, en
squall out:

“‘_Aigs_ I _lay_ eve’y _day_ en yer dey _come_ en _take_ um _’way_! I
_lay_, I _lay_, I _lay_, en yit I hatter go _bare_-footed,
_bare_-footed, _bare_-footed! Ef I _lay_, en lay twel _dooms_day, I know
I’ll hatter go _bare_-footed, _bare_-footed, _bare-_footed!’”

Uncle Remus managed to emphasize certain words so as to give a laughably
accurate imitation of a cackling hen. He went on:

“Now, den, w’en de rooster year de Dominicker Hen a-cacklin’, I boun’
you he gwine ter jine in. He’ll up en say, sezee:

“‘Yo’ foot so _big_, yo’ foot so _wide_, yo’ foot so _long_. I can’t git
a shoe _ter_-fit-it, _ter_-fit-it, _ter_-fit-it!’

“En den dar dey ’ll have it, up en down, qua’llin’ des like sho’-nuff
folks.”

The little boy waited for Uncle Remus to go on, but the old man was
done. He leaned back in his chair and began to hum a tune.

After a while the youngster said:

“Uncle Remus, you know you told me that you’d sing me a song every time
I brought you a piece of cake.”

“I ’speckt I did, honey—I ’speckt I did. Ole ez I is, I got a mighty
sweet toofe. Yit I ain’t see no cake dis night.”

“Here it is,” said the child, taking a package from his pocket.

“Yasser!” exclaimed the old man, with a chuckle, “dar she is! En all
wrop up, in de bargain. I ’m mighty glad you helt ’er back, honey, kaze
now I can take dat cake en chune up wid ’er en sing you one er dem
ole-time songs, en folks gwine by ’ll say we er kyar’n on a
camp-meetin’.”




                           THE FOOLISH WOMAN


“W’en you see dese yer niggers w’at wrop de ha’r wid a string,” said
Uncle Remus to the little boy one day, apropos of nothing in particular
except his own prejudices, “you des keep yo’ eye on um. You des watch
um, kaze ef you don’t dey’ll take en trip you up—dey will dat, dez ez
sho’ ez de worl’. En ef you don’t b’lieve me, you kin des’ ax yo’ mammy.
Many’s en many’s de time is Miss Sally driv niggers out ’n de big house
yard kaze dey got der ha’r wrop up wid a string. I bin lookin’ en
peepin’, en lis’nin’ en eavesdrappin’ in dese low groun’s a mighty long
time, en I ain’t ne’er sot eyes on no nigger w’at wrop der ha’r wid a
string but w’at dey wuz de meanes’ kind er nigger. En if you ax anybody
w’at know ’bout niggers dey’ll tell you de same.”

“But, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy protestingly, “doesn’t Aunt
Tempy wrap her hair with a string?”

“Who? Sis Tempy? Shoo!” exclaimed the old man scornfully. “Why, whar yo’
eyes, honey? Nex’ time you see Sis Tempy, you take en look at ’er right
close, en ef ’er ha’r ain’t platted den I’m a Chinee. Now, dat’s what!”

“Well, they don’t bother me,” said the little boy.

“Dat dey don’t!” exclaimed Uncle Remus enthusiastically. “Dey don’t dast
ter, kaze dey know ef dey do, dey’ll have old Remus atter um, en mean ez
dey is, dey know hit ain’t gwine ter do ter git de ole nigger atter um.

“Hit seem like ter me dat one time I year a mighty funny tale ’bout one
er deze yer niggers w’at wrop der ha’r wid a string, but I speck it mos’
too late fer ter start in fer ter tell a tale—kaze present’y you’ll be
a-settin’ up dar in dat cheer dar fas’ ’sleep, en I’m a-gittin’ too ole
en stiff fer ter be totin’ you roun’ yer like you wuz a sack er bran.”

“Oh, I’m not sleepy, Uncle Remus,” the little boy exclaimed. “Please
tell me the story.”

The old man stirred the embers with the end of his cane, and seemed to
be in a very solemn mood. Presently he said:

“’T ain’t so mighty much of a tale, yit it ’ll do fer ter go ter bed on.
One time dey wuz a nigger man w’at tuck ’n married a nigger ’oman, en
dish yer nigger ’oman kep’ ’er h’ar wrop up wid a string night en day.
Dey married, en dey went home ter housekeepin’. Dey got um some pots, en
dey got um some kittles, en dey got um some pans, en dey got um some
dishes, en dey start in, dey did, des like folks does w’en dey gwine ter
stay at home.

“Dey rocked on, dey did,” said Uncle Remus, scratching his head with
some earnestness, “en it seem like dey wuz havin’ a mighty good time;
but one day w’en dish yer nigger man wuz gone ter town atter some
vittles, the nigger ’oman she ’gun ter git fretted. Co’se, honey, you
dunner how de wimmen folks goes on, but I boun’ you’ll know ’fo’ you
gits ez ole en ez crippled up in de j’ints ez w’at I is. Well, dish yer
nigger ’oman, she ’gun ter fret en ter worry, en bimeby she got right
down mad.”

“But what did she get mad about, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked.

“Well, sir,” said the old man condescendingly, “I’ll up en tell you. She
wuz des like yuther wimmen folks, en she got fretted kase de days wuz
long en de wedder hot. She got mad en she stayed mad. Eve’y time she
walked ’cross de flo’ de dishes ud rattle in de cubberd, en de mo’ she’d
fix um de wuss dey’d rattle. Co’se, dis make ’er lots madder dan w’at
she wuz at fust, en bimeby she tuck ’n holler out:

“‘W’at make you rattle?’

“Dishes dey keep on a-rattlin’.

“‘What make you rattle so? I ain’t gwine ter have no rattlin’ ’roun’
yer!’

“Dishes dey keep on a-rattlin’ en a-rattlin’. De ’oman she holler out:

“‘Who you rattlin’ at? I ’m de mistiss er dis house. I ain’t gwine ter
have none er yo’ rattlin’ ’roun’ yer!’

“Dishes dey rattle en rattle. De ’oman, she holler out:

“‘Stop dat rattlin’. I ain’t gwine ter have you sassin’ back at me dat
way. I ’m de mistiss er dis house!’

“Den she walked up en down, en eve’y time she do dat de dishes dey
rattle wuss en wuss. Den she holler out:

“‘Stop dat sassin’ at me, I tell you! I’m de mistiss in dis house!’

“Yit de dishes keep on rattlin’ en shakin’, en bimeby de ’oman run ter
de cubberd, she did, en grab de dishes en fling um out in de yard, en no
sooner’s she do dis dan dey wuz busted all ter flinders.

“I tell you w’at, mon,” said Uncle Remus, after pausing a moment to see
how this proceeding had affected the little boy. “I tell you w’at, mon,
wimmen folks is mighty kuse. Dey is dat, des ez sho’ ez de worl’. Bimeby
de nigger man come home, en w’en he see all de dishes broke up he wuz
’stonish’, but he ain’t say nuthin’. He des look up at de sun fer ter
see w’at time it is, en feel er hisse’f fer ter see ef he well. Den he
up ’n holler:

“‘Ole ’oman, yer some fish w’at I bring you. I speck you better clean um
fer dinner.’ De ’oman, she ’low:

“‘Lay um down dar.’ De man, he tuck en lay um down en draw’d a bucket er
water out er de well.

“Den, bimeby, de ’oman, she come out en start ter clean de fish. She
pick um up, she did, en start ter scrape de scales off, but she sees der
eyes wide open, en she ’low:

“‘Shet dem eyes! Don’t you be a-lookin’ at me!’

“Fish, dey keep on a-lookin’. ’Oman, she holler out:

“‘Shet up dem eyes, I tell you! I ’m de mistiss er dish yer house!’

“Fish, dey keep der eyes wide open. ’Oman, she squall out:

“‘Shet dem eyes, you impident villyuns! I’m de mistiss in dish yer
house!’

“Fish, dey helt der eyes wide open, en den de ’oman tuck en flung um in
de well.”

“And then what?” asked the little boy, as Uncle Remus paused.

“Ah, Lord, honey! You too hard fer me now. De ’oman tuck ’n ’stroy de
dishes, en den she flung de fishes in de well, en dey des nat’ally ruint
de well. I dunner w’at de man say, but ef he wuz like de balance un um,
he des sot down en lit his pipe, en tuck a smoke en den lit out fer bed.
Dat’s de way men folks does, en ef you don’t b’lieve me yo kin ax yo’
pa, but fer de Lord’s sake don’t ax ’im whar Miss Sally kin year you,
kaze den she’ll light on me, en mo’ ’n dat, she won’t save me no mo’
col’ vittles.”




                 THE ADVENTURES OF SIMON AND SUSANNA[1]


Footnote 1:

  It may be of interest to those who approach Folk-Lore stories from the
  scientific side, to know that this story was told to one of my little
  boys three years ago by a negro named John Holder. I have since found
  a variant (or perhaps the original) in Theal’s “Kaffir Folk-Lore.”

“I got one tale on my min’,” said Uncle Remus to the little boy one
night. “I got one tale on my min’ dat I ain’t ne’er tell you; I dunner
how come; I speck it des kaze I git mixt up in my idees. Deze is busy
times, mon, en de mo’ you does de mo’ you hatter do, en w’en dat de
case, it ain’t ter be ’spected dat one ole broke-down nigger kin ’member
’bout eve’ything.”

“What is the story, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked.

“Well, honey,” said the old man, wiping his spectacles, “hit sorter run
dis away: One time dey wuz a man w’at had a mighty likely daughter.”

“Was he a white man or a black man?” the little boy asked.

“I ’clar’ ter gracious, honey!” exclaimed the old man, “you er pushin’
me mos’ too close. Fer all I kin tell you, de man mout er bin ez w’ite
ez de driven snow, er he mout er bin de blackes’ Affi’kin er de whole
kit en bilin’. I’m des tellin’ you de tale, en you kin take en take de
man en w’itewash ’im, er you kin black ’im up des ez you please. Dat’s
de way I looks at it.

“Well, one time dey wuz a man, en dish yer man he had a mighty likely
daughter. She wuz so purty dat she had mo’ beaus dan w’at you got
fingers en toes. But de gal daddy, he got his spishuns ’bout all un um,
en he won’t let um come ’roun’ de house. But dey kep’ on pesterin’ ’im
so, dat bimeby he give word out dat de man w’at kin clear up six acres
er lan’ en roll up de logs, en pile up de bresh in one day, dat man kin
marry his daughter.

“In co’se, dis look like it unpossible, en all de beaus drap off
’ceppin’ one, en he wuz a great big strappin’ chap w’at look like he kin
knock a steer down. Dis chap he wuz name Simon, en de gal, she wuz name
Susanna. Simon, he love Susanna, en Susanna, she love Simon, en dar it
went.

“Well, sir, Simon, he went ter de gal daddy, he did, en he say dat ef
anybody kin clear up dat lan’, he de one kin do it, least’ways he say he
gwine try mighty hard. De ole man, he grin en rub his han’s terge’er, he
did, en tole Simon ter start in in de mornin’. Susanna, she makes out
she wuz fixin’ sumpin in de cubberd, but she tuck ’n kiss ’er han’ at
Simon, en nod ’er head. Dis all Simon want, en he went out er dar des ez
happy ez a jay-bird atter he done robbed a sparrer-nes’.

“Now, den,” Uncle Remus continued, settling himself more comfortably in
his chair, “dish yer man wuz a witch.”

“Why, I thought a witch was a woman,” said the little boy.

The old man frowned and looked into the fire.

“Well, sir,” he remarked with some emphasis, “ef you er gwine ter tu’n
de man inter a ’oman, den dey won’t be no tale, kaze dey’s bleege ter be
a man right dar whar I put dis un. Hit ’s des like I tole you ’bout de
color er de man. Black ’im er whitewash ’im des ez you please, en ef you
want ter put a frock on ’im ter boot, hit ain’t none er my business; but
I’m gwine ter’low he wuz a man ef it’s de las’ ac’.”

The little boy remained silent, and Uncle Remus went on:

“Now, den, dish yer man was a witch. He could cunjer folks, mo’
’speshually dem folks w’at ain’t got no rabbit foot. He bin at his
cunjerments so long, dat Susanna done learn mos’ all his tricks. So de
nex’ mornin’ w’en Simon come by de house fer ter borry de ax, Susanna
she run en got it fer ’im. She got it, she did, en den she sprinkles
some black san’ on it, en say, ‘Ax, cut; cut, ax.’ Den she rub ’er ha’r
’cross it, en give it ter Simon. He tuck de ax, he did, en den Susanna
say:

“‘Go down by de branch, git sev’n w’ite pebbles, put um in dis little
cloth bag, en whenever you want the ax ter cut, shake um up.’

“Simon, he went off in de woods, en started in ter clearin’ up de six
acres. Well, sir, dem pebbles en dat ax, dey done de work—dey did dat.
Simon could ’a’ bin done by de time de dinner-horn blowed, but he hung
back kaze he ain’t want de man fer ter know dat he doin’ it by
cunjerments.

“W’en he shuck de pebbles de ax ’ud cut, en de trees ’ud fall, en de
lim’s ’ud drap off, en de logs ’ud roll up terge’er, en de bresh ’ud
pile itself up. Hit went on dis away twel by de time it wuz two hours b’
sun, de whole six acres wuz done cleaned up.

“’Bout dat time de man come ’roun’, he did, fer ter see how de work
gittin’ on, en, mon! he wuz ’stonish’. He ain’t know w’at ter do er say.
He ain’t want ter give up his daughter, en yit he ain’t know how ter git
out ’n it. He walk ’roun’ en ’roun’, en study, en study, en study how he
gwine rue de bargain. At las’ he walk up ter Simon, he did, en he say:

[Illustration: SIMON SHAKES THE PEBBLES.]

“‘Look like you sort er forehanded wid your work.’

“Simon, he ’low: ‘Yasser, w’en I starts in on a job I’m mighty restless
twel I gits it done. Some er dis timber is rough en tough, but I bin had
wuss jobs dan dis in my time.’

“De man say ter hisse’f: ‘W’at kind er folks is dis chap?’ Den he say
out loud: ‘Well, sence you er so spry, dey’s two mo’ acres ’cross de
branch dar. Ef you’ll clear dem up ’fo’ supper you kin come up ter de
house en git de gal.’

“Simon sorter scratch his head, kaze he dunner whedder de pebbles gwine
ter hol’ out, yit he put on a bol’ front en he tell de man dat he’ll go
’cross dar en clean up de two acres soon ez he res’ a little.

“De man he went off home, en soon ’s he git out er sight, Simon went
’cross de branch en shook de pebbles at de two acres er woods, en ’t
want no time skacely ’fo’ de trees wuz all cut down en pile up.

“De man, he went home, he did, en call up Susanna, en say:

“‘Daughter, dat man look like he gwine git you, sho’.’

“Susanna, she hang ’er head, en look like she fretted, en den she say
she don’t keer nuthin’ fer Simon, nohow.”

“Why, I thought she wanted to marry him,” said the little boy.

“Well, honey, w’en you git growed up, en git whiskers on yo’ chin, en
den atter de whiskers git gray like mine, you’ll fin’ out sump’n ’n’er
’bout de wimmin folks. Dey ain’t ne’er say ’zackly w’at dey mean, none
er um, mo’ ’speshually w’en dey er gwine on ’bout gittin’ married.

“Now, dar wuz dat gal Susanna what I ’m a-tellin’ you ’bout. She mighty
nigh ’stracted ’bout Simon, en yit she make ’er daddy b’lieve dat she
’spize ’im. I ain’t blamin’ Susanna,” Uncle Remus went on with a
judicial air, “kase she know dat ’er daddy wuz a witch en a mighty mean
one in de bargain.

“Well, atter Susanna done make ’er daddy b’lieve dat she ain’t keerin’
nothin’ ’t all ’bout Simon, he ’gun ter set his traps en fix his tricks.
He up ’n tell Susanna dat atter ’er en Simon git married dey mus’ go
upsta’rs in de front room, en den he tell ’er dat she mus’ make Simon go
ter bed fus’. Den de man went upsta’rs en tuck ’n tuck all de slats
out’n de bedstid ceppin one at de head en one at de foot. Atter dat he
tuck ’n put some foot-valances ’roun’ de bottom er de bed—des like dem
w’at you bin see on yo’ gran’ma bed. Den he tuck ’n sawed out de floor
und’ de bed, en dar wuz de trap all ready.

“Well, sir, Simon come up ter de house, en de man make like he mighty
glad fer ter see ’im, but Susanna, she look like she mighty shy. No
matter ’bout dat; atter supper Simon en Susanna got married. Hit ain’t
in de tale wedder dey sont fer a preacher er wedder dey wuz a squire
browsin’ ’roun’ in de neighborhoods, but dey had cake wid reezins in it,
en some er dish yer silly-bug w’at got mo’ foam in it dan dey is dram,
en dey had a mighty happy time.

“W’en bedtime come, Simon en Susanna went upsta’rs, en w’en dey got in
de room, Susanna kotch ’im by de han’, en helt up her finger. Den she
whisper en tell ’im dat ef dey don’t run away fum dar dey bofe gwine ter
be kilt. Simon ax ’er how come, en she say dat ’er daddy want ter kill
’im kase he sech a nice man. Dis make Simon grin; yit he wuz sorter
restless ’bout gittin’ ’way fum dar. But Susanna, she say wait. She say:

“‘Pick up yo’ hat en button up yo’ coat. Now, den, take dat stick er
wood dar en hol’ it ’bove yo’ head.’

“W’iles he stan’in’ dar, Susanna got a hen egg out ’n a basket, den she
got a meal-bag, en a skillet. She ’low:

“‘Now, den, drap de wood on de bed.’

“Simon done des like she say, en time de wood struck de bed de tick en
de mattruss went a-tumblin’ thoo de floor. Den Susanna tuck Simon by de
han’ en dey run out de back way ez hard ez dey kin go.

“De man, he wuz down dar waitin’ fer de bed ter drap. He had a big long
knife in he han’, en time de bed drapped, he lit on it, he did, en
stobbed it scan’lous. He des natchully ripped de tick up, en w’en he
look, bless gracious, dey ain’t no Simon dar. I lay dat man wuz mad den.
He snorted ’roun’ dar twel blue smoke come out’n his nose, en his eye
look red like varmint eye in de dark. Den he run upsta’rs en dey ain’t
no Simon dar, en nudder wuz dey any Susanna.

“Gentermens! den he git madder. He rush out, he did, en look ’roun’, en
’way off yander he see Simon en Susanna des a-runnin’, en a-holdin’ one
nudder’s han’.”

“Why, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, “I thought you said it was
night?”

“Dat w’at I said, honey, en I ’ll stan’ by it. Yit, how many times dis
blessed night is I got ter tell you dat de man wuz a witch? En bein’ a
witch, co’se he kin see in de dark.

“Well, dish yer witch-man, he look off en he see Simon en Susanna
runnin’ ez hard ez dey kin. He put out atter um, he did, wid his knife
in his han’, an’ he kep’ on a gainin’ on um. Bimeby, he got so close dat
Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Fling down yo’ coat.’

“Time de coat tech de groun’, a big thick woods sprung up whar it fell.
But de man, he cut his way thoo it wid de knife, en kep’ on a-pursuin’
atter um.

“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de egg on de groun’, en time
it fell a big fog riz up fum de groun’, en a little mo’ en de man would
a got los’. But atter so long a time fog got blowed away by de win’, en
de man kep’ on a-pursuin’ atter um.

“Bimeby, he got so close dat Susanna drap de meal-sack, en a great big
pon’ er water kivered de groun’ whar it fell. De man wuz in sech a big
hurry dat he tried ter drink it dry, but he ain’t kin do dis, so he sot
on de bank en blow’d on de water wid he hot breff, en atter so long a
time de water made hits disappearance, en den he kep’ on atter um.

“Simon en Susanna wuz des a-runnin’, but run ez dey would, de man kep’
a-gainin’ on um, en he got so close dat Susanna drapped de skillet. Den
a big bank er darkness fell down, en de man ain’t know which away ter
go. But atter so long a time de darkness lif’ up, en de man kep’ on
a-pursuin’ atter um. Mon, he made up fer los’ time, en he got so close
dat Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Drap a pebble.’

“Time Simon do dis a high hill riz up, but de man clum it en kep’ on
atter um. Den Susanna say ter Simon:

“‘Drap nudder pebble.’

“Time Simon drap de pebble, a high mountain growed up, but de man
crawled up it en kep’ on atter um. Den Susanna say:

“‘Drap de bigges’ pebble.’

“No sooner is he drap it dan a big rock wall riz up, en hit wuz so high
dat de witch-man can’t git over. He run up en down, but he can’t find no
end, en den, atter so long a time, he turn ’roun’ en go home.

“On de yuther side er dis high wall, Susanna tuck Simon by de han’, en
say:

“‘Now we kin res’.’

“En I reckon,” said the old man slyly, “dat we all better res’.”




                  BROTHER RABBIT AND THE GINGERCAKES.


“Now, I des tell you w’at, honey,” said Uncle Remus to the little boy,
“if you wan’ ter year dish yer tale right straight thro’, widout any
balkin’ er stallin’, you’ll des hatter quit makin’ any fuss. Kaze w’en
der’s any fuss gwine on hit mos’ allers inginner’lly gits me mixt up, en
w’en I gits mixt up I ain’t wuth nuthin’ ’t all skacely fer tellin’ a
tale, en ef you don’t b’lieve me, you may des ax some er my blood kin.
Now, den, you des set right whar you is en stop you behavishness. Kaze
de fus’ time you wink loud, you got ter git right up on de bed-pos’ dar
en ride straddle.

“So, den! Well, one time Brer Mink en Brer Coon en Brer Polecat all live
terge’er in de same settlement. Let ’lone dat, dey live in de same
house, en de house w’at dey live in wuz made in de resemble uv a great
big holler log. In dem days, Brer Polecat wuz de king er de creeturs
w’at run ’bout atter dark, en you better make up yo’ min’ dat he made um
stan’ ’roun’ might’ly.”

“Why, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, “I thought Brother Rabbit—”

“Well, de goodness en de gracious! ain’t I ax you fer ter please ma’am
don’t make no fuss? Kaze I know mighty well Brer Rabbit use ter be de
slickes’ en de suples’, but dey ’bleege ter be a change, kase ’t ain’t
in natur’ fer de ’t’er creeturs not ter kotch on ter his ins en his
outs, en I speck dat de time w’en dey fin’ ’im out is de time w’en ole
Brer Polecat got ter be de king er de creeturs—dat’s what I speck.

“But no matter ’bout dat—by hook er by crook, Brer Polecat come ter be
de king er de creeturs, en w’en he come ter be dat dey’d all er um go a
long ways out er de way fer ter take off der hats en bow der howdies,
dey would, en some un um would tag atter ’im, en laugh eve’y time Brer
Polecat laughed, en grin eve’y time he grinned.

“W’iles dish yer wuz gwine on Brer Rabbit wuz in de crowd, en he wuz des
ez big a man ez any er um, en I dunner ef he want de bigges’. Well, Brer
Rabbit he move en secondary[2] dat bein’ ez how Brer Polecat wuz sech a
nice king dey oughter pass a law dat eve’y time de yuther creeturs meet
um in de road dey mus’ shet der eyes en hol’ der nose. Some er um say
dey don’t min’ holdin’ der nose, but dey don’t like dish yer way er
shettin’ der eyes, kaze dey mout run up agin a tree, er stick a brier in
der foot; but Brer Rabbit, he up en ’low, he did, dat ’t wuz des ’bout
ez little ez dey kin do ter shet der eye en hol’ der nose w’en dey git
war sech a nice king is, en so dey all hatter come ’roun’.

Footnote 2:

  Moved and seconded.

“De nex’ day atter all dis happen, Brer Rabbit he come by de house whar
ole King Polecat live ’long wid Brer Coon en Brer Mink. Brer Coon he wuz
a great han’ fer ter bake gingercake. Fur en wide de folks knowd ’bout
Brer Coon gingercakes, en dey couldn’t be no camp-meetin’ ’roun’ in dem
diggin’s, but w’at he wuz hangin’ on de aidges sellin’ his gingercakes
en his ’simmon beer; en it seem like eve’y time Brer Rabbit see Brer
Coon dat he whirl right in en git hongry fer gingercakes.

“So de nex’ day after dey done fix it all up ’bout ole King Polecat,
Brer Rabbit he come sailin’ by Brer Coon’s house, en he ax ’im ef he got
any gingercakes fer ter sell. Brer Coon ’low, he did, dat he got um des
ez fine ez fine kin be, en Brer Rabbit say he b’lieve he’ll buy some, en
wid dat he run his han’ in his pocket, he did, en pull out de change en
bought ’im a great big stack er gingercakes.

“Den he tuck ’n ax Brer Coon ef he won’t keep his eye on de gingercakes
wiles he go git some gyarlic fer to eat wid um. Brer Coon ’low he’ll
take keer un um de bes’ w’at he kin. Brer Rabbit rush off, en des ’bout
dat time ole King Polecat come in sight. In de accordance er de rules,
soon ez Brer Coon see ole King Polecat he mus’ shet he eye en hol’ he
nose; and w’iles Brer Coon doin’ dis, ole King Polecat walk up, he did,
en grab de gingercakes en make off wid um. Co’se, w’en Brer Rabbit come
lippitin’ back, he hunt fer he gingercakes, but he can’t fine um nowhar.
Den he holler out:

“‘My goodness, Brer Coon! Whar my gingercakes?’

“All Brer Coon kin say is dat he ain’t see nobody take de gingercakes.
Brer Rabbit ’low, he did, dat dis a mighty quare way fer ter do a man
w’at done bought de gingercakes en pay fer um. Yit he say he ’bleege ter
have some, en so he tuck ’n pitch in en buy ’ner stack un um. Den he
’low:

“‘Now, den, I done got de gyarlic fer ter go wid um, en I’ll des ’bout
squat right down yer en watch deze yer gingercakes my own se’f.’

“So he squat down en fix hisse’f, en des ’bout de time w’en he wuz ready
fer ter ’stroy de gingercakes, yer come old King Polecat. Brer Rabbit,
he got up, he did, en made a bow, en den he helt he nose en make like he
wuz a-shettin’ he eyes. Ole King Polecat, he come ’long, he did, en
start fer ter pick up de gingercakes, but Brer Rabbit holler out:

“‘Drap dem gingercakes!’

“Ole King Polecat jump back en look like his feelin’s bin hurted, en he
squall out:

“‘My goodness! How come yo’ eye open? How come you break up de rules dat
away?’

“Brer Rabbit pick up de gingercakes, en ’low:

“‘I kin hol’ my nose ez good ez de nex’ man, but I can’t shet my eyes
ter save my life, kaze dey er so mighty big!’

“Dis make ole King Polecat mad enough fer ter eat all de gingercakes
w’at Brer Coon got in de chist, but he can’t help hisse’f, kaze he know
dat ef Brer Rabbit tu’n agin ’im, he won’t be much uv a king in dat ar
country. Atter dat it got so dat Brer Rabbit kin put down his
gingercakes anywheres he want ter; en folks ’low dat he wuz mighty nigh
ez big a man ez ole King Polecat.”




                      BROTHER RABBIT’S COURTSHIP.


One night, as the little boy went tripping down the path to Uncle
Remus’s cabin, he thought he heard voices on the inside. With a gesture
of vexation he paused at the door and listened. If the old man had
company, the youngster knew, by experience, that he would get no story
that night. He could hear Uncle Remus talking as if carrying on an
animated conversation. Presently he crept up to the door, which was
ajar, and peeped in. There was nobody in sight but the old darkey, and
the little boy went in. Uncle Remus made a great pretense of being
astonished.

“Were you just talking to yourself, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

“Yasser,” said the old man with a serious air, “dat des w’at I wuz
a-doin’. I done clean fergit myse’f. I year tell dat dem w’at take en
talk ’long wid deyse’f dat dey owe de Ole Boy a day’s work. Ef dat de
state er de case den he done got my name down on de books, en hit’s all
on account er deze yer uppity-biggity niggers w’at come ’long yer little
w’ile ago en ax me ter go ’way off yan ter de Spivey place whar Nancy’s
Jim gwine ter git married.

“I wuz settin’ yer runnin’ on in my min’,” Uncle Remus continued, “’bout
de time w’en Brer Rabbit went a-courtin’. I boun’ you dey ain’t bin no
sech courtin’ sence dat day, en dey ain’t gwine ter be no mo’ sech.”

Here Uncle Remus paused and leaned back in his chair, gazing
thoughtfully at the rafters. He paused so long that the little boy
finally asked him if he couldn’t tell about Brother Rabbit’s wonderful
courtship.

“Well, honey,” said the old man, “you haf ter gi’ me time fer to shet my
eye-balls en sorter feel ’roun’ ’mongst my reckermembunce atter de
wharfo’es en de whatsisnames. Kaze I’m like a broke-down plow-mule: I’ll
go ’long ef you lemme take my time, but ef you push me, I’ll stop right
in de middle er de row.”

“I can wait until bedtime,” the little boy remarked, “and then I’ll have
to go.”

“Dat’s so,” Uncle Remus assented cheerfully, “en bein’ ez dat’s de case,
we haf ter be sorter keerful. Lemme go ’roun’ de stumps en over de
roots, en git in meller groun’, en den we kin des back right ’long.

“Now den! You done year talk er Miss Meadows en de gals, en ’bout how
Brer Rabbit bin gwine dar so much. Well, hit done happen so dat Brer
Rabbit wuz tuck wid a-likin’ er one er de gals. Dis make ’im sorter glad
at de offstart, but bimeby he ’gun ter git droopy. He laid ’roun’ en sot
’bout, he did, en look like he studyin’ ’bout sump’n ’n’er way off
yander.

“Hit went on dis away twel bimeby Miss Meadows, she up en ax Brer Rabbit
w’at de name er sense is de matter ’long wid ’im, en Brer Rabbit, he
feel so bad dat he up en ’spon’, he did, dat he dead in love wid one er
de gals. Den Miss Meadows, she ax ’im w’at de reason he ain’t tell de
gal dat he want ter be ’er b’ide-g’oom. Brer Rabbit say he ’shame’. Miss
Meadows, she toss ’er head, she did, en ’low:

“‘Ya-a-a-s! You look like you ’shame’, now don’t you? You mout er bin
’shame’ ’fo’ hens had der toofies pulled out, but you ain’t bin ’shame’
sence. I done see you cut up too many capers; I know dey ain’t no gal on
de top side er de yeth w’at kin faze you,’ sez Miss Meadows, sez she.

“Den Brer Rabbit ’low dat he skeerd de gal won’t have ’im, but Miss
Meadows ’fuse ter hol’ any mo’ confab wid ’im; she des broke out singin’
en washin’ de dishes, en w’at wid de chune en de clatter er de dishes
Brer Rabbit can’t year his own years. Bimeby, he tuck ’n sneak out, he
did, en went en sot in de shade by de spring.

“He ain’t set dar long ’fo’ yer come de gal w’at he bin studyin’ ’bout.
She had a pail in ’er han’ en she wuz comin’ atter water. She come ’long
down de paff swingin’ de pail in her han’ en singin’.”

“What did she sing, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked, becoming more
and more interested.

The old darkey looked slyly at the youngster, and chuckled softly to
himself. Presently he said:

“Hit wuz sorter like dis, ef I ain’t make no mistakes in de chune:

             “‘_Oh, says de woodpecker, peckin’ on de tree,
             Once I courted Miss Kitty Killdee,
             But she proved fickle en fum me fled,
             En sence dat time my head bin red._’

“Brer Rabbit bin feelin’ mighty droopy en low-spereted all de mornin’,
but time he year de gal singin’, he hist up his years en look sassy, en
wen she stop singin’ he broke out en ’gun ter sing hisse’f. He sung dish
yer kinder chune:

                 “‘_Katy, Katy! won’t you marry?
                   Katy, Katy! choose me den!
                 Mammy say ef you will marry
                   She will kill de turkey hen;
                 Den we’ll have a new convention,
                   Den we’ll know de rights er men._’”

“Why, I ’ve heard grandma sing that song,” exclaimed the little boy.

“Tooby sho’ you is—tooby sho’ you is, honey,” said Uncle Remus, assuming
an argumentative air that was irresistibly comic. “Ef Brer Rabbit kin
sing dat chune, w’at gwine hender w’ite folks fum singin’ it? Bless yo’
soul, w’ite folks smart, mon, en I lay der ain’t no chune w’at Brer
Rabbit kin sing dat dey can’t reel off.

“Well, suh, de gal year Brer Rabbit singin’, en she sorter toss ’er head
en giggle. Brer Rabbit he look at ’er sideways en sorter grin. Den Brer
Rabbit ’low:

“‘Mornin’, ma’m; how you come on dis fine mornin’?’

“De gal say: ‘I’m des toler’ble; how you do yo’se’f?’

“Brer Rabbit ’low, he did: ‘I thank you, ma’m, I’m right po’ly. I ain’t
bin feelin’ ter say reely peart in mighty nigh a mont’.’

“De gal laugh en say: ‘Dat w’at I year tell. I speck you in love, Brer
Rabbit. You ought ter go off some’rs en git you a wife.’

“Dis make Brer Rabbit feel sorter ’shame’, en he hung his head en make
marks in de san’ wid his foots. Bimeby he say: ‘How come, ma’m, dat you
don’t git married?’

“De gal laugh wuss ’n wuss, en atter she kin ketch ’er breff she ’low:
‘Lordy, Brer Rabbit! I got too much sense—_mysef_—fer ter be gittin’
married widout no sign er no dream.’

“Den Brer Rabbit say: ‘W’at kinder sign does you want, ma’m?’

“De gal ’low: ‘Des any kinder sign; don’t make no diffunce w’at. I done
try all de spells, en I ain’t see no sign yit.’

“Brer Rabbit say: ‘W’at kinder spells is you done tried, ma’m?’

“De gal ’low: ‘Dey ain’t no tellin’, Brer Rabbit, dat dey ain’t. I done
try all dat I year talk ’bout. I tuck ’n fling a ball er yarn outen de
window at midnight, en dey ain’t nobody come en wind it. I tuck a
lookin’-glass en look down in de well en I ain’t see nothin’ ’t all. I
tuck a hard-b’iled egg en scoop de yaller out, en fill it up wid salt en
eat it widout drinkin’ any water. Den I went ter bed, but I ain’t dream
’bout a blessed soul. I went out ’twix’ sunset and dark en fling
hempseed over my lef’ shoulder, but I ain’t see no beau yit.’

“Brer Rabbit, he ’low, he did: ‘Ef you’d a-tole me w’en you wuz a-gwine,
ma’am, I lay you’d ’a’ seed a beau.’

“De gal, she giggle, en say: ‘Oh, hush, Brer Rabbit! Ef you don’t g’ way
fum yer I gwine hit you! You too funny fer anything. W’at beau you speck
I’d ’a’ seed?’

“Brer Rabbit, he up en ’low, he did: ‘You’d ’a’ seed me, ma’am, dat’s
who you’d a seed.’

“De gal, she look at Brer Rabbit des like ’er feelin’s is bin hurted, en
say: ‘Ain’t you ’shame’ er yo’se’f ter be talkin’ dat away en makin’
fun? I’m a-gwine away fum dis spring, kaze’t ain’t no place fer me.’ Wid
dat de gal fotch ’er frock a flirt, en went up de paff like de
patter-roller wuz atter her.

“She went so quick en so fas’ dat she lef’ ’er pail, en Brer Rabbit, he
tuck ’n fill it full er water, en kyar it on up ter de house whar Miss
Meadows en de gals live at. Atter so long a time, he came on back ter de
spring, en he sot dar, he did, en study en study. He pull his mustaches
en scratch his head, en bimeby, atter he bin settin’ dar a mighty long
time, he jump up en crack his heels terge’er, en den he laugh fit ter
kill hisse’f.

“He ’low: ‘You want a sign, does you? Well, I’m a gwine ter gi’ you one,
ma’m, en ef dat don’t do you, I’ll gi’ you mo’ dan one.’

“De gal done gone, but Brer Rabbit, he hang ’roun’ dar, he did, en lay
his plans. He laid um so good dat wen dark come he had um all fixt. De
fus’ thing w’at he done, he went down ter de cane-brake en dar he cut
’im a long reed like dem w’at you see me bring Mars John fer
fishin’-pole.”

“How did he cut it?” the little boy asked.

“He gnyaw it, honey; he des natchully gnyaw it. Den w’en he do dat, he
tuck ’n make a hole in it fum eend to eend, right thoo de j’ints. W’en
dark come, Brer Rabbit tuck his cane en made his way ter de house whar
Miss Meadows en de gals stay at. He crope up, he did, en lissen, en he
year um talkin’ en laughin’ on de inside. Seem like dey wuz done eatin’
supper en settin’ ’roun’ de fireplace.

“Bimeby de gal say: ‘W’at you reckon? I seed Brer Rabbit down at de
spring.’

“T’er gal say: ‘W’at he doin’ down dar?’

“De gal say: ‘I speck he wuz gwine a-gallantin’; he mos’ sholy did look
mighty slick.’

“T’er gal say: ‘I’m mighty glad ter year dat, kase de las’ time I seed
’im hit look like his britches wuz needin’ patchin’.’

“Dis kinder talk make Brer Rabbit look kinder sollumcolly. But de gal,
she up en ’low: ‘Well, he ain’t look dat away ter-day, bless you! He
look like he des come outen a ban’box.’

“Miss Meadows, she hove a sigh, she did, en say: ‘Fine er no fine, I
wish ’im er some yuther man er ’oman would come en wash up dese yer
dishes, kaze my back is dat stiff twel I can’t skacely stan’ up
straight.’

“Den dey all giggle, but de gal say: ‘You all shan’t talk ’bout Brer
Rabbit behin’ his back. He done say he gwine ter be my beau.’

“Miss Meadows, she ’low: ‘Well, you better take ’im en make sump’n er
somebody outer ’im.’

“De gal laugh en say: ‘Oh, no! I done tole ’im dat ’fo’ I git married, I
got ter have some sign, so I ’ll know p’intedly w’en de time done come.’

“W’en Brer Rabbit yer dis, he got in a big hurry. He tuck one eend er de
reed en stuck it in de crack er de chimbley, en den he run ter de yuther
eend, w’ich it wuz layin’ out in de weeds en bushes. W’en he git dar, he
held it up ter his head en lissen, en he kin year um des ez plain ez ef
dey wuz right at ’im.

“Miss Meadows ax de gal w’at kinder sign she want, en de gal she say she
don’t keer w’at kinder one ’t is, des so hit’s a sign. ’Bout dat time
Brer Rabbit put his mouf ter de reed, en talk like he got a bad col’. He
sing out, he did:

           “‘_Some likes cake, en some likes pie,
           Some loves ter laugh, en some loves ter cry,
           But de gal dat stays single will die, will die!_’

“Miss Meadows ’low: ‘Who dat out dar?’ Den dey got a light en hunted all
’roun’ de place en und’ de house, but dey ain’t see nuthin’ ner nobody.
Dey went back en sot down, dey did, but ’t want long ’fo’ Brer Rabbit
sing out:

           “‘_De drouth ain’t wet en de rain ain’t dry,
           Whar you sow yo’ wheat you can’t cut rye,
           But de gal dat stays single will die, will die._’

“Miss Meadows, en de gals wuz dat ’stonished dat dey ain’t know w’at ter
do, en bimeby Brer Rabbit, he sing out ag’in:

               “‘_I wants de gal dat’s atter a sign,
               I wants de gal en she mus’ be mine—
               She’ll see ’er beau down by de big pine._’

“En sho’ nuff,” Uncle Remus continued, “de nex’ mornin’ w’en de gal went
down by de big pine, dar sot Brer Rabbit dez ez natchul ez life. De gal,
she make out, she did, dat she des come down dar atter a chaw er rozzum.
Dey jawered ’roun’ a right smart, en ’spute ’long wid one ’n’er. But
Brer Rabbit, he got de gal.”




------------------------------------------------------------------------




Transcriber’s note:

 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.

 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
      printed.

 3. Footnotes have been re-indexed using numbers.



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