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.”
“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.”
