Chapter III (3)

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.

“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:

“‘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.”

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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.