The Charleston negro passed on just as a police-man’ came up.

“Boss, you see dat smart Ellick?”

“Yes, what’s the matter with him?”

“He’s one er deze yer scurshun niggers from Charlstun.  I seed you a-stannin’ over agin de cornder yander, an’ ef dat nigger’d a draw’d his monty kyards on me, I wuz a gwineter holler fer you.  Would you er come, boss?”

“Why, certainly, Uncle Remus.”

“Dat’s w’at I ’low’d.  Little more’n he’d a bin aboard er de wrong waggin.  Dat’s w’at he’d a bin.”

X. A CASE OF MEASLES

“YOU’VE been looking like you were rather under the weather for the past week or two, Uncle Remus,” said a gentleman to the old man.

“You’d be sorter puny, too, boss, if you’d er bin whar I bin.”

“Where have you been?”

“Pear ter me like eve’ybody done year ’bout dat.  Dey ain’t no ole nigger my age an’ size dat’s had no rattliner time dan I is.”

“A kind of picnic?”

“Go long, boss! w’at you speck I be doin’ sailin’ ‘roun’ ter dese yer cullud picnics?  Much mo’ an’ I wouldn’t make bread by wukkin’ fer’t, let ‘lone follerin’ up a passel er boys an’ gals all over keration.  Boss, ain’t you year ‘bout it, sho’ ’nuff?”

“I haven’t, really.  What was the matter?”

“I got strucken wid a sickness, an’ she hit de ole nigger a joe-darter ‘fo’ she tu’n ’im loose.”

“What kind of sickness?”

“Hit look sorter cu’ous, boss, but ole an’ steddy ez I is, I tuck’n kotch de meezles.”

“Oh, get out!  You are trying to get up a sensation.”

“Hit’s a natal fack, boss, I declar’ ter grashus ef ’tain’t.  Dey sorter come on wid a col’, like—­leas’ways dat’s how I commence fer ter suffer, an’ den er koff got straddle er de col’—­one dese yer koffs w’at look like hit goes ter de foundash’n.  I kep’ on linger’n’ ‘roun’ sorter keepin’ one eye on the rheumatiz an’ de udder on de distemper, twel, bimeby, I begin fer ter feel de trestle-wuk give way, an’ den I des know’d dat I wuz gwineter gitter racket.  I slipt inter bed one Chuseday night, an’ I never slip out no mo’ fer mighty nigh er mont’.

“Nex’ mornin’ de meezles ‘d done kivered me, an’ den ef I didn’t git dosted by de ole ’oman I’m a Chinee.  She gimme back rashuns er sassafac tea.  I des natchully hankered an’ got hongry atter water, an ev’y time I sing out fer water I got b’ilin’ hot sassafac tea.  Hit got so dat w’en I wake up in de mornin’ de ole ’oman ‘d des come long wid a kittle er tea an’ fill me up.  Dey tells me ‘roun’ town dat chilluns don’t git hurted wid de meezles, w’ich ef dey don’t I wanter be a baby de nex’ time dey hits dis place.  All dis yer meezles bizness is bran’-new ter me.  In ole times, ‘fo’ de wah, I ain’t heer tell er no seventy-fi’- year-ole nigger grapplin’ wid no meezles.  Dey ain’t ketchin’ no mo’, is dey, boss?”

“Oh, no—­I suppose not.”