“‘You do de clim’in’, Brer
B’ar, en I’ll do de rushin’ ‘roun’;
you clim’ up ter de hole, en I’ll take
dis yer pine pole en shove de honey up whar you kin
git ‘er,’ sezee.
“Ole Brer B’ar, he spit on his han’s
en skint up de tree, en jam his head in de hole, en
sho nuff, Brer Rabbit, he grab de pine pole, en de
way he stir up dem bees wuz sinful—dat’s
w’at it wuz. Hit wuz sinful. En de
bees dey swawm’d on Brer B’ar’s head,
twel ‘fo’ he could take it out’n
de hole hit wuz done swell up bigger dan dat dinner-pot,
en dar he swung, en ole Brer Rabbit, he dance ‘roun’
en sing:
“Tree stan’ high, but honey mighty sweet—
Watch dem bees wid stingers on der feet.’
“But dar ole Brer B’ar hung, en ef his
head ain’t swunk, I speck he hangin’ dar
yit—dat w’at I speck.”
“Hit turn out one time,” said Uncle
Remus, grinding some crumbs of tobacco between the
palms of his hands, preparatory to enjoying his usual
smoke after supper—“hit turn out one
time dat Brer Rabbit make so free wid de man’s
collard-patch dat de man he tuck’n sot a trap
fer ole Brer Rabbit.”
“Which man was that, Uncle Remus?” asked
the little boy.
“Des a man, honey. Dat’s all.
Dat’s all I knows—des wunner dese
yer mans w’at you see trollopin ‘roun’
eve’y day. Nobody ain’t never year
w’at his name is, en ef dey did dey kep’
de news mighty close fum me. Ef dish yer man
is bleedzd fer ter have a name, den I’m done,
kaze you’ll hatter go fudder dan me. Ef
you bleedzd ter know mo’ dan w’at I duz,
den you’ll hatter hunt up some er deze yer niggers
w’at’s sprung up sence I commence fer
ter shed my ha’r.”
“Well, I just thought, Uncle Remus,” said
the little boy, in a tone remarkable for self-depreciation,
“that the man had a name.”
“Tooby sho,” replied the old man, with
unction, puffing away at his pipe. “Co’se.
Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz. Dish
yer man mout a had a name, en den ag’in he moutn’t.
He mont er bin name Slip-shot Sam, en he mouter bin
name ole One-eye Riley, w’ich ef ‘twuz
hit ain’t bin handed roun’ ter me.
But dish yer man, he in de tale, en w’at we
gwine do wid ’im? Dat’s de p’int,
kase w’en I git ter huntin’ ‘roun’
’mong my ’membunce atter dish yer Mister
W’atyoumaycollum’s name, she ain’t
dar. Now den, le’s des call ’im Mr.
Man en let ’im go at dat.”
The silence of the little boy gave consent.
“One time,” said Uncle Remus, carefully
taking up the thread of the story where it had been
dropped, “hit turn out dat Brer Rabbit bin makin’
so free wid Mr. Man’s greens en truck dat Mr.
Man, he tuck’n sot a trap for Brer Rabbit, en
Brer Rabbit he so greedy dat he tuck’n walk
right spang in it, ‘fo’ he know hisse’f.
Well, ’twa’n’t long ‘fo’
yer come Mr. Man, broozin’ ‘roun’,
en he ain’t no sooner see ole Brer Rabbit dan
he smack his han’s tergedder en holler out:
