“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 b’leeve 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?”
“Youer 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 atter 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 folks 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 RÔLE
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 Charl’son, an’ den in Sewanny. I spec I dun grow way frum ‘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 hole 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. Youer mighty fur ways fum home, an’ you wanter be a lookin’ out fer yo’se’f. Fus and fo’mus, your thumpin’ de wrong watermillion. Youer 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 ter dat I’m ole man Tumbler, fum Tumblersville — I is dat. Hit takes one er deze yer full-blooded w’ite men fer ter trap my judgment. 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 gotter travel wid a circus ‘fo’ you gits away wid me. You better go ‘long an’ git yo’ kyarpet-sack and skip de town. Youer de freshest nigger w’at I seen yit.”
The Charleston negro passed on just as a policeman 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 drawd his monty kyards on me, I wuz a gwineter holler fer you. Would youer come, boss?”
“Why, certainly, Uncle Remus.”
“Dat’s w’at I ‘lowd. Little more’n he’d a bin aboard er de wrong waggin. Dat’s wat 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’der bin whar I bin.”
“Where have you been?”
“’Pear ter me like ev’eybody 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 cole, like — leas’ways dat’s how I commence fer ter suffer, an’ den er koff got straddle er de cole — one deze yer koffs wa’t look like hit goes ter de foundash’n. I kep’ on linger’n’ ‘roun’ sorter keepin’ one eye on de 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 natally 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.”
“’Kaze ef dey is, youk’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 we’ll go on twel we gits ter Massasip.”
“Is you got enny folks out dar?” inquired Uncle Remus.
“None dat I knows un.”
“An’ youer 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 bed-cloze,” 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 nowhars else. But don’t you git on dem kyars. Ef you do, youer 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, and dats 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 winner deze yer jestesses er de peace, an’ git a f’ar trial.”
“Why, have you killed anybody?”
“Dat’s what’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 amongg 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, show’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 youer 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 ager out in de woods, an’ w’en a bull goes a bellerin’ by de house den my bones git cole 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 Perryman 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 wus 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 your 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 des 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 wuzent 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,” continued Uncle Remus, with a chuckle. “I wuz comin’ ‘cross de bridge des now, an’ Brer John Henry seed me wid de bag slung onter my back, an’ de jug in it, an’ he ups an’ sez, sezee:
Uncle Remus Stories Page 18
