“One time,” said Uncle Remus, whetting
his knife slowly and thoughtfully on the palm of his
hand, and gazing reflectively in the fire—“one
time Brer Wolf—”
“Why, Uncle Remus!” the little boy broke
in, “I thought you said the Rabbit scalded the
Wolf to death a long time ago.”
The old man was fairly caught and he knew it; but
this made little difference to him. A frown gathered
on his usually serene brow as he turned his gaze upon
the child—a frown in which both scorn and
indignation were visible. Then all at once he
seemed to regain control of himself. The frown
was chased away by a look of Christian resignation.
“Dar now! W’at I tell you?”
he exclaimed as if addressing a witness concealed
under the bed. “Ain’t I done tole
you so? Bless grashus! ef chilluns ain’t
gittin’ so dey knows mo’n ole fokes, en
dey’ll ’spute longer you en ‘spute
longer you, ceppin’ der ma call um, w’ich
I speck ’twon’t be long ‘fo’
she will, en den Ill set yere by de chimbly-cornder
en git some peace er mine. W’en ole Miss
wuz livin’,” continued the old man, still
addressing some imaginary person, ’hit ’uz
mo’n enny her chilluns ’ud dast ter do
ter come ‘sputin’ longer me, en Mars John’ll
tell you de same enny day you ax ’im.”
“Well, Uncle Remus, you know you said the Rabbit
poured hot water on the Wolf and killed him,”
said the little boy.
The old man pretended not to hear. He was engaged
in searching among some scraps of leather under his
chair, and kept on talking to the imaginary person.
Finally, he found and drew forth a nicely plaited
whip-thong with a red snapper all waxed and knotted.
“I wuz fixin’ up a w’ip fer a little
chap,” he continued, with a sigh, “but,
bless grashus! ‘fo’ I kin git ’er
done de little chap done grow’d up twel he know
mo’n I duz.”
The child’s eyes filled with tears and his lips
began to quiver, but he said nothing; whereupon Uncle
Remus immediately melted.
“I ‘clar’ to goodness,” he
said, reaching out and taking the little boy tenderly
by the hand, “ef you ain’t de ve’y
spit en image er ole Miss w’en I brung ‘er
de las’ news er de war. Hit’s des
like skeerin’ up a ghos’ w’at you
ain’t fear’d un.”
Then there was a pause, the old man patting the little
child’s hand caressingly.
“You ain’t mad, is you, honey?”
Uncle Remus asked finally, “kaze ef you is,
I’m gwine out yere en butt my head ‘gin
de do’ jam’.”
But the little boy wasn’t mad. Uncle Remus
had conquered him and he had conquered Uncle Remus
in pretty much the same way before. But it was
some time before Uncle Remus would go on with the
story. He had to be coaxed. At last, however,
he settled himself back in the chair and began:
