The Savannah negro here gave utterance to a loud,
contemptuous laugh, and began to fumble somewhat ostentatiously
with a big brass watch-chain.
“But I speck I struck up wid a payin’
job las’ Chuseday,” continued Uncle Remus,
in a hopeful tone.
“Wey you gwan do?”
“Oh, I’m a waitin’ on a culled gemmun
fum Savannah—wunner deze yer high livers
you bin tellin’ ’bout.”
“How dat?”
“I loant ‘im two dollars,” responded
Uncle Remus, grimly, “an’ I’m a
waitin’ on ’im fer de money. Hit’s
wunner deze yer jobs w’at las’s a long
time.”
The Savannah negro went off after his rice-birds,
while Uncle Remus leaned up against the wall and laughed
until he was in imminent danger of falling down from
sheer exhaustion.
1 Underneath. 2 Mouthful.
As Uncle Remus was going down the street recently
he was accosted by several acquaintances.
“Heyo!” said one, “here comes Uncle
Remus. He look like he gwine fer ter set up a
bo’din-house.”
Several others bantered the old man, but he appeared
to be in a good humor. He was carrying a huge
basket of vegetables.
“How many er you boys,” said he, as he
put his basket down, “is done a han’s
turn dis day? En yit de week’s done commence.
I year talk er niggers dat’s got money in de
bank, but I lay hit ain’t none er you fellers.
Whar you speck you gwineter git yo’ dinner,
en how you speck you gwineter git ’long?”
“Oh, we sorter knocks ‘roun’ an’
picks up a livin’,” responded one.
“Dat’s w’at make I say w’at
I duz,” said Uncle Remus. “Fokes go
‘bout in de day-time an’ makes a livin’,
an’ you come ’long w’en dey er res’in’
der bones an’ picks it up. I ain’t
no han’ at figgers, but I lay I k’n count
up right yer in de san’ en number up how menny
days hit’ll be ‘fo’ you ’er
cuppled on ter de chain-gang.”
“De ole man’s holler’n now sho’,”
said one of the listeners, gazing with admiration
on the venerable old darkey.
“I ain’t takin’ no chances ’bout
vittles. Hit’s proned inter me fum de fus
dat I got ter eat, en I knows dat I got fer ter grub
for w’at I gits. Hit’s agin de mor’l
law fer niggers fer ter eat w’en dey don’t
wuk, an’ w’en you see um ‘pariently
fattenin’ on a’r, you k’n des bet
dat ruinashun’s gwine on some’rs.
I got mustard, en poke salid, en lam’s quarter
in dat baskit, en me en my ole ’oman gwineter
sample it. Ef enny you boys git a invite you
come, but ef you don’t you better stay ’way.
I gotter muskit out dar w’at’s used ter
persidin’ ‘roun’ whar dey’s
a cripple nigger. Don’t you fergit dat
off’n yo’ mine.”
“W’AT’S dis yer I see, great big
niggers gwine ‘lopin’ ‘roun’
town wid cakes ’n pies fer ter sell?” asked
Uncle Remus recently, in his most scornful tone.
