“Co’se, I know all about dat,” responded
Uncle Remus, “en it sorter made col’ chills
run up my back; but w’en I see dat man take
aim, en Mars Jeems gwine home ter Ole Miss en Miss
Sally, I des disremembered all ’bout freedom
en lammed aloose. En den atter dat, me en Miss
Sally tuck en nuss de man right straight along.
He los’ one arm in dat tree bizness, but me en
Miss Sally we nuss ’im en we nuss ’im
twel he done got well. Des ’bout dat time
I quit nuss’n ‘im, but Miss Sally she kep’
on. She kep’ on,” continued Uncle
Remus, pointing to Mr. Huntingdon, “en now dar
he is.”
“But you cost him an arm,” exclaimed Miss
Theodosia.
“I gin ’im dem,” said Uncle Remus,
pointing to Mrs. Huntingdon, “en I gin ’im
deze”—holding up his own brawny arms.
“En ef dem ain’t nuff fer enny man den
I done los’ de way.”
I. JEEMS ROBER’SON’S LAST ILLNESS
A Jonesboro negro, while waiting for the train to
go out, met up with Uncle Remus. After the usual
“time of day” had been passed between
the two, the former inquired about an acquaintance.
“How’s Jeems Rober’son?” he
asked.
“Ain’t you year ’bout Jim?”
asked Uncle Remus.
“Dat I ain’t,” responded the other;
“I ain’t hear talk er Jem sence he cut
loose fum de chain-gang. Dat w’at make I
ax. He ain’t down wid de biliousness, is
he?”
“Not dat I knows un,” responded Uncle
Remus, gravely. “He ain’t sick,
an’ he ain’t bin sick. He des tuck’n
say he wuz gwineter ride dat ar roan mule er Mars
John’s de udder Sunday, an’ de mule, she
up’n do like she got nudder ingagement.
I done bin fool wid dat mule befo’, an’
I tuck’n tole Jim dat he better not git tangle
up wid ’er; but Jim, he up’n ’low
dat he wuz a hoss-doctor, an’ wid dat he ax
me fer a chaw terbacker, en den he got de bridle,
en tuck’n kotch de mule en got on her—Well,”
continued Uncle Remus, looking uneasily around, “I
speck you better go git yo’ ticket. Dey
tells me dish yer train goes a callyhootin’.”
“Hol’ on dar, Uncle Remus; you ain’t
tell me ’bout Jim,” exclaimed the Jonesboro
negro.
“I done tell you all I knows, chile. Jim,
he tuck’n light on de mule, an’ de mule
she up’n hump ’erse’f, an den dey
wuz a skuffle, an’ w’en de dus’
blow ’way, dar lay de nigger on de groun’,
an’ de mule she stood eatin’ at de troff
wid wunner Jim’s gallusses wrop ‘roun’
her behime-leg. Den atterwuds, de ker’ner,
he come ‘roun’, an’ he tuck’n
gin it out dat Jim died sorter accidental like.
Hit’s des like I tell you: de nigger wern’t
sick a minnit. So long! Bimeby you won’t
ketch yo’ train. I got ter be knockin’
long.”
THE deacon of a colored church met Uncle Remus recently,
and, after some uninteresting remarks about the weather,
asked:
“How dis you don’t come down ter chu’ch
no mo’, Brer Remus? We er bin er havin’
some mighty ‘freshen’ times lately.”
