Uncle Remus Stories

by Joel Chandler Harris

  De place wharbouts you spill de grease,

  Right dar your boun’ ter slide,

  An’ whar you fine a bunch er ha’r,

  You’ll sholy fine de hide.’

  “Nex’ day, Brer Fox sont word by Mr. Mink, en skuze hisse’f kaze he wuz too sick fer ter come, en he ax Brer Rabbit fer ter come en take dinner wid him, en Brer Rabbit say he wuz ‘gree’ble.

  “Bimeby, w’en de shadders wuz at der shortes’, Brer Rabbit he sorter brush up en santer down ter Brer Fox’s house, en w’en he got dar, he yer somebody groanin’, en he look in de do’ en dar he see Brer Fox settin’ up in a rockin’ cheer all wrop up wid flannil, en he look mighty weak. Brer Rabbit look all ‘roun’, he did, but he ain’t see no dinner. De dish-pan wuz settin’ on de table, en close by wuz a kyarvin’ knife.

  “’Look like you gwineter have chicken for dinner, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

  “’Yes, Brer Rabbit, deyer nice, en fresh, en tender,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

  “Den Brer Rabbit sorter pull his mustarsh, en say: ‘You ain’t got no calamus root, is you, Brer Fox? I done got so now dat I can’t eat no chicken ‘ceppin she’s seasoned up wid calamus root.’ En wid dat Brer Rabbit lipt out er de do’ and dodge ‘mong de bushes, en sot dar watchin’ fer Brer Fox; en he ain’t watch long, nudder, kaze Brer Fox flung off de flannil en crope out er de house en got whar he could cloze in on Brer Rabbit, en bimeby Brer Rabbit holler out: ‘Oh, Brer Fox! I’ll des put yo’ calamus root out yer on dish yer stump. Better come git it while hit’s fresh,’ and wid dat Brer Rabbit gallop off home. En Brer Fox ain’t never kotch ‘im yit, en w’at’s mo’, honey, he ain’t gwineter.”

  II.

  THE WONDERFUL

  TAR-BABY STORY.

  “Didn’t the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy the next evening.

  “He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho’s you bawn — Brer Fox did. One day atter Brer Rabbit fool ’im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got ’im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun wat he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot ‘er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see wat de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn’t hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin’ down de road — lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity — dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin’ ’long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he wuz ’stonished. De Tar-Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

  “’Mawnin’!’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee — ‘nice wedder dis mawnin’,’ sezee.

  “Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

  “’How duz yo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

  “Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.

  “’How you come on, den? Is you deaf?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Kaze if you is, I kin holler louder,’ sezee.

  “Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

  “’Youer stuck up, dat’s w’at you is,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en I’m gwineter kyore you, dat’s w’at I’m a gwineter do,’ sezee.

  “Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.

  “’I’m gwineter larn you howter talk ter ‘specttubble fokes ef hit’s de las’ ack,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’t take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I’m gwineter bus’ you wide open,’ sezee.

  “Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

  “Brer Rabbit keep on axin’ ‘im, en de Tar-Baby, she keep on sayin’ nuthin’, twel present’y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en blip he tuck ‘er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his merlasses jug. His fis’ stuck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt ‘im. But Tar-Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

  “’Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you agin,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch ‘er a wipe wid de udder han’, en dat stuck. Tar-Baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

  “’Tu’n me loose, fo’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ‘er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa’ntered fort’, lookin’ des ez innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds.

  “’Howdy, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin’,’ sezee, en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft en laft twel he couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain’t gwineter take no skuse,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.”

  Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

  “Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.

  “Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, en den agin he mountent. Some say Jedge B’ar come ‘long en loosed ’im — some say he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”

  III.

  WHY MR. POSSUM

  LOVES PEACE.

  “One night,” said Uncle Remus — taking Miss Sally’s little boy on his knee, and stroking the child’s hair thoughtfully and caressingly — “one night Brer Possum call by fer Brer Coon, ‘cordin’ ter greement, en atter gobblin’ up a dish er fried greens en smokin’ a seegyar, dey rambled fort’ fer ter see how de ballunce er de settlement wuz gittin’ ’long. Brer Coon, he wuz wunner deze yer natchul pacers, en he racked ‘long same ez Mars John’s bay pony, en Brer Possum he went in a han’-gallup; en dey got over heap er groun’, mon. Brer Possum, he got his belly full er ‘simmons, en Brer Coon, he scoop up a ‘bunnunce er frogs en tadpoles. Dey amble ‘long, dey did, des ez soshubble ez a baskit er kittens, twel bimeby dey hear Mr. Dog talkin’ ter hisse’f way off in de woods.

  “’Spozen he runs up on us, Brer Possum, w’at you gwineter do?’ sez Brer Coon, sezee. Brer Possum sorter laff ‘round de cornders un his mouf.

  “’Oh, ef he come, Brer Coon, I’m gwineter stan’ by you,’ sez Brer Possum. ‘W’at you gwineter do?’ sezee.

  “’Who? me?’ sez Brer Coon. ‘Ef he run up onter me, I lay I give ‘im one twis’,’ sezee.”

  “Did the dog come?” asked the little boy.

  “Go ‘way, honey!” responded the old man, in an impressive tone. “Go way! Mr. Dog, he come en he come a zoonin’. En he ain’t wait fer ter say howdy, nudder. He des sail inter de two un um. De ve’y fus pas he make Brer Possum fetch a grin fum year ter year, en keel over like he wuz dead. Den Mr. Dog, he sail inter Brer Coon, en right dar’s whar he drap his munnypus, kaze Brer Coon wuz cut out fer dat kinder bizness, en he fa’rly wipe up de face er de earf wid ‘im. You better b’leeve dat w’en Mr. Dog got a chance to make hisse’f skase he tuck it, en w’at der wuz lef’ un him went skaddlin’ thoo de woods like hit wuz shot outen a muskit. En Brer Coon, he sorter lick his cloze inter shape en rack off, en Brer Possum, he lay dar like he wuz dead, twel bimeby he raise up sotter keerful like, en w’en he fine de coas’ cle’r he scramble up en scamper off like sumpin was atter ‘im.”

  Here Uncle Remus paused long enough to pick up a live coal of fire in his fingers, transfer it to the palm of his hand, and thence to his clay pipe, which he had been filling — a proceeding that was viewed by the little boy with undisguised admiration. The old man then proceeded:

  “Nex’ time Brer Possum meet Brer Coon, Brer Coon ‘fuse ter ‘spon’ ter his howdy, en dis make Brer Possum feel mighty bad, seein’ ez how dey useter make so many ‘scurshuns tergedder.

  “’W’at make you hol’ yo’ head so high, Brer Coon?
’ sez Brer Possum, sezee.

  “’I ain’t runnin’ wid cowerds deze days,’ sez Brer Coon. ‘W’en I wants you I’ll sen’ fer you,’ sezee.

  “Den Brer Possum git mighty mad.

  “’Who’s enny cowerd,’ sezee.

  “’You is,’ sez Brer Coon, ‘dat’s who. I ain’t soshatin’ wid dem w’at lies down on de groun’ en plays dead w’en dar’s a free fight gwine on,’ sezee.

  “Den Brer Possum grin en laff fit to kill hisse’f.

  “’Lor’, Brer Coon, you don’t speck I done dat kaze I wuz ‘feared, duz you?’ sezee. ‘W’y I want no mo’ ‘feared dan you is dis minnit. W’at wuz dey fer ter be skeered un?’ sezee. ‘I know’d you’d git away wid Mr. Dog ef I didn’t, en I des lay dar watchin’ you shake him, waitin’ fer ter put in w’en de time come,’ sezee.

  “Brer Coon tu’n up his nose.

  “’Dat’s a mighty likely tale,’ sezee, ‘w’en Mr. Dog ain’t mo’n tech you ‘fo’ you keel over, en lay dar stiff,’ sezee.

  “’Dat’s des w’at I wuz gwineter tell you ‘bout,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee. ‘I want no mo’ skeer’d dan you is right now, en’ I wuz fixin’ fer ter give Mr. Dog a sample er my jaw,’ sezee, ‘but I’m de most ticklish chap w’at you ever laid eyes on, en no sooner did Mr. Dog put his nose down yer ‘mong my ribs dan I got ter laffin, en I laft twel I ain’t had no use er my lim’s,’ sezee, ‘en it’s a mussy unto Mr. Dog dat I wuz ticklish, kaze a little mo’ en I’d e’t ‘im up,’ sezee. ‘I don’t mine fighting, Brer Coon, no mo’ dan you duz,’ sezee, ‘but I declar’ ter grashus ef I kin stan’ ticklin’. Git me in a row whar dey ain’t no ticklin’ ‘lowed, en I’m your man,’ sezee.

  “En down ter dis day” — continued Uncle Remus, watching the smoke from his pipe curl upward over the little boy’s head — “down ter dis day, Brer Possum’s bound ter s’render w’en you tech him in de short ribs, en he’ll laff ef he knows he’s gwineter be smashed fer it.”

  IV.

  HOW MR. RABBIT WAS

  TOO SHARP FOR MR. FOX.

  “Uncle Remus,” said the little boy one evening, when he had found the old man with little or nothing to do, “did the fox kill and eat the rabbit when he caught him with the Tar-Baby?”

  “Law, honey, ain’t I tell you ‘bout dat?” replied the old darkey, chuckling slyly. “I ‘clar ter grashus I ought er tole you dat, but ole man Nod wuz ridin’ on my eyeleds ‘twel a leetle mo’n I’d a dis’member’d my own name, en den on to dat here come yo’ mammy hollerin’ atter you.

  “W’at I tell you w’en I fus’ begin? I tole you Brer Rabbit wuz a monstus soon beas’; leas’ways dat’s w’at I laid out fer ter tell you. Well, den, honey, don’t you go en make no udder kalkalashuns, kaze in dem days Brer Rabbit en his fambly wuz at de head er de gang w’en enny racket wuz on han’, en dar dey stayed. ‘Fo’ you begins fer ter wipe yo’ eyes ‘bout Brer Rabbit, you wait en see whar’bouts Brer Rabbit gwineter fetch up at. But dat’s needer yer ner dar.

  “W’en Brer Fox fine Brer Rabbit mixt up wid de Tar-Baby, he feel mighty good, en he roll on de groun’ en laff. Bimeby he up’n say, sezee:

  “’Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Rabbit,’ sezee; ‘maybe I ain’t, but I speck I is. You been runnin’ roun’ here sassin’ atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter de een’ er de row. You bin cuttin’ up yo’ capers en bouncin’ ‘roun’ in dis naberhood ontwel you come ter b’leeve yo’se’f de boss er de whole gang. En den your allers some’rs whar you got no bizness,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Who ax you fer ter come en strike up a ‘quaintence wid dish yer Tar-Baby? En who stuck you up dar whar you iz? Nobody in de roun’ worril. You des tuck en jam yo’se’f on dat Tar-Baby widout waitin’ fer enny invite,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en dar you is, en dar you’ll stay twel I fixes up a bresh-pile and fires her up, kaze I’m gwineter bobbycue you dis day, sho,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

  “Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty ‘umble.

  “’I don’t keer w’at you do wid me, Brer Fox,’ sezee, ‘so you don’t fling me in dat brier-patch. Roas’ me, Brer Fox,’ sezee, ‘but don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.

  “’Hit’s so much trouble fer ter kindle a fire,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dat I speck I’ll hatter hang you,’ sezee.

  “’Hang me des ez high ez you please, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but do fer de Lord’s sake don’t fling me in that brier-patch,’ sezee.

  “’I ain’t got no string,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en now I speck I’ll hatter drown you,’ sezee.

  “’Drown me des ez deep ez you please, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but do don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.

  “’Dey ain’t no water nigh,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en now I speck I’ll hatter skin you,’ sezee.

  “’Skin me, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘snatch out my eyeballs, t’ar out my years by de roots, en cut off my legs,’ sezee, ‘but do please, Brer Fox, don’t fling me in dat brier-patch,’ sezee.

  “Co’se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad ez he kin, so he cotch ‘im by de behime legs en slung ‘im right in de middle er de brier-patch. Dar was a considerbul flutter whar Brer Rabbit struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter hang ‘roun’ fer ter see w’at wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby he hear somebody call ‘im, en way up de hill he see Brer Rabbit settin’ cross-legged on a chinkapin log koamin’ de pitch outen his har wid a chip. Den Brer Fox know dat he bin swop off mighty bad. Brer Rabbit wuz bleedzed fer ter fling back some er his sass, en he holler out:

  “’Bred en bawn in a brier-patch, Brer Fox — bred en bawn in a brier-patch!’ en wid dat he skip out des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers.”

  V.

  THE STORY OF THE DELUGE

  AND HOW IT CAME ABOUT.

  “One time,” said Uncle Remus — adjusting his spectacles so as to be able to see how to thread a large darning-needle with which he was patching his coat — “one time, way back yander, ‘fo’ you wuz borned, honey, en ‘fo’ Mars John er Miss Sally wuz borned — way back yander ‘fo’ enny un us wuz borned, de anemils en de beasteses sorter ‘lecshuneer roun’ ‘mong deyselves, twel at las’ dey ‘greed fer ter have a ‘sembly. In dem days,” continued the old man, observing a look of incredulity on the little boy’s face, “in dem days creeturs had lots mo’ sense dan dey got now; let ‘lone dat, dey had sense same like folks. Hit was tech en go wid um, too, mon, en w’en dey make up dere mines w’at hatter be done, ‘twant mo’n menshun’d ‘fo’ hit wuz done. Well, dey ‘lected dat dey hatter hole er ‘sembly fer ter sorter straighten out marters en yer de complaints, en w’en de day come dey wuz on han’. De Lion, he wuz dere, kaze he wuz de king, en he hatter be dere. De Rhynossyhoss, he wuz dere, en de Elephent, he wuz dere, en de Cammils, en de Cows, en plum down ter de Crawfishes, dey wuz dere. Dey wuz all dere. En w’en de Lion shuck his mane, en tuck his seat in de big cheer, den de sesshun begun fer ter commence.”

  “What did they do, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

  “I kin skacely call to mine ‘zackly wa’t dey did do, but dey spoke speeches, en hollered, en cusst, en flung der langwidge ‘roun’ des like w’en yo’ daddy wuz gwineter run fer de legislater en got lef’. Howsomever, dey ‘ranged der ‘fairs, en splained der bizness. Bimeby, w’ile dey wuz ‘sputin’ ‘longer wunner nudder, de Elephent tromped on wunner de Crawfishes. Co’se w’en dat creetur put his foot down, w’atsumever’s under dere’s bound fer ter be squshed, en dey wuzn’t nuff er dat Crawfish lef’ fer ter tell dat he’d bin dar.

  “Dis make de udder Crawfishes mighty mad, en dey sorter swawmed tergedder en draw’d up a kinder peramble wid some wharfo’es in it, en read her out in de ‘sembly. But, bless grashus! sech a racket wuz a gwine on dat nobody ain’t hear it, ‘ceppin may be de Mud Turkle en de Spring Lizzud, en dere enfloons wuz pow’ful lackin’.

  “Bimeby, w’iles de Nunicorn wuz ‘sputin’ wid de Lion, en w’ile de Hyener wuz a laffin ter hisse’f, de Elephent squshed
anudder one er de Crawfishes, en a little mo’n he’d er ruint de Mud Turkle. Den de Crawfishes, w’at dey wuz lef’ un um, swawmed tergedder en draw’d up anudder peramble wid sum mo’ wharfo’es; but dey might ez well er sung Ole Dan Tucker ter a harrycane. De udder creeturs wuz too bizzy wid der fussin’ fer ter ‘spon’ unto de Crawfishes. So dar dey wuz, de Crawfishes, en dey didn’t know w’at minnit wuz gwineter be de nex’; en key dep’ on gittin madder en madder en skeerder en skeerder, twel bimeby dey gun de wink ter de Mud Turkle en de Spring Lizzud, en den dey bo’d little holes in de groun’ en went down outer sight.”

  “Who did, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

  “De Crawfishes, honey. Dey bo’d inter de groun’ en kep’ on bo’in twel dey onloost de fountains er de earf; en de waters squirt out, en riz higher en higher twel de hills wuz kivvered, en de creeturs wuz all drowned; en all bekaze dey let on ‘mong deyselves dat dey wuz bigger dan de Crawfishes.”

  Then the old man blew the ashes from a smoking yam, and proceeded to remove the peeling.

  “Where was the ark, Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired, presently.

  “W’ich ark’s dat?” asked the old man, in a tone of well-feigned curiosity.

  “Noah’s ark,” replied the child.

  “Don’t you pester wid ole man Noah, honey. I boun’ he tuck keer er dat ark. Dat’s w’at he wuz dere fer, en dat’s w’at he done. Leas’ways, dat’s w’at dey tells me. But don’t you bodder longer dat ark, ‘ceppin’ your mammy fetches it up. Dey mout er bin two deloojes, en den agin dey moutent. Ef dey wuz enny ark in dish yer w’at de Crawfishes brung on, I ain’t heern tell un it, en w’en dey ain’t no arks ‘roun, I ain’t got no time fer ter make um en put um in dere. Hit’s gittin’ yo’ bedtime, honey.”