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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 150 pages of information about Uncle Remus, his songs and his sayings.

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.

TURNIP SALAD AS A TEXT

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.”

V. A CONFESSION

“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.

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