“’Heyo, Brer Remus, ain’t it gittin’ late for watermillions?’
“Hit wuz de seetfulness er dat jug. If Brer John Henry know’d de color er dat watermillion, I speck he’d snatch me up ‘fo’ de confunce. I ‘clar’ ter grashus ef dat jug ain’t a caution!”
“I suppose it’s full of molasses now,” remarked one of the young men, sarcastically.
“Hear dat!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, triumphantly — “hear dat! W’at I tell you? I sed dat jug wuz seetful, an’ I sticks to it. I bin known’ dat — “
“What has it got in it?” broke in some one; “molasses, kerosene, or train-oil?”
“Well, I lay she’s loaded, boss. I ain’t shuk her up sence I drapt in, but I lay she’s loaded.”
“Yes,” said the agricultural editor, “and it’s the meanest bug-juice in town — regular sorghum skimmings.”
“Dat’s needer yer ner dar,” responded Uncle Remus. “Po’ fokes better be fixin’ up for Chrismus now w’ile rashuns is cheap. Dat’s me. W’en I year Miss Sally gwine ‘bout de house w’isslin’ ‘W’en I k’n Read my Titles Cler,’ — an’ w’en I see de martins swawmin’ atter sundown — an’ w’en I year de peckerwoods confabbin’ tergedder dese moonshiny nights in my een’ er town — den I knows de hot wedder’s a breakin’ up, an’ I knows it’s ‘bout time fer po’ fokes fer ter be rastlin’ ‘roun’ and huntin’ up dere rashuns. Dat’s me, up an’ down.”
“Well, we are satisfied. Better go and hire a hall,” remarked the sporting editor, with a yawn. “If you are engaged in a talking match you have won the money. Blanket him, somebody, and take him to the stable.”
“An’ w’at’s mo’,” continued the old man, scorning to notice the insinuation, “dough I year Miss Sally w’isslin’, an’ de peckerwoods a chatterin’, I ain’t seein’ none er deze yer loafin’ niggers fixin’ up fer ter ‘migrate. Dey kin holler Kansas all ‘roun’ de naberhood, but ceppin’ a man come ‘long an’ spell it wid greenbacks, he don’t ketch none er deze yer town niggers. You year me, dey ain’t gwine.”
“Stand him up on the table,” said the sporting editor; “give him room.”
“Better go down yer ter de calaboose, an’ git some news fer ter print,” said Uncle Remus, with a touch of irony in his tone. “Some new nigger mighter broke inter jail.”
“You say the darkeys are not going to emigrate this year?” inquired the agricultural editor, who is interested in these things.
“Shoo! dat dey ain’t! I done seed an’ I knows.”
“Well, how do you know?”
“How you tell w’en crow gwineter light? Niggers bin prom’nadin’ by my house all dis summer, holdin’ dere heads high up an’ de whites er dere eyeballs shinin’ in de sun. Dey wuz too bigitty fer ter look over de gyardin’ palin’s. ‘Long ‘bout den de wedder wuz fetchin’ de nat’al sperrits er turkentime outen de pine-trees an’ de groun’ wuz fa’rly smokin’ wid de hotness. Now dat it’s gittin’ sorter airish in de mornin’s, dey don’t ‘pear like de same niggers. Dey done got so dey’ll look over in de yard, an’ nex’ news you know dey’ll be tryin’ fer ter scrape up ‘quaintence wid de dog. W’en dey passes now dey looks at de chicken-coop an’ at de tater-patch. W’en you see niggers gittin’ dat familious, you kin ‘pen’ on dere campin’ wid you de ballunce er de season. Day ‘fo’ yistiddy I kotch one un um lookin’ over de fence at my shoats, an’ I sez, sez I:
“’Duz you wanter purchis dem hogs?’
“’Oh, no,’ sezee, ‘I wuz des lookin’ at dere p’ints.’
“’Well, dey ain’t pintin’ yo’ way,’ sez I, ‘an, fuddermo’, ef you don’t bodder ‘longer dem hogs dey ain’t gwineter clime outer dat pen an’ ‘tack you, nudder,’ sez I.
“An’ I boun’,” continued Uncle Remus, driving the corn-cob stopper a little tighter in his deceitful jug and gathering up his bag — “an’ I boun’ dat my ole muskit’ll go off ‘tween me an’ dat same nigger yit, an’ he’ll be at de bad een’, an’ dis seetful jug’ll ‘fuse ter go ter de funer’l.”
XV.
THE FLORIDA WATERMELON.
“Look yer, boy,” said Uncle Remus yesterday, stopping near the railroad crossing on Whitehall Street, and gazing ferociously at a small colored youth; “look yer, boy, I’ll lay you out flat ef you come flingin’ yo’ watermillion rimes under my foot — you watch ef I don’t. You k’n play yo’ pranks on deze yer w’ite fokes, but w’en you come a cuttin’ up yo’ capers roun’ me you’ll lan’ right in de middle uv er spell er sickness — now you mine w’at I tell you. An’ I ain’t gwine fer ter put up wid none er yo’ sassness nudder — let ‘lone flingin’ watermillion rimes whar I kin git mixt up wid um. I done had nuff watermillions yistiddy an’ de day befo’.”
“How was that, Uncle Remus?” asked a gentleman standing near.
“Hit wuz sorter like dis, boss. Las’ Chuseday, Mars John he fotch home two er deze yer Flurridy watermillions, an him an’ Miss Sally sot down fer ter eat um. Mars John an’ Miss Sally ain’t got nuthin’ dat’s too good fer me, an’ de fus news I know’d Miss Sally wuz a hollerin fer Remus. I done smelt de watermillion on de a’r, an’ I ain’t got no better sense dan fer ter go w’en I years w’ite fokes a hollerin — I larnt dat w’en I wa’n’t so high. Leas’ways I galloped up ter de back po’ch, an’ dar sot de watermillions des ez natchul ez ef dey’d er bin raised on de ole Spivey place in Putmon County. Den Miss Sally, she cut me off er slishe — wunner deze yer ongodly slishes, big ez yo’ hat, an’ I sot down on de steps an’ wrop myse’f roun’ de whole blessid chunk, ‘cepin’ de rime.” Uncle Remus paused and laid his hand upon his stomach as if feeling for something.
“Well, old man, what then?”
“Dat’s w’at I’m a gittin’ at, boss,” said Uncle Remus, smiling a feeble smile. “I santered roun’ ‘bout er half n’our, an’ den I begin fer ter feel sorter squeemish — sorter like I done bin an’ swoller’d ‘bout fo’ poun’s off’n de ruff een’ uv er scantlin’. Look like ter me dat I wuz gwineter be sick, an’ den hit look like I wuzent. Bimeby a little pain showed ‘is head an’ sorter m’andered roun’ like he wuz a lookin’ fer a good place fer ter ketch holt, an’ den a great big pain jump up an’ take atter de little one an’ chase ‘im ‘roun’ an’ roun, an’ he mus’ er kotch ‘im, kaze bimeby de big pain retch down an’ grab dis yer lef’ leg — so — an’ haul ‘im up, an’ den he retch down an’ grab de udder one an’ pull him up, an’ den de wah begun, sho nuff. Fer mighty nigh fo’ hours dey kep’ up dat racket, an’ des ez soon ez a little pain ‘ud jump up de big un ‘ud light onter it an’ gobble it up, an’ den de big un ‘ud go sailin’ roun’ huntin’ fer mo’. Some fokes is mighty cu’us, dough. Nex’ mornin’ I hear Miss Sally a laughin’, an’ singin’ an’ a w’isslin’ des like dey want no watermillions raise in Flurridy. But somebody better pen dis yer nigger boy up w’en I’m on de town — I kin tell you dat.”
XVI.
UNCLE REMUS PREACHES
TO A CONVERT.
“Dey tells me you done jine de chu’ch,” said Uncle Remus to Pegleg Charley.
“Yes, sir,” responded Charley, gravely, “dat’s so.”
“Well, I’m mighty glad er dat,” remarked Uncle Remus, with unction. “It’s ‘bout time dat I wuz spectin’ fer ter hear un you in de chain-gang, an’, stidder dat, hit’s de chu’ch. Well, dey ain’t no tellin’ deze days whar a nigger’s gwineter lan’.”
“Yes,” responded Charley, straightening himself up and speaking in a dignified tone, “yes, I’m fixin’ to do better. I’m preparin’ fer to shake worldliness. I’m done quit so’shatin’ wid deze w’ite town boys. Dey’ve been a goin’ back on me too rapidly here lately, an’ now I’m a goin’ back on dem.”
“Well, ef you done had de speunce un it, I’m mighty glad. Ef you got ‘lijjun, you better hole on to it ‘twell de las’ day in de mornin’. Hit’s mighty good fer ter kyar’ ‘roun’ wid you in de day time an’ likewise in de night time. Hit’ll pay you mo
’ dan politics, an’ ef you stan’s up like you oughter, hit’ll las’ longer dan a bone-fellum. But you wanter have one er deze yer ole-time grips’, an’ you des gotter shet yo’ eyes an’ swing on like wunner deze yer bull-tarrier dogs.”
“Oh, I’m goin’ to stick, Uncle Remus. You kin put your money on dat. Deze town boys can’t play no more uv dere games on me. I’m fixed. Can’t you lend me a dime, Uncle Remus, to buy me a pie? I’m dat hongry dat my stomach is gittin’ ready to go in mo’nin’.”
Uncle Remus eyed Charley curiously a moment, while the latter looked quietly at his timber toe. Finally, the old man sighed and spoke:
“How long is you bin in de chu’ch, son?”
“Mighty near a week,” replied Charley.
“Well, lemme tell you dis, now, ‘fo’ you go enny fudder. You ain’t bin in dar long nuff fer ter go ‘roun’ takin up conterbutions. Wait ontwell you gits sorter seasoned like, an’ den I’ll hunt ‘roun’ in my cloze an’ see ef I can’t run out a thrip er two fer you. But don’t you levy taxes too early.”
Charley laughed, and said he would let the old man off if he would treat to a watermelon.
XVII.
AS TO EDUCATION.
As Uncle Remus came up Whitehall Street recently, he met a little colored boy carrying a slate and a number of books. Some words passed between them, but their exact purport will probably never be known. They were unpleasant, for the attention of a wandering policeman was called to the matter by hearing the man bawl out:
“Don’t you come foolin’ longer me, nigger. Youer flippin’ yo’ sass at de wrong color. You k’n go roun’ yer an’ sass deze w’ite people, an’ maybe dey’ll stan’ it, but w’en you come a slingin’ yo’ jaw at a man w’at wuz gray w’en de fahmin’ days gin out, you better go an’ git yo’ hide greased.”
“What’s the matter, old man?” asked a sympathizing policeman.
“Nothin’, boss, ‘ceppin I ain’t gwineter hav’ no nigger chillun a hoopin’ an’ a hollerin’ at me w’en I’m gwine ‘long de streets.”
“Oh, well, school-children — you know how they are.”
“Dat’s w’at make I say w’at I duz. Dey better be home pickin’ up chips. W’at a nigger gwineter l’arn outen books? I kin take a bar’l stave an’ fling mo’ sense inter a nigger in one minnit dan all de school-houses betwixt dis en de State er Midgigin. Don’t talk, honey! Wid one bar’l stave I kin fa’rly lif’ de vail er ignunce.”
“Then you don’t believe in education?”
“Hits de ruination er dis country. Look at my gal. De ole ‘oman sont ‘er ter school las’ year, an’ now we dassent hardly ax ‘er fer ter kyar de washin’ home. She done got beyant ‘er bizness. I ‘aint larnt nuthin’ in books, ‘en yit I kin count all de money I gits. No use talkin’, boss. Put a spellin’-book in a nigger’s han’s, en right den en dar’ you loozes a plow-hand. I done had de spe’unce un it.”
XVIII
A TEMPERANCE REFORMER.
“Yer come Uncle Remus,” said a well-dressed negro, who was standing on the sidewalk near James’s bank recently, talking to a crowd of barbers. “Yer come Uncle Remus. I boun’ he’ll sign it.”
“You’ll fling yo’ money away ef you bet on it,” responded Uncle Remus. “I ain’t turnin’ nothin’ loose on chu’ch ‘scriptions. I wants money right now fer ter git a pint er meal.”
“’Tain’t dat.”
“An’ I ain’t heppin fer ter berry nobody. Much’s I kin do ter keep de bref in my own body.”
“’Tain’t dat, nudder.”
“An’ I ain’t puttin’ my han’ ter no recommends. I’m fear’d fer ter say a perlite wud ‘bout myse’f, an’ I des know I ain’t gwine ‘roun flatter’n up deze udder niggers.”
“An’ ‘tain’t dat,” responded the darkey, who held a paper in his hand. “We er gittin up a Good Tempeler’s lodge, an’ we like ter git yo’ name.”
“Eh-eh, honey! I done see too much er dis nigger tempunce. Dey stan’ up mighty squar’ ontwell dere dues commence ter cramp um, an’ dey don’t stan’ de racket wuf a durn. No longer’n yistiddy I seed one er de head men er one er dese Tempeler’s societies totin’ water fer a bar-room. He had de water in a bucket, but dey ain’t no tellin’ how much red licker he wuz a totin’. G’long, chile — jine yo’ society an’ be good ter yo’se’f. I’m a gittin’ too ole. Gimme th’ee er fo’ drams endurin er de day, an’ I’m mighty nigh ez good a tempunce man ez de next un. I got ter scuffle fer sump’n t’eat.”
XIX.
AS A WEATHER PROPHET.
Uncle Remus was enlightening a crowd of negroes at the car-shed yesterday.
“Dar ain’t nuthin’,” said the old man, shaking his head pensively, “dat ain’t got no change wrote on it.
Dar ain’t nothin’ dat ain’t spotted befo’ hit begins fer ter commence. We all speunces dat p’overdence w’at lifts us up fum one place an’ sets us down in de udder. Hit’s continerly a movin’ an a movin’.”
“Dat’s so!” “Youer talkin’ now!” came from several of his hearers.
“I year Miss Sally readin’ dis mawnin,” continued the old man, “dat a man wuz comin’ down yer fer ter take keer er de wedder — wunner deze yer Buro mens w’at goes ‘roun’ a puttin’ up an’ pullin’ down.”
“W’at he gwine do ‘roun’ yer?” asked one.
“He’s a gwineter regelate de wedder,” replied Uncle Remus, sententiously. “He’s a gwineter fix hit up so dat dere won’t be so much worriment ‘mong de w’ite fokes ‘bout de kinder wedder w’at falls to dere lot.”
“He gwine dish em up,” suggested one of the older ones, “like man dish out sugar.”
“No,” answered Uncle Remus, mopping his benign features with a very large and very red bandana. “He’s a gwineter fix um better’n dat. He’s a gwineter fix um up so you kin have any kinder wedder w’at you want widout totin’ her home.”
“How’s dat?” asked some one.
“Hit’s dis way,” said the old man, thoughtfully. “In co’se you knows w’at kinder wedder you wants. Well, den, w’en de man comes ‘long, w’ich Miss Sally say he will, you des gotter go up dar, pick out yo’ wedder, an’ dere’ll be a clock sot fer ter suit yo’ case, an’ w’en you git home, dere’ll be yo’ wedder a settin’ out in de yard waitin’ fer you. I wish he wuz yer now,” the old man continued. “I’d take a p’ar er frosts in mine, ef I kotched cold fer it. Dat’s me!”
There were various exclamations of assent, and the old man went on his way singing, “Don’t you Grieve Atter Me.”
XX.
THE OLD MAN’S TROUBLES.
“What makes you look so lonesome, Brer Remus?” asked a well-dressed negro, as the old man came shuffling down the street by James’s corner yesterday.
“Youer mighty right, I’m lonesome, Brer John Henry. W’en a ole nigger like me is gotter paddle de canoe an’ do de fishin’ at de same time, an’ w’en you bleedzd ter ketch de fish and dassent turn de paddle loose fer ter bait de hook, den I tell you, Brer John, your right whar de mink had de goslin’. Mars John and Miss Sally, dey done bin gone down unto Putmon County fer ter see dere kinfolks mighty nigh fo’ days, an’ you better b’leeve I done bin had ter scratch roun’ mighty lively fer ter make de rashuns run out even.”
“I wuz at yo’ house las’ night, Brer Remus,” remarked Brer John Henry, “but I couldn’t roust you outer bed.”
“Hit was de unseasonableness er de hour, I speck,” said Uncle Remus, dryly. “’Pears unto me dat you all chu’ch deacons settin’ up mighty late deze cole nights. You’ll be slippin’ round arter hours some time er nudder, an’ you’ll slip bodaciously inter de calaboose. You mine w’at I tell you.”
“It’s mighty cole wedder,” said Brer John Henry, evidently wishing to change the subject.
“Cole!” exclaimed Uncle Remus; “hit got pas’ cole on de quarter stretch. You oughter come to my house night ‘fo’ las’. Den you’d a foun’ me ‘live an’ kickin’.”
“How’s dat?”
“Well, I tell you, Brer John Henry, de cole wuz so cole, an’ de kiver wuz so light, dat I thunk I’d make a raid on Mars John’s shingle pile, an’ out I goes an’ totes in a whole armful. Den I gits under de kiver an’ tells my ole ‘oman fer ter lay ‘em onto me like she was roofin’ a house. Bimeby she crawls in, an’ de shingles w’at she put on her side fer ter kiver wid, dey all drap off on de flo’. Den up I gits an’ piles ‘em on agin, an’ w’en I gits in bed my shingle draps off, an’ dat’s de way it wuz de whole blessid night. Fus’ it wuz me up an’ den de ole ‘oman, an’ it kep’ us pow’ful warm, too, dat kinder exercise. Oh, you oughter drapt roun’ ‘bout dat time, Brer John Henry. You’d a year’d sho’ nuff cussin’!
“You don’t tell me, Brer Remus!”
“My ole ‘oman say de Ole Boy wouldn’t a foun’ a riper nigger, ef he wer’ ter scour de country fum Ferginny ter de Alabam!”
XXI.
THE FOURTH OF JULY.
Uncle Remus made his appearance recently with his right arm in a sling and his hand bandaged to that extent that it looked like the stick made to accompany the Centennial bass-drum. The old man evidently expected an attack all around, for he was unusually quiet, and fumbled in his pockets in an embarrassed manner. He was not mistaken. The agricultural editor was the first to open fire:
“Well, you old villain! what have you been up to now?”
“It is really singular,” remarked a commencement orator, “that not even an ordinary holiday — a holiday, it seems to me, that ought to arouse all the latent instincts of patriotism in the bosom of American citizens — can occur without embroiling some of our most valuable citizens. It is really singular to me that such a day should be devoted by a certain class of our population to broils and fisticuffs.”
Uncle Remus Stories Page 19
