Uncle Remus
by
Joel Chandler Harris
Part 3 out of 4
say he make a trade wid 'im. At de een' er one year de sperit er
de blacksmif wuz to be his'n en endurin' er dat time de blacksmif
mus' put in his hottes' licks in de intruss er de Bad Man, en den
he put a spell on de cheer de blacksmif was settin' in, en on his
sludge-hammer. De man w'at sot in de cheer couldn't git up less'n
de blacksmif let 'im, en de man w'at pick up de sludge 'ud hatter
keep on knockin' wid it twel de blacksmif say quit; en den he gun
'im money plenty, en off he put.
"De blacksmif, he sail in fer ter have his fun, en he have so
much dat he done clean forgot 'bout his contrack, but bimeby, one
day he look down de road, en dar he see de Bad Man comin', en den
he know'd de year wuz out. W'en de Bad Man got in de do', de
blacksmif wuz poundin' 'way at a hoss-shoe, but he wa'n't so
bizzy dat he didn't ax 'im in. De Bad Man sorter do like he ain't
got no time fer ter tarry, but de blacksmif say he got some
little jobs dat he bleedzd ter finish up, en den he ax de Bad Man
fer ter set down a minnit; en de Bad Man, he tuck'n sot down, en
he sot in dat cheer w'at he done conju'd en, co'se, dar he wuz.
Den de blacksmif, he 'gun ter poke fun at de Bad Man, en he ax
him don't he want a dram, en won't he hitch his cheer up little
nigher de fier, en de Bad Man, he beg en he beg, but 'twan't
doin' no good, kase de blacksmif 'low dat he gwineter keep 'im
dar twel he prommus dat he let 'im off one year mo', en, sho
nuff, de Bad Man prommus dat ef de black-smif let 'im up he give
'im a n'er showin'. So den de blacksmif gun de wud, en de Bad Man
sa'nter off down de big road, settin' traps en layin' his
progance fer ter ketch mo' sinners.
"De nex' year hit pass same like t'er one. At de 'p'inted time
yer come de Ole Boy atter de blacksmif, but still de blacksmif
had some jobs dat he bleedzd ter finish up, en he ax de Bad Man
fer ter take holt er de sludge en he he'p 'im out; en de Bad Man,
he 'low dat r'er'n be disperlite, he don't keer ef he do hit 'er
a biff er two; en wid dat he grab up de sludge, en dar he wuz
'gin, kase he done conju'd de sludge so dat whosomedever tuck 'er
up can't put 'er down less'n de blacksmif say de wud. Dey
perlaver'd dar, dey did, twel bimeby de Bad Man he up'n let 'im
off n'er year.
"Well, den, dat year pass same ez t'er one. Mont' in en mont' out
dat man wuz rollin' in dram, en bimeby yer come de Bad Man. De
blacksmif cry en he holler, en he rip 'roun' en t'ar his ha'r,
but hit des like he didn't, kase de Bad Man grab 'im up en cram
'im in a bag en tote 'im off. W'iles dey wuz gwine 'long dey come
up wid a passel er fokes w'at wuz havin' wanner deze yer fote er
July bobbycues, en de Ole Boy, he 'low dat maybe he kin git some
mo' game, en w'at do he do but jine in wid um. He lines in en he
talk politics same like t'er fokes, twel bimeby dinnertime come
'roun', en dey ax 'im up, w'ich 'greed wid his stummuck, en he
pozzit his bag underneed de table 'longside de udder bags w'at de
hongry fokes'd brung.
"No sooner did de blacksmif git back on de groun' dan he 'gun ter
wuk his way outer de bag. He crope out, he did, en den he tuck'n
change de bag. He tuck'n tuck a n'er bag en lay it down whar dish
yer bag wuz, en den he crope outer de crowd en lay low in de
underbresh.
"Las', w'en de time come fer ter go, de Ole Boy up wid his bag en
slung her on his shoulder, en off he put fer de Bad Place. W'en
he got dar he tuck'n drap de bag off'n his back en call up de
imps, en dey des come a squallin' en a caperin', w'ich I speck
dey mus' a bin hongry. Leas'ways dey des swawm'd 'roun',
hollerin' out:
"'Daddy, w'at you brung--daddy, w'at you brung?'
"So den dey open de bag, en lo en behol's, out jump a big bull-
dog, en de way he shuck dem little imps wuz a caution, en he kep'
on gnyawin' un um twel de Ole Boy open de gate en t'un 'im out."
"And what became of the blacksmith?" the little boy asked, as
Uncle Remus paused to snuff the candle with his fingers.
"I'm drivin' on 'roun', honey. Atter 'long time, de blacksmif he
tuck'n die, en w'en he go ter de Good Place de man at de gate
dunner who he is, en he can't squeeze in. Den he go down ter de
Bad Place, en knock. De Ole Boy, he look out, he did, en he
know'd de blacksmif de minnit he laid eyes on 'im; but he shake
his head en say, sezee:
"'You'll hatter skuze me, Brer Blacksmif, kase I dun had
'speunce 'longer you. You'll hatter go some'rs else ef you wanter
raise enny racket,' sezee, en wid dat he shet do do'.
"En dey do say," continued Uncle Remus, with unction, "dat
sense dat day de blacksmif bin sorter huv'rin' 'roun' 'twix' de
heavens en de ye'th, en dark nights he shine out so fokes call
'im Jacky-my-lantern. Dat's w'at dey tells me. Hit may be wrong
er't maybe right, but dat's w'at I years."
*1 This story is popular on the coast and among the rice-
plantations, and, since the publication of some of the
animal-myths in the newspapers, I have received a version
of it from a planter in southwest Georgia; but it seems to
me to be an intruder among the genuine myth-stories of the
negroes. It is a trifle too elaborate. Nevertheless, it is
told upon the plantations with great gusto, and there are
several versions in circulation.
XXXIII. WHY THE NEGRO IS BLACK
ONE night, while the little boy was watching Uncle Remus
twisting and waxing some shoe-thread, he made what appeared to
him to be a very curious discovery. He discovered that the palms
of the old man's hands were as white as his own, and the fact was
such a source of wonder that he at last made it the subject of
remark. The response of Uncle Remus led to the earnest recital of
a piece of unwritten history that must prove interesting to
ethnologists.
"Tooby sho de pa'm er my han's w'ite, honey," he quietly
remarked, "en, w'en it come ter dat, dey wuz a time w'en all de
w'ite folks 'uz black--blacker dan me, kaze I done bin yer so
long dat I bin sorter bleach out."
The little boy laughed. He thought Uncle Remus was making him
the victim of one of his jokes; but the youngster was never more
mistaken. The old man was serious. Nevertheless, he failed to
rebuke the ill-timed mirth of the child, appearing to be
altogether engrossed in his work. After a while, he resumed:
"Yasser. Fokes dunner w'at bin yit, let 'lone w'at gwinter be.
Niggers is niggers now, but de time wuz w'en we 'uz all niggers
tergedder."
"When was that, Uncle Remus?"
"Way back yander. In dem times we 'uz all un us black; we 'uz all
niggers tergedder, en 'cordin' ter all de 'counts w'at I years
fokes 'uz gittin' 'long 'bout ez well in dem days ez dey is now.
But atter 'w'ile de news come dat dere wuz a pon' er water
some'rs in de naberhood, w'ich ef dey'd git inter dey'd be wash
off nice en w'ite, en den one un um, he fine de place en make er
splunge inter de pon', en come out w'ite ez a town gal. En den,
bless grashus! w'en de fokes seed it, dey make a break fer de
pon', en dem w'at wuz de soopless, dey got in fus' en dey come
out w'ite; en dem w'at wuz de nex' soopless, dey got in nex', en
dey come out merlatters; en dey wuz sech a crowd un um dat dey
mighty nigh use de water up, w'ich w'en dem yuthers come long, de
morest dey could do wuz ter paddle about wid der foots en dabble
in it wid der han's. Dem wuz de niggers, en down ter dis day dey
ain't no w'ite 'bout a nigger 'ceppin de pa'ms er der han's en de
soles er der foot."
The little boy seemed to be very much interested in this new
account of the origin of races, and he made some further
inquiries, which elicited from Uncle Remus the following
additional particulars:
"De Injun en de Chinee got ter be 'counted 'long er de merlatter.
I ain't seed no Chinee dat I knows un, but dey tells me dey er
sorter 'twix' a brown en a brindle. Dey er all merlatters."
"But mamma says the Chinese have straight hair," the little boy
suggested.
"Co'se, honey," the old man unhesitatingly responded, "dem
w'at git ter de pon' time nuff fer ter git der head in de water,
de water hit onkink der ha'r. Hit bleedzd ter be dat away."
XXXIV. THE SAD FATE OF MR. FOX
"Now, den," said Uncle Remus, with unusual gravity, as soon as
the little boy, by taking his seat, announced that he was ready
for the evening's entertainment to begin; "now, den, dish yer
tale w'at I'm agwine ter gin you is de las' row er stumps, sho.
Dish yer's whar ole Brer Fox los' his breff, en he ain't fine it
no mo' down ter dis day."
"Did he kill himself, Uncle Remus?" the little boy asked, with a
curious air of concern.
"Hol' on dar, honey!" the old man exclaimed, with a great
affectation of alarm; "hol' on dar! Wait! Gimme room! I don't
wanter tell you no story, en ef you keep shovin' me forrerd, I
mout git some er de facks mix up 'mong deyse'f. You gotter gimme
room en you gotter gimme time."
The little boy had no other premature questions to ask, and,
after a pause, Uncle Remus resumed:
"Well, den, one day Brer Rabbit go ter Brer Fox house, he did, en
he put up mighty po' mouf. He say his ole 'oman sick, en his
chilluns col', en de fier done gone out. Brer Fox, he feel bad
'bout dis, en he tuck'n s'ply Brer Rabbit widder chunk er fier.
Brer Rabbit see Brer Fox cookin' some nice beef, en his mouf gun
ter water, but he take de fier, he did, en he put out to'rds
home; but present'y yer he come back, en he say de fier done gone
out. Brer Fox 'low dat he want er invite to dinner, but he don't
say nuthin', en bimeby Brer Rabbit he up'n say, sezee:
"'Brer Fox, whar you git so much nice beef?' sezee, en den Brer
Fox he up'n 'spon', sezee:
"'You come ter my house termorrer ef yo' fokes ain't too sick, en
I kin show you whar you kin git plenty beef mo' nicer dan dish
yer,' sezee.
"Well, sho nuff, de nex' day fotch Brer Rabbit, en Brer Fox say,
sezee:
"'Der's a man down yander by Miss Meadows's w'at got heap er fine
cattle, en he gotter cow name Bookay,' sezee, 'en you des go en
say Bookay, en she'll open her mouf, en you kin jump in en git
des as much meat ez you kin tote,' sez Brer Fox, sezee.
"'Well, I'll go 'long,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'en you kin jump
fus' en den I'll come follerin' atter,' sezee.
"Wid dat dey put out, en dey went promernadin' 'roun' 'mong de
cattle, dey did, twel bimeby dey struck up wid de one dey wuz
atter. Brer Fox, he up, he did, en holler Bookay, en de cow flung
'er mouf wide open. Sho nuff, in dey jump, en w'en dey got dar,
Brer Fox, he say, sezee:
"'You kin cut mos' ennywheres, Brer Rabbit, but don't cut 'roun'
de haslett,' sezee.
"'Den Brer Rabbit, he holler back, he did: I'm a gitten me out a
roas'n-piece,' sezee.
"'Roas'n, er bakin', er fryin',' sez Brer Fox, sezee, 'don't git
too nigh de haslett,' sezee.
"Dey cut en dey kyarved, en dey kyarved en dey cut, en w'iles dey
wuz cuttin' en kyarvin', en slashin' 'way, Brer Rabbit, he tuck'n
hacked inter de haslett, en wid dat down fell de cow dead.
"'Now, den,' sez Brer Fox, 'we er gone, sho,' sezee.
"'W'at we gwine do?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
"'I'll git in de maul,' sez Brer Fox, 'en you'll jump in de
gall,' sezee.
"Nex' mawnin' yer cum de man w'at de cow b'long ter, and he ax
who kill Bookay. Nobody don't say nuthin'. Den de man say he'll
cut 'er open en see, en den he whirl in, en twan't no time 'fo'
he had 'er intruls spread out. Brer Rabbit, he crope out'n de
gall, en say, sezee:
"'Mister Man! Oh, Mister Man! I'll tell you who kill yo' cow. You
look in de maul, en dar you'll fine 'im,' sezee.
"Wid dat de man tuck a stick and lam down on de maul so hard dat
he kill Brer Fox stone-dead. W'en Brer Rabbit see Brer Fox wuz
laid out fer good, he make like he mighty sorry, en he up'n ax de
man fer Brer Fox head. Man say he ain't keerin', en den Brer
Rabbit tuck'n brung it ter Brer Fox house. Dar he see ole Miss
Fox, en he tell 'er dat he done fotch her some nice beef w'at 'er
ole man sont 'er, but she ain't gotter look at it twel she go ter
eat it.
"Brer Fox son wuz name Tobe, en Brer Rabbit tell Tobe fer ter
keep still w'iles his mammy cook de nice beef w'at his daddy sont
'im. Tobe he wuz mighty hongry, en he look in de pot he did
w'iles de cookin' wuz gwine on, en dar he see his daddy head, en
wid dat he sot up a howl en tole his mammy. Miss Fox, she git
mighty mad w'en she fine she cookin' her ole man head, en she
call up de dogs, she did, en sickt em on Brer Rabbit; en ole Miss
Fox en Tobe en de dogs, dey push Brer Rabbit so close dat he
hatter take a holler tree. Miss Fox, she tell Tobe fer ter stay
dar en mine Brer Rabbit, w'ile she goes en git de ax, en w'en she
gone, Brer Rabbit, he tole Tobe ef he go ter de branch en git 'im
a drink er water dat he'll gin 'im a dollar. Tobe, he put out, he
did, en bring some water in his hat, but by de time he got back
Brer Rabbit done out en gone. Ole Miss Fox, she cut and cut twel
down come de tree, but no Brer Rabbit dar. Den she lay de blame
on Tobe, en she say she gwineter lash 'im, en Tobe, he put out en
run, de ole 'oman atter 'im. Bimeby, he come up wid Brer Rabbit,
en sot down fer to tell 'im how 'twuz, en w'iles dey wuz a
settin' dar, yer come ole Miss Fox a slippin' up en grab um bofe.
Den she tell um w'at she gwine do. Brer Rabbit she gwineter kill,
en Tobe she gwineter lam ef its de las' ack. Den Brer Rabbit sez,
sezee:
"'Ef you please, ma'am, Miss Fox, lay me on de grinestone en
groun off my nose so I can't smell no mo' w'en I'm dead.'
"Miss Fox, she tuck dis ter be a good idee, en she fotch bofe un
um ter de grinestone, en set um up on it so dat she could
groun' off Brer Rabbit nose. Den Brer Rabbit, he up'n say, sezee:
"'Ef you please, ma'am, Miss Fox, Tobe he kin turn de handle
w'iles you goes atter some water fer ter wet de grinestone,'
sezee.
"Co'se, soon'z Brer Rabbit see Miss Fox go atter de water, he
jump down en put out, en dis time he git clean away."
"And was that the last of the Rabbit, too, Uncle Remus?" the
little boy asked, with something like a sigh.
"Don't push me too close, honey," responded the old man; "don't
shove me up in no cornder. I don't wanter tell you no stories.
Some say dat Brer Rabbit's ole 'oman died fum eatin' some pizen-
weed, en dat Brer Rabbit married ole Miss Fox, en some say not.
Some tells one tale en some tells nudder; some say dat fum dat
time forrerd de Rabbits en de Foxes make fren's en stay so; some
say dey kep on quollin'. Hit look like it mixt. Let dem tell you
w'at knows. Dat w'at I years you gits it straight like I yeard
it."
There was a long pause, which was finally broken by the old man:
"Hit's 'gin de rules fer you ter be noddin' yer, honey. Bimeby
you'll drap off en I'll hatter tote you up ter de big 'ouse. I
hear dat baby cryin', en bimeby Miss Sally'll fly up en be a
holler'n atter you"
"Oh, I wasn't asleep," the little boy replied. "I was just
thinking."
"Well, dat's diffunt," said the old man. "Ef you'll clime up on
my back," he continued, speaking softly, "I speck I ain't too ole
fer ter be yo' hoss fum yer ter de house. Many en many's de time
dat I toted yo' Unk Jeems dat away, en Mars Jeems wuz heavier sot
dan w'at you is."
PLANTATION PROVERBS
BIG 'possum clime little tree.
Dem w'at eats kin say grace.
Ole man Know-All died las' year.
Better de gravy dan no grease 'tall.
Dram ain't good twel you git it.
Lazy fokes' stummucks don't git tired.
Rheumatiz don't he'p at de log-rollin'.
Mole don't see w'at his naber doin'.
Save de pacin' mar' fer Sunday.
Don't rain eve'y time de pig squeal.
Crow en corn can't grow in de same fiel'.
Tattlin' 'oman can't make de bread rise.
Rails split 'fo' bre'kfus'll season de dinner.
Dem w'at knows too much sleeps under de ash-hopper.
Ef you wanter see yo' own sins, clean up a new groun'.
Hog dunner w'ich part un 'im'll season de turnip salad.
Hit's a blessin' de w'ite sow don't shake de plum-tree.
Winter grape sour, whedder you kin reach 'im or not.
Mighty po' bee dat don't make mo' honey dan he want.
Kwishins on mule's foots done gone out er fashun.
Pigs dunno w'at a pen's fer.
Possum's tail good as a paw.
Dogs don't bite at de front gate.
Colt in de barley-patch kick high.
Jay-bird don't rob his own nes'.
Pullet can't roost too high for de owl.
Meat fried 'fo' day won't las' twel night.
Stump water won't kyo' de gripes.
De howlin' dog know w'at he sees.
Blin' hoss don't fall w'en he follers de bit.
Hongry nigger won't w'ar his maul out.
Don't fling away de empty wallet.
Black-snake know de way ter de hin nes'.
Looks won't do ter split rails wid.
Settin' hens don't hanker arter fresh aigs.
Tater-vine growin' w'ile you sleep.
Hit take two birds fer to make a nes'.
Ef you bleedzd ter eat dirt, eat clean dirt.
Tarrypin walk fast 'nuff fer to go visitin'.
Empty smoke-house makes de pullet holler.
W'en coon take water he fixin' fer ter fight.
Corn makes mo' at de mill dan it does in de crib.
Good luck say: "Op'n yo' mouf en shet yo' eyes."
Nigger dat gets hurt wukkin oughter show de skyars.
Fiddlin' nigger say hit's long ways ter de dance.
Rooster makes mo' racket dan de hin w'at lay de aig.
Meller mush-million hollers at you fum over de fence.
Nigger wid a pocket-hankcher better be looked atter.
Rain-crow don't sing no chune, but you k'n 'pen' on 'im.
One-eyed mule can't be handled on de bline side.
Moon may shine, but a lightered knot's mighty handy.
Licker talks mighty loud w'en it git loose fum de jug.
De proudness un a man don't count w'en his head's cold.
Hongry rooster don't cackle w'en he fine a wum.
Some niggers mighty smart, but dey can't drive de pidgins ter
roos'.
You may know de way, but better keep yo' eyes on de seven stairs.
All de buzzards in de settlement 'll come to de gray mule's
funer'l.
You k'n hide de fier, but w'at you gwine do wid de smoke?
Termorrow may be de carridge-driver's day for ploughin'.
Hit's a mighty deaf nigger dat don't year de dinner-ho'n.
Hit takes a bee fer ter git de sweetness out'n de hoar-houn'
blossom.
Ha'nts don't bodder longer hones' folks, but you better go 'roun'
de grave-yard.
De pig dat runs off wid de year er corn gits little mo' dan
de cob.
Sleepin' in de fence-cornder don't fetch Chrismus in de kitchen.
De spring-house may freeze, but de niggers 'll keep de shuck-pen
warm.
'Twix' de bug en de bee-martin 'tain't hard ter tell w'ich
gwineter git kotch.
Don't 'sput wid de squinch-owl. Jam de shovel in de fier.
You'd see mo' er de mink ef he know'd whar de yard dog sleeps.
Troubles is seasonin'.
'Simmons ain't good twel dey 'er fros'-bit.
Watch out w'en you'er gittin all you want. Fattenin' hogs ain't
in luck.
HIS SONGS
I. REVIVAL HYMN
OH, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes,
Wid de blowin' er de trumpits en de bangin' er de drums?
How many po' sinners'll be kotched out late
En fin' no latch ter de golden gate?
No use fer ter wait twel termorrer!
De sun mus'n't set on yo' sorrer,
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier-
Oh, Lord! fetch de mo'ners up higher!
W'en de nashuns er de earf is a stan'in all aroun,
Who's a gwineter be choosen fer ter w'ar de glory-crown?
Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed en bol'.
En answer to der name at de callin' er de roll?
You better come now ef you comin'--
Ole Satun is loose en a bummin'--
De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin'--
Oh, come long, sinner, ef you comin'!
De song er salvashun is a mighty sweet song,
En de Pairidise win' blow fur en blow strong,
En Aberham's bosom, hit's saft en hit's wide,
En right dar's de place whar de sinners oughter hide!
Oh, you nee'nter be a stoppin' en a lookin';
Ef you fool wid ole Satun you'll git took in;
You'll hang on de aidge en get shook in,
Ef you keep on a stoppin' en a lookin'.
De time is right now, en dish yer's de place--
Let de sun er salvashun shine squar' in yo' face;
Fight de battles er de Lord, fight soon en fight late,
En you'll allers fine a latch ter de golden gate.
No use fer ter wait twel termorrer,
De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer--
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier,
Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher!
II. CAMP-MEETING SONG *
OH, de worril is roun' en de worril is wide--
Lord! 'member deze chillun in de mornin'--
Hit's a mighty long ways up de mountain side,
En dey ain't no place fer dem sinners fer ter hide,
En dey ain't no place whar sin kin abide,
W'en de Lord shill come in de mornin'!
Look up en look aroun',
Fling yo' burden on de groun',
Hit's a gittin' mighty close on ter mornin'!
Smoove away sin's frown--
Retch up en git de crown,
W'at de Lord will fetch in de mornin'!
De han' er ridem'shun, hit's hilt out ter you--
Lord! 'member dem sinners in de mornin'!
Hit's a mighty pashent han', but de days is but few,
W'en Satun, he'll come a demandin' un his due,
En de stiff-neck sinners 'll be smotin' all fru-
Oh, you better git ready for de mornin'!
Look up en set yo' face
To'ds de green hills of grace
'Fo' de sun rises up in de mornin'--
Oh, you better change yo' base,
Hits yo' soul's las' race
For de glory dat's a comin' in de mornin'!
De farmer gits ready w'en de lan's all plowed
For ter sow dem seeds in de mornin'
De sperrit may be puny en de flesh may be proud,
But you better cut loose fum de scoffin' crowd,
En jine dose Christuns w'at's a cryin' out loud
Fer de Lord fer ter come in de mornin'!
Shout loud en shout long,
Let de eckoes ans'er strong,
W'en de sun rises up in de mornin'!
Oh, you allers will be wrong
Twel you choose ter belong
Ter de Marster w'at's a comin' in de mornin'!
*In the days of slavery, the religious services held by the
negroes who accompanied their owners to the camp-meetings
were marvels of earnestness and devotion.
III. CORN-SHUCKING SONG
OH, de fus' news you know de day'll be a breakin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango! *1)
An' de fier be a burnin' en' de ash-cake a bakin',
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
An' de ho'n 'll be a hollerin' en de boss 'll be a wakin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Better git up, nigger, en give yo'se'f a shakin'--
(Hi O, Miss Sindy Ann!)
Oh, honey! w'en you see dem ripe stars a fallin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Oh, honey! w'en you year de rain-crow a callin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Oh, honey! w'en you year dat red calf a bawlin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Den de day time's a creepin' en a crawlin'--
(Hi O, Miss Sindy Ann!)
For de los' ell en yard *2 is a huntin' for de mornin',
(Hi O! git long! go 'way!)
En she'll ketch up wid dus 'fo' we ever git dis corn in--
(Oh, go 'way, Sindy Ann!)
Oh, honey! w'en you year dat tin horn a tootin'
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Oh, honey, w'en you year de squinch owl a hootin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Oh, honey! w'en you year dem little pigs a rootin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Right den she's a comin' a skippin' en a scootin'--
(Hi O, Miss Sindy Ann!)
Oh, honey, w'en you year dat roan mule whicker--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
W'en you see Mister Moon turnin' pale en gittin' sicker--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Den hit's time for ter handle dat corn a little quicker--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Ef you wanter git a smell er old Marster's jug er licker--
(Hi O, Miss Sindy Ann!)
For de los' ell en yard is a huntin' for de mornin'
(Hi O! git long! go 'way!)
En she'll ketch up wid dus 'fo' we ever git dis corn in--
(Oh, go 'way, Sindy Ann!)
You niggers 'cross dar! you better stop your dancin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
No use for ter come a flingin' un yo' "sha'n'ts" in--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
No use for ter come a flingin' un yo' "can't's" in--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Kaze dey ain't no time for yo' pattin' nor yo' prancin'!
(Hi O, Miss Sindy Ann!)
Mr. Rabbit see de Fox, en he sass um en jaws um--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Mr. Fox ketch de Rabbit, en he scratch um en he claws um--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
En he tar off de hide, en he chaws um en he gnyaws um--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Same like gal chawin' sweet gum en rozzum--
(Hi O, Miss Sindy Ann!)
For de los' ell en yard is a huntin' for de mornin'
(Hi O! git 'long! go 'way!)
En she'll ketch up wid dus 'fo' we ever git dis corn in--
(Oh, go 'way, Sindy Ann!)
Oh, work on, boys! give doze shucks a mighty wringin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
'Fo' de boss come aroun' a dangin' en a dingin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Git up en move aroun'! set dem big han's ter swingin'--
(Hey O! Hi O! Up'n down de Bango!)
Git up'n shout loud! let de w'ite folks year you singin'!
(Hi O, Miss Sindy Ann!)
For de los' ell en yard is a huntin' for de mornin'
(Hi O! git long! go 'way!)
En she'll ketch up wid dus 'fo' we ever git dis corn in.
(Oh, go 'way Sindy Ann!)
*1 So far as I know, "Bango" is a meaningless term, introduced
on account of its sonorous ruggedness.
*2 The sword and belt in the constellation of Orion.
IV. THE PLOUGH-HANDS' SONG
(JASPER COUNTY--1860.)
NIGGER mighty happy w'en he layin' by co'n--
Dat sun's a slantin';
Nigger mighty happy w'en he year de dinner-ho'n--
Dat sun's a slantin';
En he mo' happy still w'en de night draws on--
Dat sun's a slantin';
Dat sun's a slantin' des ez sho's you bo'n!
En it's rise up, Primus! fetch anudder yell:
Dat ole dun cow's des a shakin' up 'er bell,
En de frogs chunin' up 'fo' de jew done fell:
Good-night, Mr. Killdee! I wish you mighty well!
--Mr. Killdee! I wish you mighty well!
--I wish you mighty well!
Do co'n 'll be ready 'g'inst dumplin' day--
Dat sun's a slantin';
But nigger gotter watch, en stick, en stay--
Dat sun's a slantin';
Same ez de bee-martin watchin' un de jay--
Dat sun's a slantin';
Dat sun's a slantin' en a slippin' away!
Den it's rise up, Primus! en gin it turn strong;
De cow's gwine home wid der ding-dang-dong--
Sling in anudder tetch er de ole-time song:
Good-night, Mr. Whipperwill! don't stay long!
--Mr. Whipperwill! don't stay long!
--Don't stay long!
V. CHRISTMAS PLAY-SONG
(MYRICK PLACE, PUTNAM COUNTY 1858.)
Hi my rinktum! Black gal sweet,
Same like goodies w'at de w'ite folks eat;
Ho my Riley! don't you take'n tell 'er name,
En den ef sumpin' happen you won't ketch de blame;
Hi my rinktum! better take'n hide yo' plum;
Joree don't holler eve'y time he fine a wum.
Den it's hi my rinktum!
Don't git no udder man;
En it's ho my Riley!
Fetch out Miss Dilsey Ann!
Ho my Riley! Yaller gal fine;
She may be yone but she oughter be mine!
Hi my rinktum! Lemme git by,
En see w'at she mean by de cut er dat eye!
Ho my Riley! better shet dat do'--
De w'ite folks 'll bleeve we er t'arin up de flo'.
Den it's ho my Riley!
Come a siftin' up ter me!
En it's hi my rinktum!
Dis de way ter twis' yo' knee!
Hi my rinktum! Ain't de eas' gittin' red?
De squinch owl shiver like he wanter go ter bed;
Ho my Riley! but de gals en de boys,
Des now gittin' so dey kin sorter make a noise.
Hi my rinktum! let de yaller gal lone;
Niggers don't hanker arter sody in de pone.
Den it's hi my rinktum!
Better try anudder plan;
An' it's ho my Riley!
Trot out Miss Dilsey Ann!
Ho my Riley! In de happy Chris'mus time
De niggers shake der cloze a huntin' for a dime.
Hi my rinktum! En den dey shake der feet,
En greaze derse'f wid de good ham meat.
Ho my Riley! dey eat en dey cram,
En bimeby ole Miss 'll be a sendin' out de dram.
Den it's ho my Riley!
You hear dat, Sam!
En it's hi my rinktum!
Be a sendin' out de dram!
VI. PLANTATION PLAY-SONG
(PUTNAM COUNTY--1856.)
HIT'S a gittin' mighty late, w'en de Guinny-hins squall,
En you better dance now, ef you gwineter dance a tall,
Fer by dis time termorrer night you can't hardly crawl,
Kaze you'll hatter take de hoe ag'in en likewise de maul--
Don't you hear dat bay colt a kickin' in his stall?
Stop yo' humpin' up yo' sho'lders do!
Dat'll never do! Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!
Hit takes a heap er scrougin'
For ter git you thoo--
Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!
Ef you niggers don't watch, you'll sing anudder chune,
Fer de sun'll rise'n ketch you ef you don't be mighty soon;
En de stars is gittin' paler, en de ole gray coon
Is a settin' in de grape-vine a watchin' fer de moon.
W'en a feller comes a knockin'
Des holler--Oh, shoo!
Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!
Oh, swing dat yaller gal!
Do, boys, do!
Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!
Oh, tu'n me loose! Lemme 'lone! Go way, now!
W'at you speck I come a dancin' fer ef I dunno how?
Deze de ve'y kinder footses w'at kicks up a row;
Can't you jump inter de middle en make yo' gal a bow?
Look at dat merlatter man
A follerin' up Sue;
Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!
De boys ain't a gwine
W'en you cry boo hoo--
Hop light, ladies,
Oh, Miss Loo!
VII. TRANSCRIPTIONS *1
1. A PLANTATION CHANT
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-fo',
Christ done open dat He'v'mly do'--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-five,
Christ done made dat dead man alive--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
You ax me ter run home,
Little childun--
Run home, dat sun done roll--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-six,
Christ is got us a place done fix--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-sev'm
Christ done sot a table in Hev'm
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
You ax me ter run home,
Little childun--
Run home, dat sun done roll--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-eight,
Christ done make dat crooked way straight--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-nine,
Christ done tu'n dat water inter wine--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
You ax me ter run home,
Little childun--
Run home, dat sun done roll--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-ten,
Christ is de mo'ner's onliest fr'en'--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer;
Hit's eighteen hunder'd forty-en-lev'm,
Christ 'll be at de do' w'en we all git ter Hev'm--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
You ax me ter run home,
Little childun--
Run home, dat sun done roll--
An' I don't wanter stay yer no longer.
*1 If these are adaptations from songs the negroes have caught
from the whites, their origin is very remote. I have
transcribed them literally, and I regard them as in the
highest degree characteristic.
2.A PLANTATION SERENADE
DE ole bee make de honey-comb,
De young bee make de honey,
De niggers make de cotton en co'n,
En de w'ite folks gits de money.
De raccoon he's a cu'us man,
He never walk twel dark,
En nuthin' never 'sturbs his mine,
Twel he hear ole Bringer bark.
De raccoon totes a bushy tail,
De 'possum totes no ha'r,
Mr. Rabbit, he come skippin' by,
He ain't got none ter spar'.
Monday mornin' break er day,
W'ite folks got me gwine,
But Sat'dy night, w'en de sun goes down,
Dat yaller gal's in my mine.
Fifteen poun' er meat a week,
W'isky for ter sell,
Oh, how can a young man stay at home,
Dem gals dey look so well?
Met a 'possum in de road--
Bre' 'Possum, whar you gwine?
I thank my stars, I bless my life,
I'm a huntin' for de muscadine.
VIII. THE BIG BETHEL CHURCH
DE Big Bethel chu'ch! de Big Bethel chu'ch!
Done put ole Satun behine um;
Ef a sinner git loose fum enny udder chu'ch,
De Big Bethel chu'ch will fine um!
Hit's good ter be dere, en it's sweet ter be dere,
Wid de sisterin' all aroun' you--
A shakin' dem shackles er mussy en' love
Wharwid de Lord is boun' you.
Hit's sweet ter be dere en lissen ter de hymns,
En hear dem mo'ners a shoutin'--
Dey done reach de place whar der ain't no room
Fer enny mo' weepin' en doubtin'.
Hit's good ter be dere w'en de sinners all jine
Wid de brudderin in dere singin',
En it look like Gaberl gwine ter rack up en blow
En set dem heav'm bells ter ringin'!
Oh, de Big Bethel chu'ch! de Big Bethel chu'ch,
Done put ole Satun behine am;
Ef a sinner git loose fum enny udder chu'ch
De Big Bethel chu'ch will fine um!
IX. TIME GOES BY TURNS
DAR'S a pow'ful rassle 'twix de Good en de Bad,
En de Bad's got de all--under holt;
En w'en de wuss come, she come i'on-clad,
En you hatter hol' yo' bref for de jolt.
But des todes de las' Good gits de knee-lock,
En dey draps ter de groun'--ker flop!
Good had de inturn, en he stan' like a rock,
En he bleedzd for ter be on top.
De dry wedder breaks wid a big thunder-clap,
For dey ain't no drout' w'at kin las',
But de seasons w'at whoops up de cotton crap,
Likewise dey freshens up de grass.
De rain fall so saf' in de long dark night,
Twel you hatter hol' yo' han' for a sign,
But de drizzle w'at sets de tater-slips right
Is de makin' er de May-pop vine.
In de mellerest groun' de clay root 'll ketch
En hol' ter de tongue er de plow,
En a pine-pole gate at de gyardin-patch
Never 'll keep out de ole brindle cow.
One en all on us knows who's a pullin' at de bits
Like de lead-mule dat g'ides by de rein,
En yit, somehow or nudder, de bestest un us gits
Mighty sick er de tuggin' at de chain.
Hump yo'se'f ter de load en fergit de distress,
En dem w'at stan's by ter scoff,
For de harder de pullin', de longer de res',
En de bigger de feed in de troff.
A STORY OF THE WAR
WHEN Miss Theodosia Huntingdon, of Burlington, Vermont, concluded
to come South in 1870, she was moved by three considerations. In
the first place, her brother, John Huntingdon, had become a
citizen of Georgia--having astonished his acquaintances by
marrying a young lady, the male members of whose family had
achieved considerable distinction in the Confederate army; in the
second place, she was anxious to explore a region which she
almost unconsciously pictured to herself as remote and semi-
barbarous; and, in the third place, her friends had persuaded her
that to some extent she was an invalid. It was in vain that she
argued with herself as to the propriety of undertaking the
journey alone and unprotected, and she finally put an end to
inward and outward doubts by informing herself and her friends,
including John Huntingdon, her brother, who was practicing law in
Atlanta, that she had decided to visit the South.
When, therefore, on the 12th of October, 1870--the date is duly
recorded in one of Miss Theodosia's letters--she alighted from
the cars in Atlanta, in the midst of a great crowd, she fully
expected to find her brother waiting to receive her. The bells of
several locomotives were ringing, a number of trains were moving
in and out, and the porters and baggage-men were screaming and
bawling to such an extent that for several moments Miss
Huntingdon was considerably confused; so much so that she paused
in the hope that her brother would suddenly appear and rescue her
from the smoke, and dust, and din. At that moment some one
touched her on the arm, and she heard a strong, half-confident,
half-apologetic voice exclaim:
"Ain't dish yer Miss Doshy?"
Turning, Miss Theodosia saw at her side a tall, gray-haired
negro. Elaborating the incident afterward to her friends, she was
pleased to say that the appearance of the old man was somewhat
picturesque. He stood towering above her, his hat in one hand, a
carriage-whip in the other, and an expectant smile lighting up
his rugged face. She remembered a name her brother had often used
in his letters, and, with a woman's tact, she held out her hand,
and said:
"Is this Uncle Remus?"
"Law, Miss Doshy! how you know de ole nigger? I know'd you by
de faver; but how you know me?" And then, without waiting for a
reply: "Miss Sally, she sick in bed, en Mars John, he bleedzd ter
go in de country, en dey tuck'n sont me. I know'd you de minnit I
laid eyes on you. Time I seed you, I say ter myse'f, 'I lay dar's
Miss Doshy,' en, sho nuff, dar you wuz. You ain't gun up yo'
checks, is you? Kaze I'll git de trunk sont up by de 'spress
waggin."
The next moment Uncle Remus was elbowing his way unceremoniously
through the crowd, and in a very short time, seated in the
carriage driven by the old man, Miss Huntingdon was whirling
through the streets of Atlanta in the direction of her brother's
home. She took advantage of the opportunity to study the old
negro's face closely, her natural curiosity considerably
sharpened by a knowledge of the fact that Uncle Remus had played
an important part in her brother's history. The result of her
observation must have been satisfactory, for presently she
laughed, and said:
"Uncle Remus, you haven't told me how you knew me in that great
crowd."
The old man chuckled, and gave the horses a gentle rap with the
whip.
"Who? Me! I know'd you by de faver. Dat boy er Mars John's is de
ve'y spit en immij un you. I'd a know'd you in New 'Leens, let
lone down dar in de kyar-shed."
This was Miss Theodosia's introduction to Uncle Remus. One Sunday
afternoon, a few weeks after her arrival, the family were assembled
in the piazza enjoying the mild weather. Mr. Huntingdon was reading
a newspaper; his wife was crooning softly as she rocked the baby to
sleep; and the little boy was endeavoring to show his Aunt Dosia
the outlines of Kennesaw Mountain through the purple haze that
hung like a wonderfully fashioned curtain in the sky and almost
obliterated the horizon. While they were thus engaged, Uncle Remus
came around the corner of the house, talking to himself.
"Dey er too lazy ter wuk," he was saying, "en dey specks hones'
fokes fer ter stan' up en s'port um. I'm gwine down ter Putmon
County whar Mars Jeems is--dat's w'at I'm agwine ter do."
"What's the matter now, Uncle Remus?" inquired Mr. Huntingdon,
folding up his newspaper.
"Nuthin' 'tall, Mars John, 'ceppin deze yer sunshine niggers. Dey
begs my terbacker, en borrys my tools, en steals my vittles, en
hit's done come ter dat pass dat I gotter pack up en go. I'm
agwine down ter Putmon, dat's w'at."
Uncle Remus was accustomed to make this threat several times a
day, but upon this occasion it seemed to remind Mr. Huntingdon of
something.
"Very well," he said, "I'll come around and help you pack up, but
before you go I want you to tell Sister here how you went to war
and fought for the Union.--Remus was a famous warrior," he
continued, turning to Miss Theodosia; "he volunteered for one
day, and commanded an army of one. You know the story, but you
have never heard Remus's version."
Uncle Remus shuffled around in an awkward, embarrassed way,
scratched his head, and looked uncomfortable.
"Miss Doshy ain't got no time fer ter set dar an' year de ole
nigger run on."
"Oh, yes, I have, Uncle Remus!" exclaimed the young lady; "plenty
of time."
The upshot of it was that, after many ridiculous protests, Uncle
Remus sat down on the steps, and proceeded to tell his story of
the war. Miss Theodosia listened with great interest, but
throughout it all she observed--and she was painfully conscious
of the fact, as she afterward admitted--that Uncle Remus spoke
from the standpoint of a Southerner, and with the air of one who
expected his hearers to thoroughly sympathize with him.
"Co'se," said Uncle Remus, addressing himself to Miss Theodosia,
"you ain't bin to Putmon, en you dunner whar de Brad Slaughter
place en Harmony Grove is, but Mars John en Miss Sally, dey bin
dar a time er two, en dey knows how de lan' lays. Well, den, it
'uz right long in dere whar Mars Jeems lived, en whar he live
now. When de war come long he wuz livin' dere longer Ole Miss en
Miss Sally. Ole Miss 'uz his ma, en Miss Sally dar 'uz his
sister. De war come des like I tell you, en marters sorter rock
along same like dey allers did. Hit didn't strike me dat dey wuz
enny war gwine on, en ef I hadn't sorter miss de nabers, en seed
fokes gwine outer de way fer ter ax de news, I'd a 'lowed ter
myse'f dat de war wuz 'way off 'mong some yuther country. But all
dis time de fuss wuz gwine on, en Mars Jeems, he wuz des eatchin'
fer ter put in. Ole Miss en Miss Sally, dey tuck on so he didn't
git off de fus' year, but bimeby news come down dat times wuz
gittin' putty hot, en Mars Jeems he got up, he did, en say he
gotter go, en go he did. He got a overseer fer ter look atter de
place, en he went en jined de army. En he 'uz a fighter, too,
mon, Mars Jeems wuz. Many's en many's de time," continued the old
man, reflectively, "dat I hatter take'n bresh dat boy on a
counter his 'buzin' en beatin' dem yuther boys. He went off dar
fer ter fight, en he fit. Ole Miss useter call me up Sunday
en read w'at de papers say 'bout Mars Jeems, en it ho'p 'er up
might'ly. I kin see 'er des like it 'uz yistiddy.
"'Remus,' sez she, 'dish yer's w'at de papers say 'bout my baby,'
en den she'd read out twel she couldn't read fer cryin'. Hit went
on dis way year in en year out, en dem wuz lonesome times, sho's
you bawn, Miss Doshy--lonesome times, sho. Hit got hotter en
hotter in de war, en lonesomer en mo' lonesomer at home, en
bimeby 'long come de conscrip' man, en he des everlas'nly scoop
up Mars Jeems's overseer. W'en dis come 'bout, ole Miss, she sont
atter me en say, sez she:
"'Remus, I ain't got nobody fer ter look arter de place but you,'
sez she, en den I up'n say, sez I:
"'Mistiss, you kin des 'pen' on de ole nigger.'
"I wuz ole den, Miss Doshy--let lone w'at I is now; en you better
b'leeve I bossed dem han's. I had dem niggers up en in de fiel'
long 'fo' day, en de way dey did wuk wuz a caution. Ef dey didn't
earn der vittles dat season den I ain't name Remus. But dey wuz
tuk keer un. Dey had plenty er cloze en plenty er grub, en dey
wuz de fattes' niggers in de settlement.
"Bimeby one day, Ole Miss, she call me up en say de Yankees done
gone en tuck Atlanty--dish yer ve'y town; den present'y I year
dey wuz a marchin' on down todes Putmon, en, lo en behol's! one
day, de fus news I know'd, Mars Jeems he rid up wid a whole gang
er men. He des stop long nuff fer ter change hosses en snatch a
mouffle er sump'n ter eat, but 'fo' he rid off, he call me up en
say, sez he:
"'Daddy'--all Ole Miss's chilluns call me daddy--'Daddy,' he say,
''pears like dere's gwineter be mighty rough times 'roun' yer. De
Yankees, dey er done got ter Madison en Mounticellar, en 'twon't
be many days 'fo' dey er down yer. 'Tain't likely dey'll pester
mother ner sister; but, daddy, ef de wus come ter de wus, I speck
you ter take keer un um,' sezee.
"Den I say, sez I: 'How long you bin knowin' me, Mars Jeems?' sez
I.
"'Sence I wuz a baby,' sezee.
"'Well, den, Mars Jeems,' sez I, 'you know'd 'twa'nt no use fer
ter ax me ter take keer Ole Miss en Miss Sally.'
"Den he tuck'n squoze my han' en jump on de filly I bin savin'
fer 'im, en rid off. One time he tu'n roun' en look like he
wanter say sump'n', but he des waf' his han'--so--en gallop on. I
know'd den dat trouble wuz brewin'. Nigger dat knows he's
gwineter git thumped kin sorter fix hisse'f, en I tuck'n fix up
like de war wuz gwineter come right in at de front gate. I tuck'n
got all de cattle en hosses tergedder en driv' um ter de fo'-mile
place, en I tuck all de corn en fodder en w'eat, en put um in a
crib out dar in de woods; en I bilt me a pen in de swamp, en dar
I put de hogs. Den, w'en I fix all dis, I put on my Sunday cloze
en groun' my axe. Two whole days I groun' dat axe. De grinestone
wuz in sight er de gate en close ter de big 'ouse, en dar I tuck
my stan'.
"Bimeby one day, yer come de Yankees. Two un um come fus, en
den de whole face er de yeath swawm'd wid um. De fus glimpse I
kotch un um, I tuck my axe en march inter Ole Miss settin'-room.
She done had de sidebo'd move in dar, en I wish I may drap ef
'twuzn't fa'rly blazin' wid silver--silver cups en silver
sassers, silver plates en silver dishes, silver mugs en silver
pitchers. Look like ter me dey wuz fixin' fer a weddin'. Dar sot
Ole Miss des ez prim en ez proud ez ef she own de whole county.
Dis kinder ho'p me up, kaze I done seed Ole Miss look dat away
once befo' w'en de overseer struck me in de face wid a w'ip. I
sot down by de fier wid my axe tween my knees. Dar we sot w'iles
de Yankees ransack de place. Miss Sally, dar, she got sorter
restless, but Ole Miss didn't skasely bat 'er eyes. Bimeby, we
hear steps on de peazzer, en yer come a couple er young fellers
wid strops on der shoulders, en der sodes a draggin' on de flo',
en der spurrers a rattlin'. I won't say I wuz skeer'd," said
Uncle Remus, as though endeavoring to recall something he failed
to remember, "I won't say I wuz skeer'd, kaze I wuzzent; but I
wuz took'n wid a mighty funny feelin' in de naberhood er de
gizzard. Dey wuz mighty perlite, dem young chaps wuz; but Ole
Miss, she never tu'n 'er head, en Miss Sally, she look straight
at de fier. Bimeby one un um see me, en he say, sezee:
"'Hello, ole man, w'at you doin' in yer?' sezee.
"'Well, boss,' sez I, 'I bin cuttin' some wood fer Ole Miss, en I
des stop fer ter worn my han's a little,' sez I.
"'Hit is col', dat's a fack,' sezee.
"Wid dat I got up en tuck my stan' behime Ole Miss en Miss Sally,
en de man w'at speak, he went up en worn his han's. Fus thing you
know, he raise up sudden, en say, sezee:
"'W'at dat on yo' axe?'
"'Dat's de fier shinin' on it,' sez I.
"'Hit look like blood,' sezee, en den he laft.
"But, bless yo' soul, dat man wouldn't never laft dat day ef he'd
know'd de wukkins er Remus's mine. But dey didn't bodder nobody
ner tech nuthin', en bimeby dey put out. Well, de Yankees, dey
kep' passin' all de mawnin' en it look like ter me dey wuz a
string un um ten mile long. Den dey commence gittin' thinner en
thinner, en den atter w'ile we hear skummishin' in de naberhood
er Armer's fe'y, en Ole Miss 'low how dat wuz Wheeler's men
makin' persoot. Mars Jeems wuz wid dem Wheeler fellers, en I
know'd ef dey wuz dat close I wa'n't doin' no good settin' 'roun'
de house toas'n my shins at de fier, so I des tuck Mars Jeems's
rifle fum behime de do' en put out ter look atter my stock.
"Seem like I ain't never see no raw day like dat, needer befo'
ner sence. Dey wa'n't no rain, but de wet des sifted down; mighty
raw day. De leaves on de groun' 'uz so wet dey don't make no
fuss, en I got in de woods, en w'enever I year de Yankees gwine
by, I des stop in my tracks en let un pass. I wuz stan'in' dat
away in de aidge er de woods lookin' out cross a clearin', w'en--
piff!--out come a little bunch er blue smoke fum de top er wunner
dem big lonesome-lookin' pines, en den--pow!
"Sez I ter myse'f, sez I: 'Honey, you er right on my route, en
I'll des see w'at kinder bird you got roostin' in you,' en w'iles
I wuz a lookin' out bus' de smoke--piff! en den--bang! Wid dat I
des drapt back inter de woods, en sorter skeerted 'roun' so's ter
git de tree 'twixt' me en de road. I slid up putty close, en
wadder you speck I see? Des ez sho's you er settin' dar lissenin'
dey wuz a live Yankee up dar in dat tree, en he wuz a loadin' en
a shootin' at de boys des ez cool es a cowcumber in de jew, en he
had his hoss hitch out in de bushes, kaze I year de creetur
tromplin' 'roun'. He had a spy-glass up dar, en w'iles I wuz a
watchin' un 'im, he raise 'er up en look thoo 'er, en den he lay
'er down en fix his gun fer ter shoot.
"I had good eyes in dem days, ef I ain't got um now, en way up de
big road I see Mars Jeems a comm'. Hit wuz too fur fer ter see
his face, but I know'd 'im by de filly w'at I raise fer 'im, en
she wuz a prancin' like a school-gal. I know'd dat man wuz
gwineter shoot Mars Jeems ef he could, en dat wuz mo'n I could
stan'. Many's en many's de time dat I nuss dat boy, en hilt 'im
in dese arms, en toted 'im on dis back, en w'en I see dat Yankee
lay dat gun 'cross a lim' en take aim at Mars Jeems I up wid my
ole rifle, en shet my eyes en let de man have all she had."
"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Miss Theodosia, indignantly,
"that you shot the Union soldier, when you knew he was fighting
for your freedom?"
"Co'se, I know all about dat," responded Uncle Remus, "en it
sorter made col' chills run up my back; but w'en I see dat man
take aim, en Mars Jeems gwine home ter Ole Miss en Miss Sally, I
des disremembered all 'bout freedom en lammed aloose. En den
atter dat, me en Miss Sally tuck en nuss de man right straight
along. He los' one arm in dat tree bizness, but me en Miss Sally
we nuss 'im en we nuss 'im twel he done got well. Des 'bout dat
time I quit nuss'n 'im, but Miss Sally she kep' on. She kep' on,"
continued Uncle Remus, pointing to Mr. Huntingdon, "en now dar he
is."
"But you cost him an arm," exclaimed Miss Theodosia.
"I gin 'im dem," said Uncle Remus, pointing to Mrs. Huntingdon,
"en I gin 'im deze"--holding up his own brawny arms. "En ef dem
ain't nuff fer enny man den I done los' de way."
HIS SAYINGS
I. JEEMS ROBER'SON'S LAST ILLNESS
A Jonesboro negro, while waiting for the train to go out, met up
with Uncle Remus. After the usual "time of day" had been passed
between the two, the former inquired about an acquaintance.
"How's Jeems Rober'son?" he asked.
"Ain't you year 'bout Jim?" asked Uncle Remus.
"Dat I ain't," responded the other; "I ain't hear talk er Jem
sence he cut loose fum de chain-gang. Dat w'at make I ax. He
ain't down wid de biliousness, is he?"
"Not dat I knows un," responded Uncle Remus, gravely. "He ain't
sick, an' he ain't bin sick. He des tuck'n say he wuz gwineter
ride dat ar roan mule er Mars John's de udder Sunday, an' de
mule, she up'n do like she got nudder ingagement. I done bin fool
wid dat mule befo', an' I tuck'n tole Jim dat he better not git
tangle up wid 'er; but Jim, he up'n 'low dat he wuz a hoss-
doctor, an' wid dat he ax me fer a chaw terbacker, en den he got
de bridle, en tuck'n kotch de mule en got on her--Well,"
continued Uncle Remus, looking uneasily around, "I speck you
better go git yo' ticket. Dey tells me dish yer train goes a
callyhootin'."
"Hol' on dar, Uncle Remus; you ain't tell me 'bout Jim,"
exclaimed the Jonesboro negro.
"I done tell you all I knows, chile. Jim, he tuck'n light on de
mule, an' de mule she up'n hump 'erse'f, an den dey wuz a
skuffle, an' w'en de dus' blow 'way, dar lay de nigger on de
groun', an' de mule she stood eatin' at de troff wid wunner Jim's
gallusses wrop 'roun' her behime-leg. Den atterwuds, de ker'ner,
he come 'roun', an' he tuck'n gin it out dat Jim died sorter
accidental like. Hit's des like I tell you: de nigger wern't sick
a minnit. So long! Bimeby you won't ketch yo' train. I got ter be
knockin' long."
II. UNCLE REMUS'S CHURCH EXPERIENCE
THE deacon of a colored church met Uncle Remus recently, and,
after some uninteresting remarks about the weather, asked:
"How dis you don't come down ter chu'ch no mo', Brer Remus? We
er bin er havin' some mighty 'freshen' times lately."
"Hit's bin a long time sence I bin down dar, Brer Rastus, an'
hit'll be longer. I done got my dose."
"You ain't done gone an' unjined, is you, Brer Remus?"
"Not zackly, Brer Rastus. I des tuck'n draw'd out. De members 'uz
a blame sight too mutuel fer ter suit my doctrines."
"How wuz dat, Brer Remus?"
"Well, I tell you, Brer Rastus. W'en I went ter dat chu'ch, I
went des ez umbill ez de nex' one. I went dar fer ter sing, an'
fer ter pray, an' fer ter wushup, an' I mos' giner'lly allers had
a stray shin-plarster w'ich de ole 'oman say she want sont out
dar ter dem cullud fokes 'cross de water. Hit went on dis way
twel bimeby, one day, de fus news I know'd der was a row got up
in de amen cornder. Brer Dick, he 'nounced dat dey wern't nuff
money in de box; an' Brer Sim said if dey wern't he speck Brer
Dick know'd whar it disappeared ter; an' den Brer Dick 'low'd dat
he won't stan' no 'probusness, an' wid dat he haul off an' tuck
Brer Sim under de jaw--ker blap!--an' den dey clinched an'
drapped on de flo' an' fout under de benches an' 'mong de wimmen.
"'Bout dat time Sis Tempy, she lipt up in de a'r, an' sing out
dat she done gone an tromple on de Ole Boy, an' she kep' on
lippin' up an' slingin' out 'er han's twel bimeby--blip!--she
tuck Sis Becky in de mouf, an' den Sis Becky riz an' fetch a grab
at Sis Tempy, an' I 'clar' ter grashus ef didn't 'pear ter me
like she got a poun' er wool. Atter dat de revivin' sorter het up
like. Bofe un um had kin 'mong de mo'ners, an' ef you ever see
skufflin' an' scramblin' hit wuz den an' dar. Brer Jeems Henry,
he mounted Brer Plato an' rid 'im over de railin', an' den de
preacher he start down fum de pulpit, an' des ez he wuz skippin'
onter de platform a hym'-book kotch 'im in de bur er de year, an
I be bless ef it didn't soun' like a bung-shell'd busted. Des
den, Brer Jesse, he riz up in his seat, sorter keerless like, an'
went down inter his britches atter his razer, an' right den I
know'd sho' nuff trubble wuz begun. Sis Dilsey, she seed it
herse'f, an' she tuck'n let off wunner dem hallyluyah hollers,
an' den I disremember w'at come ter pass.
"I'm gittin' sorter ole, Brer Rastus, an' it seem like de dus'
sorter shet out de pannyrammer. Fuddermo', my lim's got ter akin,
mo' speshully w'en I year Brer Sim an' Brer Dick a snortin' and a
skufflin' under de benches like ez dey wuz sorter makin' der way
ter my pew. So I kinder hump myse'f an' scramble out, and de fus
man w'at I seed was a pleeceman, an' he had a nigger 'rested, an'
de fergiven name er dat nigger wuz Remus."
"He didn't 'res' you, did he, Brer Remus?"
"Hit's des like I tell you, Brer Rastus, an' I hatter git Mars
John fer to go inter my bon's fer me. Hit ain't no use fer ter
sing out chu'ch ter me, Brer Rastus. I done bin an' got my dose.
W'en I goes ter war, I wanter know w'at I'm a doin'. I don't
wanter git hemmed up 'mong no wimmen and preachers. I wants
elbow-room, an I'm bleedzd ter have it. Des gimme elbow-room."
"But, Brer Remus, you ain't--"
"I mout drap in, Brer Rastus, an' den ag'in I moutn't, but w'en
you duz see me santer in de do', wid my specs on, you k'n des say
to de congergashun, sorter familious like, 'Yer come ole man
Remus wid his hoss-pistol, an' ef dar's much uv a skuffle 'roun'
yer dis evenin' you er gwineter year fum 'im.' Dat's me, an'
dat's what you kin tell um. So long! Member me to Sis Abby."
III. UNCLE REMUS AND THE SAVANNAH DARKEY
THE notable difference existing between the negroes in the
interior of the cotton States and those on the seaboard--a
difference that extends to habits and opinions as well as to
dialect--has given rise to certain ineradicable prejudices which
are quick to display themselves whenever an opportunity offers.
These prejudices were forcibly, as well as ludicrously,
illustrated in Atlanta recently. A gentleman from Savannah had
been spending the summer in the mountains of north Georgia, and
found it convenient to take along a body-servant. This body-
servant was a very fine specimen of the average coast negro--
sleek, well-conditioned, and consequential--disposed to regard
with undisguised contempt everything and everybody not indigenous
to the rice-growing region--and he paraded around the streets
with quite a curious and critical air. Espying Uncle Remus
languidly sunning himself on a corner, the Savannah darkey
approached.
"Mornin', sah."
"I'm sorter up an' about," responded Uncle Remus, carelessly and
calmly. "How is you stannin' it?"
"Tanky you, my helt' mos' so-so. He mo' hot dun in de mountain.
Seem so lak man mus' git need*1 de shade. I enty fer see no
rice-bud in dis pa'ts."
"In dis w'ich?" inquired Uncle with a sudden affectation of
interest.
"In dis pa'ts. In dis country. Da plenty in Sawanny."
"Plenty whar?"
"Da plenty in Sawanny. I enty fer see no crab an' no oscher; en
swimp, he no stay 'roun'. I lak some rice-bud now."
"You er talkin' 'bout deze yer sparrers, w'ich dey er all head,
en 'lev'm un makes one mouffle,*2 I speck," suggested Uncle
Remus. "Well, dey er yer," he continued, "but dis ain't no
climate whar de rice-birds flies inter yo' pockets en gits out de
money an' makes de change derse'f; an' de isters don't shuck off
der shells en run over you on de street, an' no mo' duz de s'imp
hull derse'f an' drap in yo' mouf. But dey er yer, dough. De
scads 'll fetch um."
"Him po' country fer true," commented the Savannah negro; "he no
like Sawanny. Down da, we set need de shade an' eaty de rice-bud,
an' de crab, an' de swimp tree time de day; an' de buckra man
drinky him wine, an' smoky him seegyar all troo de night. Plenty
fer eat an' not much fer wuk."
"Hit's mighty nice, I speck," responded Uncle Remus, gravely. "De
nigger dat ain't hope up 'longer high feedin' ain't got no grip.
But up yer whar fokes is gotter scramble 'roun' an' make der own
livin', de vittles w'at's kumerlated widout enny sweatin' mos'
allers gener'ly b'longs ter some yuther man by rights. One hoe-
cake an' a rasher er middlin' meat las's me fum Sunday ter
Sunday, an' I'm in a mighty big streak er luck w'en I gits dat."
The Savannah negro here gave utterance to a loud, contemptuous
laugh, and began to fumble somewhat ostentatiously with a big
brass watch-chain.
"But I speck I struck up wid a payin' job las' Chuseday,"
continued Uncle Remus, in a hopeful tone.
"Wey you gwan do?"
"Oh, I'm a waitin' on a culled gemmun fum Savannah--wunner deze
yer high livers you bin tellin' 'bout."
"How dat?"
"I loant 'im two dollars," responded Uncle Remus, grimly, "an'
I'm a waitin' on 'im fer de money. Hit's wunner deze yer jobs
w'at las's a long time."
The Savannah negro went off after his rice-birds, while Uncle
Remus leaned up against the wall and laughed until he was in
imminent danger of falling down from sheer exhaustion.
*1 Underneath.
*2 Mouthful.
TURNIP SALAD AS A TEXT
As Uncle Remus was going down the street recently he was
accosted by several acquaintances.
"Heyo!" said one, "here comes Uncle Remus. He look like he gwine
fer ter set up a bo'din-house."
Several others bantered the old man, but he appeared to be in a
good humor. He was carrying a huge basket of vegetables.
"How many er you boys," said he, as he put his basket down, "is
done a han's turn dis day? En yit de week's done commence. I year
talk er niggers dat's got money in de bank, but I lay hit ain't
none er you fellers. Whar you speck you gwineter git yo' dinner,
en how you speck you gwineter git 'long?"
"Oh, we sorter knocks 'roun' an' picks up a livin'," responded
one.
"Dat's w'at make I say w'at I duz," said Uncle Remus. "Fokes go
'bout in de day-time an' makes a livin', an' you come 'long w'en
dey er res'in' der bones an' picks it up. I ain't no han' at
figgers, but I lay I k'n count up right yer in de san' en number
up how menny days hit'll be 'fo' you 'er cuppled on ter de chain-
gang."
"De ole man's holler'n now sho'," said one of the listeners,
gazing with admiration on the venerable old darkey.
"I ain't takin' no chances 'bout vittles. Hit's proned inter me
fum de fus dat I got ter eat, en I knows dat I got fer ter grub
for w'at I gits. Hit's agin de mor'l law fer niggers fer ter eat
w'en dey don't wuk, an' w'en you see um 'pariently fattenin' on
a'r, you k'n des bet dat ruinashun's gwine on some'rs. I got
mustard, en poke salid, en lam's quarter in dat baskit, en me en
my ole 'oman gwineter sample it. Ef enny you boys git a invite
you come, but ef you don't you better stay 'way. I gotter muskit
out dar w'at's used ter persidin' 'roun' whar dey's a cripple
nigger. Don't you fergit dat off'n yo' mine."
V. A CONFESSION
"W'AT'S dis yer I see, great big niggers gwine 'lopin' 'roun'
town wid cakes 'n pies fer ter sell?" asked Uncle Remus recently,
in his most scornful tone.
"That's what they are doing," responded a young man; "that's the
way they make a living."
"Dat w'at make I say w'at I duz--dat w'at keep me grum'lin' w'en
I goes in cullud fokes s'ciety. Some niggers ain't gwine ter wuk
nohow, an' hit's flingin' way time fer ter set enny chain-gang
traps fer ter ketch um."
"Well, now, here!" exclaimed the young man, in a dramatic tone,
"what are you giving us now? Isn't it just as honest and just as
regular to sell pies as it is to do any other kind of work?"
"'Tain't dat, boss:' said the old man, seeing that he was about
to be cornered; 'tain't dat. Hit's de nas'ness un it w'at gits
me."
"Oh, get out!"
"Dat's me, boss, up an' down. Ef dere's ruinashun ennywhar in de
known wurril, she goes in de comp'ny uv a hongry nigger w'at's a
totin' pies 'roun.' Sometimes w'en I git kotch wid emptiness in
de pit er de stummuck, an' git ter fairly honin' arter sumpin'
w'at got substance in it, den hit look like unto me dat I kin
stan' flat-footed an' make more cle'r money eatin' pies dan I
could if I wuz ter sell de las' one 'twixt dis an' Chris'mus. An'
de nigger w'at k'n trapes 'round wid pies and not git in no
alley-way an' sample um, den I'm bleedzd ter say dat nigger out-
niggers me an' my fambly. So dar now!"
VI. UNCLE REMUS WITH THE TOOTHACHE
WHEN Uncle Remus put in an appearance one morning recently,
his friends knew he had been in trouble. He had a red cotton
handkerchief tied under his chin, and the genial humor that
usually makes his aged face its dwelling-place had given way to
an expression of grim melancholy. The young men about the office
were inclined to chaff him, but his look of sullen resignation
remained unchanged.
"What revival did you attend last night?" inquired one.
"What was the color of the mule that did the hammering?" asked
another.
"I always told the old man that a suburban chicken coop would
fall on him," remarked some one.
"A strange pig has been squealing in his ear," suggested some one
else.
But Uncle Remus remained impassive. He seemed to have lost all
interest in what was going on around him, and he sighed heavily
as he seated himself on the edge of the trash-box in front of the
office. Finally some one asked, in a sympathetic tone:
"What is the matter, old man? You look like you'd been through
the mill."
"Now you 'er knockin'. I ain't bin thoo de mill sence day 'fo'
yistiddy, den dey ain't no mills in de lan'. Ef wunner deze yer
scurshun trains had runned over me I couldn't er bin wuss off. I
bin trompin' 'roun' in de lowgroun's now gwine on seventy-fi'
year, but I ain't see no sich times ez dat w'at I done spe'unst
now. Boss, is enny er you all ever rastled wid de toofache?"
"Oh, hundreds of times! The toothache isn't anything."
"Den you des played 'roun' de aidges. You ain't had de kine w'at
kotch me on de underjaw. You mout a had a gum-bile, but you
ain't bin boddered wid de toofache. I wuz settin' up talkin' wid
my ole 'oman, kinder puzzlin' 'roun' fer ter see whar de nex'
meal's vittles wuz a gwineter cum fum, an' I feel a little ache
sorter crawlin' 'long on my jaw-bone, kinder feelin' his way. But
de ache don't stay long. He sorter hankered 'roun' like, en den
crope back whar he come fum. Bimeby I feel 'im comin' agin, an'
dis time hit look like he come up closer--kinder skummishin'
'roun' fer ter see how de lan' lay. Den he went off. Present'y I
feel 'im comin', an' dis time hit look like he kyar'd de news
unto Mary, fer hit feel like der wuz anudder wun wid 'im. Dey
crep' up an' crep' 'roun', an, den dey crope off. Bimeby dey come
back, an' dis time dey come like dey wuzzent 'fear'd er de
s'roundin's, fer dey trot right up unto de toof, sorter 'zamine
it like, an' den trot all roun' it, like deze yer circuous
hosses. I sot dar mighty ca'm, but I 'spected dat sump'n' wuz
gwine ter happ'n."
"And it happened, did it?" asked some one in the group
surrounding the old man.
"Boss, don't you fergit it," responded Uncle Remus, fervidly.
"W'en dem aches gallop back dey galloped fer ter stay, an' dey
wuz so mixed up dat I couldn't tell one fum de udder. All night
long dey racked an' dey galloped, an' w'en dey got tired er
rackin' an' gallopin', dey all close in on de ole toof an'
thumped it an' gouged at it twel it 'peared unto me dat dey had
got de jaw-bone loosened up, an' wuz tryin' fer ter fetch it up
thoo de top er my head an' out at der back er my neck. An' dey
got wuss nex' day. Mars John, he seed I wuz 'stracted, an' he
tole me fer ter go roun' yere an' git sump'n' put on it, an' de
drug man he 'lowed dat I better have 'er draw'd, an' his wuds
wuzzent more'n col' 'fo' wunner deze yer watchyoumaycollums--
wunner deze dentis' mens--had retched fer it wid a pa'r er tongs
w'at don't tu'n loose w'en dey ketches a holt. Leas'ways dey
didn't wid me. You oughter seed dat toof, boss. Hit wuz wunner
deze yer fo'-prong fellers. Ef she'd a grow'd wrong eend out'ard,
I'd a bin a bad nigger long arter I jin'd de chu'ch. You year'd
my ho'n!"
VII. THE PHONOGRAPH
"UNC REMUS," asked a tall, awkward-looking negro, who was one of
a crowd surrounding the old man, "w'at's dish 'ere w'at dey calls
de fonygraf--dish yer inst'ument w'at kin holler 'roun' like
little chillun in de back yard?"
"I ain't seed um," said Uncle Remus, feeling in his pocket for a
fresh chew of tobacco. "I ain't seed um, but I year talk un um.
Miss Sally wuz a readin' in de papers las' Chuseday, an' she say
dat's it's a mighty big watchyoumaycollum."
"A mighty big w'ich?" asked one of the crowd.
"A mighty big w'atsizname," answered Uncle Remus, cautiously. "I
wuzzent up dar close to whar Miss Sarah wuz a readin', but I
kinder geddered in dat it wuz one er deze 'ere w'atzisnames w'at
you hollers inter one year an it comes out er de udder. Hit's
mighty funny unter me how dese fokes kin go an' prognosticate der
eckoes inter one er deze yer i'on boxes, an' dar hit'll stay on
twel de man comes long an' tu'ns de handle an' let's de fuss come
pilin' out. Bimeby dey'll git ter makin' sho' nuff fokes, an' den
dere'll be a racket 'roun' here. Dey tells me dat it goes off
like one er deze yer torpedoes."
"You year dat, don't you?" said one or two of the younger
negroes.
"Dat's w'at dey tells me," continued Uncle Remus. "Dat's w'at dey
sez. Hit's one er deze yer kinder w'atzisnames w'at sasses back
w'en you hollers at it."
"W'at dey fix um fer, den?" asked one of the practical negroes.
"Dat's w'at I wanter know," said Uncle Remus, contemplatively.
"But dat's w'at Miss Sally wuz a readin' in de paper. All you
gotter do is ter holler at de box, an' dar's yo' remarks. Dey
goes in, an' dar dey er tooken and dar dey hangs on twel you
shakes de box, an' den dey draps out des ez fresh ez deze yer
fishes w'at you git fum Savannah, an' you ain't got time fer ter
look at dere gills, nudder."
VIII. RACE IMPROVEMENT
"Dere's a kind er limberness 'bout niggers dese days dat's mighty
cu'us," remarked Uncle Remus yesterday, as he deposited a pitcher
of fresh water upon the exchange table. "I notisses it in de
alley-ways an on de street-cornders. Dey er rackin' up, mon, deze
yer cullud fokes is."
"What are you trying to give us now?" inquired one of the young
men, in a bilious tone.
"The old man's mind is wandering," said the society editor,
smoothing the wrinkles out of his lavender kids.
Uncle Remus laughed. I speck I is a gittin' mo frailer dan I wuz
'fo' de fahmin days wuz over, but I sees wid my eyes an' I years
wid my year, same ez enny er dese yer young bucks w'at goes a
gallopin' roun' huntin' up devilment, an' w'en I sees de
limberness er dese yer cullud people, an' w'en I sees how dey er
dancin' up, den I gits sorter hopeful. Dey er kinder ketchin' up
wid me."
"How is that?"
"Oh, dey er movin'," responded Uncle Remus. "Dey er sorter comin'
'roun'. Dey er gittin' so dey bleeve dat dey ain't no better dan
de w'ite fokes. W'en freedom come out de niggers sorter got dere
humps up, an' dey staid dat way, twel bimeby dey begun fer ter
git hongry, an' den dey begun fer ter drap inter line right
smartually; an' now," continued the old man, emphatically, "dey
er des ez palaverous ez dey wuz befo' de war. Dey er gittin' on
solid groun', mon."
"You think they are improving, then?"
"You er chawin' guv'nment now, boss. You slap de law onter a
nigger a time er two, an' larn 'im dat he's got fer to look after
his own rashuns an' keep out'n udder fokes's chick'n-coops, an'
sorter coax 'im inter de idee dat he's got ter feed 'is own
chilluns, an' I be blessed ef you ain't got 'im on risin' groun'.
An', mo'n dat, w'en he gits holt er de fack dat a nigger k'n have
yaller fever same ez w'ite folks, you done got 'im on de mo'ners'
bench, an' den ef you come down strong on de p'int dat he oughter
stan' fas' by de fokes w'at hope him w'en he wuz in trouble de
job's done. W'en you does dat, ef you ain't got yo' han's on a
new-made nigger, den my name ain't Remus, an' ef dat name's bin
changed I ain't seen her abbertized."
IX. IN THE ROLE OF A TARTAR
A CHARLESTON negro who was in Atlanta on the Fourth of July made
a mistake. He saw Uncle Remus edging his way through the crowd,
and thought he knew him.
"Howdy, Daddy Ben?" the stranger exclaimed. "I tink I nubber see
you no mo'. Wey you gwan? He hot fer true, ain't he?"
"Daddy who?" asked Uncle Remus, straightening himself up with
dignity. "W'ich?"
"I know you in Char'son, an' den in Sewanny. I spec I dun grow
away from 'membrance."
"You knowed me in Charlstun, and den in Savanny?"
"He been long time, ain't he, Daddy Ben?"
"Dat's w'at's a pesterin' un me. How much you reckon you know'd
me?"
"He good while pas'; when I wer' pickaninny. He long time ago.
Wey you gwan, Daddy Ben?"
"W'at does you season your recollection wid fer ter make it hol'
on so?" inquired the old man.
"I dunno. He stick hese'f. I see you comin' 'long 'n I say 'Dey
Daddy Ben.' I tink I see you no mo', an' I shaky you by de han'.
Wey you gwan? Dey no place yer wey we git wine?"
Uncle Remus stared at the strange darkey curiously for a moment,
and then he seized him by the arm.
"Come yer, son, whar dey ain't no folks an' lemme drap some
Jawjy 'intment in dem years er yone. You er mighty fur ways fum
home, an' you wanter be a lookin' out fer yo'se'f. Fus and
fo'mus, you er thumpin' de wrong watermillion. You er w'isslin'
up de wrong chube. I ain't tromped roun' de country much. I ain't
bin to Charlstun an' needer is I tuck in Savanny; but you
couldn't rig up no game on me dat I wouldn't tumble on to it de
minit I laid my eyeballs on you. W'en hit come to dat I'm ole man
Tumbler, fum Tumblersville--I is dat. Hit takes one er deze yer
full-blooded w'ite men fur ter trap my jedgment. But w'en a
nigger comes a jabberin' 'roun' like he got a mouf full er rice
straw, he ain't got no mo' chance long side er me dan a sick
sparrer wid a squinch-owl. You gutter travel wid a circus 'fo'
you gits away wid me. You better go long an' git yo' kyarpet-sack
and skip de town. You er de freshest nigger w'at I seen yit."
The Charleston negro passed on just as a police-man' came up.
"Boss, you see dat smart Ellick?"
"Yes, what's the matter with him?"
"He's one er deze yer scurshun niggers from Charlstun. I seed you
a-stannin' over agin de cornder yander, an' ef dat nigger'd a
draw'd his monty kyards on me, I wuz a gwineter holler fer you.
Would you er come, boss?"
"Why, certainly, Uncle Remus."
"Dat's w'at I 'low'd. Little more'n he'd a bin aboard er de wrong
waggin. Dat's w'at he'd a bin."
X. A CASE OF MEASLES
"YOU'VE been looking like you were rather under the weather for
the past week or two, Uncle Remus," said a gentleman to the old
man.
"You'd be sorter puny, too, boss, if you'd er bin whar I bin."
"Where have you been?"
"Pear ter me like eve'ybody done year 'bout dat. Dey ain't no ole
nigger my age an' size dat's had no rattliner time dan I is."
"A kind of picnic?"
"Go long, boss! w'at you speck I be doin' sailin' 'roun' ter dese
yer cullud picnics? Much mo' an' I wouldn't make bread by wukkin'
fer't, let 'lone follerin' up a passel er boys an' gals all over
keration. Boss, ain't you year 'bout it, sho' 'nuff?"
"I haven't, really. What was the matter?"
"I got strucken wid a sickness, an' she hit de ole nigger a joe-
darter 'fo' she tu'n 'im loose."
"What kind of sickness?"
"Hit look sorter cu'ous, boss, but ole an' steddy ez I is, I
tuck'n kotch de meezles."
"Oh, get out! You are trying to get up a sensation."
"Hit's a natal fack, boss, I declar' ter grashus ef 'tain't. Dey
sorter come on wid a col', like--leas'ways dat's how I commence
fer ter suffer, an' den er koff got straddle er de col'--one dese
yer koffs w'at look like hit goes ter de foundash'n. I kep' on
linger'n' 'roun' sorter keepin' one eye on the rheumatiz an' de
udder on de distemper, twel, bimeby, I begin fer ter feel de
trestle-wuk give way, an' den I des know'd dat I wuz gwineter
gitter racket. I slipt inter bed one Chuseday night, an' I never
slip out no mo' fer mighty nigh er mont'.
"Nex' mornin' de meezles 'd done kivered me, an' den ef I didn't
git dosted by de ole 'oman I'm a Chinee. She gimme back rashuns
er sassafac tea. I des natchully hankered an' got hongry atter
water, an ev'y time I sing out fer water I got b'ilin' hot
sassafac tea. Hit got so dat w'en I wake up in de mornin' de ole
'oman 'd des come long wid a kittle er tea an' fill me up. Dey
tells me 'roun' town dat chilluns don't git hurted wid de
meezles, w'ich ef dey don't I wanter be a baby de nex' time dey
hits dis place. All dis yer meezles bizness is bran'-new ter me.
In ole times, 'fo' de wah, I ain't heer tell er no seventy-fi'-
year-ole nigger grapplin' wid no meezles. Dey ain't ketchin' no
mo', is dey, boss?"
"Oh, no--I suppose not."
"'Kase ef dey is, you k'n des put my name down wid de migrashun
niggers."
XI. THE EMIGRANTS
WHEN Uncle Remus went down to the passenger depot one morning
recently, the first sight that caught his eye was an old negro
man, a woman, and two children sitting in the shade near the
door of the baggage-room. One of the children was very young,
and the quartet was altogether ragged and forlorn-looking.
The sympathies of Uncle Remus were immediately aroused. He
approached the group by forced marches, and finally unburdened
his curiosity.
"Whar is you m'anderin' unter, pard?"
The old negro, who seemed to be rather suspicious, looked at
Uncle Remus coolly, and appeared to be considering whether he
should make any reply. Finally, however, he stretched himself and
said:
"We er gwine down in de naberhoods er Tallypoosy, an we ain't
makin' no fuss 'bout it, nudder."
"I disremember," said Uncle Remus, thoughtfully, "whar Tallypoosy
is."
"Oh, hit's out yan," replied the old man, motioning his head as
if it was just beyond the iron gates of the depot. "Hit's down in
Alabam. When we git dar, maybe well go on twel we gits ter
Massasip."
"Is you got enny folks out dar?" inquired Uncle Remus.
"None dat I knows un."
"An' you er takin' dis 'oman an' deze chillun out dar whar dey
dunno nobody? Whar's yo' perwisions?" eying a chest with a rope
around it.
"Dem's our bedcloze," the old negro explained, noticing the
glance of Uncle Remus. "All de vittles what we got we e't 'fo' we
started."
"An' you speck ter retch dar safe an soun'? Whar's yo' ticket?"
"Ain't got none. De man say ez how dey'd pass us thoo. I gin a
man a fi'-dollar bill 'fo' I lef' Jonesboro, an' he sed dat
settled it."
"Lemme tell you dis," said Uncle Remus, straightening up
indignantly: "you go an' rob somebody an' git on de chain-gang,
an' let de 'oman scratch 'roun' yer an' make 'er livin'; but
don't you git on dem kyars--don't you do it. Yo' bes' holt is de
chain-gang. You kin make yo' livin' dar w'en you can't make it no
whars else. But don't you git on dem kyars. Ef you do, you er
gone nigger. Ef you ain't got no money fer ter walk back wid, you
better des b'il' yo' nes' right here. I'm a-talkin' wid de bark
on. I done seed deze yer Arkinsaw emmygrants come lopin' back,
an' some un 'em didn't have rags nuff on 'em fer ter hide dere
nakidness. You leave dat box right whar she is, an, let de 'oman
take wun young un an you take de udder wun, an' den you git in de
middle er de big road an' pull out fer de place whar you come
fum. I'm preachin' now."
Those who watched say the quartet didn't take the cars.
XII. AS A MURDERER
UNCLE Remus met a police officer recently.
"You ain't hear talk er no dead nigger nowhar dis mawnin', is
you, boss?" asked the old man earnestly.
"No," replied the policeman, reflectively. "No, I believe not.
Have you heard of any?"
"'Pears unter me dat I come mighty nigh gittin' some news bout
dat size, an' dat's w'at I'm a huntin' fer. Bekaze ef dey er
foun' a stray nigger layin' 'roun' loose, wid 'is bref gone, den
I wanter go home an' git my brekfus' an' put on some clean cloze,
an' 'liver myse'f up ter wunner deze yer jestesses er de peace,
an git a fa'r trial."
"Why, have you killed anybody?"
"Dat's w'at's I'm a 'quirin' inter now, but I wouldn't be
sustonished ef I ain't laid a nigger out some'rs on de subbubs.
Hit's done got so it's agin de law fer ter bus' loose an' kill a
nigger, ain't it, boss?"
"Well, I should say so. You don't mean to tell me that you have
killed a colored man, do you?"
"I speck I is, boss. I speck I done gone an' done it dis time,
sho.' Hit's bin sorter growin' on me, an' it come ter a head dis
mawnin', 'less my name ain't Remus, an' dat's w'at dey bin er
callin' me sence I wuz ole er 'nuff fer ter scratch myse'f wid my
lef' han'."
"Well, if you've killed a man, you'll have some fun, sure enough.
How was it?"
"Hit wuz dis way, boss: I wuz layin' in my bed dis mawnin' sorter
ruminatin' 'roun', when de fus news I know'd I year a fus' 'mong
de chickens, an' den my brissels riz. I done had lots er trubble
wid dem chickens, an' w'en I years wun un um squall my ve'y shoes
comes ontied. So I des sorter riz up an' retch fer my ole muskit,
and den I crope out er de back do', an' w'atter you reckin I
seed?"
"I couldn't say."
"I seed de biggest, blackest nigger dat you ever laid eyes on. He
shined like de paint on 'im was fresh. He hed done grabbed fo' er
my forwardes' pullets. I crope up nigh de do', an' hollered an'
axed 'im how he wuz a gittin' on, an' den he broke, an' ez he
broke I jammed de gun in de small er his back and banged aloose.
He let a yell like forty yaller cats a courtin', an' den he
broke. You ain't seed no nigger hump hisse'f like dat nigger. He
tore down de well shelter and fo' pannils er fence, an' de groun'
look like wunner deze yer harrycanes had lit dar and fanned up de
yeath."
"Why, I thought you killed him?"
"He bleedzed ter be dead, boss. Ain't I put de gun right on 'im?
Seem like I feel 'im give way w'en she went off."
"Was the gun loaded?"
"Dat's w'at my ole 'oman say. She had de powder in dar, sho', but
I disremember wedder I put de buckshot in, er wedder I lef' um
out. Leas'ways, I'm gwineter call on wunner deze yer jestesses.
So long, boss."
XIII. HIS PRACTICAL VIEW OF THINGS
"BRER REMUS, is you heern tell er deze doin's out yer in de
udder eend er town?" asked a colored deacon of the church the
other day.
"W'at doin's is dat, Brer Ab?"
"Deze yer signs an' wunders whar dat cullud lady died day 'fo'
yistiddy. Mighty quare goin's on out dar, Brer Remus, sho's you
bawn."
"Sperrits?" inquired Uncle Remus, sententiously.
"Wuss'n dat, Brer Remus. Some say dat jedgment day ain't fur off,
an' de folks is flockin' 'roun' de house a hollerin' an' a-
shoutin' des like dey wuz in er revival. In de winder glass dar
you kin see de flags a flyin', an' Jacob's lather is dar, an'
dar's writin' on de pane w'at no man can't read--leas'wise dey
ain't none read it yit."
"W'at kinder racket is dis you er givin' un me now, Brer Ab?"
"I done bin dar, Brer Remus; I done seed um wid bofe my eyes.
Cullud lady what wuz intranced done woke up an' say dey ain't
much time fer ter tarry. She say she meet er angel in de road,
an' he p'inted straight fer de mornin' star, an' tell her fer ter
prepar'. Hit look mighty cu'us, Brer Remus."
"Cum down ter dat, Brer Ab," said Uncle Remus, wiping his
spectacles carefully, and readjusting them--"cum down ter dat,
an' dey ain't nuthin' dat ain't cu'us. I ain't no spishus nigger
myse'f, but I 'spizes fer ter year dogs a howlin' an' squinch-
owls havin' de agur out in de woods, an' w'en a bull goes a
bellerin' by de house den my bones git col' an' my flesh
commences fer ter creep; but w'en it comes ter deze yer sines in
de a'r an' deze yer sperrits in de woods, den I'm out--den I'm
done. I is, fer a fack. I bin livin' yer more'n seventy year, an'
I year talk er niggers seein' ghos'es all times er night an' all
times er day, but I ain't never seed none yit; an' deze yer flags
an' Jacob's lathers, I ain't seed dem, nudder."
"Dey er dar, Brer Remus."
"Hit's des like I tell you, Brer Ab. I ain't 'sputin' 'bout it,
but I ain't seed um, an' I don't take no chances deze days on dat
w'at I don't see, an' dat w'at I sees I got ter 'zamine mighty
close. Lemme tell you dis, Brer Ab: don't you let deze sines
onsettle you. W'en old man Gabrile toot his ho'n, he ain't
gwineter hang no sine out in de winder-panes, an when ole Fadder
Jacob lets down dat lather er his'n you'll be mighty ap' fer ter
hear de racket. An' don't you bodder wid jedgment-day. Jedgment-
day is lierbul fer ter take keer un itse'f."
"Dat's so, Brer Remus."
"Hit's bleedzed ter be so, Brer Ab. Hit don't bodder me. Hit's
done got so now dat w'en I gotter pone er bread, an' a rasher er
bacon, an' nuff grease fer ter make gravy, I ain't keerin' much
w'edder fokes sees ghos'es er no."
XIV. THAT DECEITFUL JUG
UNCLE REMUS was in good humor one evening recently when
he dropped casually into the editorial room of "The
Constitution," as has been his custom for the past year or two.
He had a bag slung across his shoulder, and in the bag was a jug.
The presence of this humble but useful vessel in Uncle Remus's
bag was made the occasion for several suggestive jokes at his
expense by the members of the staff, but the old man's good humor
was proof against all insinuations.
"Dat ar jug's bin ter wah, mon. Hit's wunner deze yer ole timers.
I got dat jug down dar in Putmon County w'en Mars 'Lisha Ferryman
wuz a young man, an' now he's done growed up, an' got ole an'
died, an' his chilluns is growed up an' dey kin count dere
gran'chilluns, an' yit dar's dat jug des ez lively an' ez lierbul
fer ter kick up devilment ez w'at she wuz w'en she come fum de
foundry."
"That's the trouble," said one of the young men. "That's the
reason we'd like to know what's in it now.
"Now you er gittin' on ma'shy groun'," replied Uncle Remus.
"Dat's de p'int. Dat's w'at make me say w'at I duz. I bin knowin'
dat jug now gwine on sixty-fi' year, an' de jug w'at's more
seetful dan dat jug ain't on de topside er de worrul. Dar she
sets," continued the old man, gazing at it reflectively, "dar she
sets dez ez natchul ez er ambertype, an' yit whar's de man w'at
kin tell w'at kinder confab she's a gwineter carry on w'en dat
corn-cob is snatched outen 'er mouf? Dat jug is mighty seetful,
mon."
"Well, it don't deceive any of us up here," remarked the
agricultural editor, dryly. "We've seen jugs before."
"I boun' you is, boss; I boun' you is. But you ain't seed no
seetful jug like dat. Dar she sets a bellyin' out an' lookin'
mighty fat an' full, an' yit she'd set dar a bellyin' out ef dere
wuzzent nuthin' but win' under dat stopper. You knows dat she
ain't got no aigs in her, ner no bacon, ner no grits, ner no
termartusses, ner no shellotes, an' dat's 'bout all you duz know.
Dog my cats ef de seetfulness er dat jug don't git away wid me,"
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