“Yer come Uncle Remus,” said a well-dressed
negro, who was standing on the sidewalk near James’s
bank recently, talking to a crowd of barbers.
“Yer come Uncle Remus. I boun’ he’ll
sign it.”
“You’ll fling yo’ money away ef
you bet on it,” responded Uncle Remus.
“I ain’t turnin’ nothin’ loose
on chu’ch ’scriptions. I wants money
right now fer ter git a pint er meal.”
’Tain’t dat.”
“An’ I ain’t heppin fer ter berry
nobody. Much’s I kin do ter keep de bref
in my own body.”
“’Tain’t dat, nudder.”
“An’ I ain’t puttin’ my han’
ter no reckommends. I’m fear’d fer
ter say a perlite wud ‘bout myself, an’
I des know I ain’t gwine ‘roun’
flatter’n up deze udder niggers.”
“An’ ’tain’t dat,” responded
the darkey, who held a paper in his hand. “We
er gittin’ up a Good Tempeler’s lodge,
an’ we like ter git yo’ name.”
“Eh-eh, honey! I done see too much er dis
nigger tempunce. Dey stan’ up mighty squar’
ontwell dere dues commence ter cramp um, an’
dey don’t stan’ de racket wuf a durn.
No longer’n yistiddy I seed one er de head men
er one er dese Tempeler’s s’cieties totin’
water fer a bar-room. He had de water in a bucket,
but dey ain’t no tellin’ how much red
licker he wuz a totin’. G’long, chile—jine
yo’ s’ciety an’ be good ter yo’se’f.
I’m a gittin’ too ole. Gimme th’ee
er fo’ drams endurin’ er de day, an’
I’m mighty nigh ez good a tempunce man ez de
next un. I got ter scuffle fer sump’n t’eat.”
UNCLE REMUS was enlightening a crowd of negroes at
the car-shed yesterday.
“Dar ain’t nuthin’,” said
the old man, shaking his head pensively, “dat
ain’t got no change wrote on it. Dar ain’t
nothin dat ain’t spotted befo’ hit begins
fer ter commence. We all speunces dat p’overdence
w’at lifts us up fum one place an’ sets
us down in de udder. Hit’s continerly a
movin’ an a movin’.”
“Dat’s so!” “You er talkin’
now!” came from several of his hearers.
“I year Miss Sally readin’ dis mawnin,”
continued the old man, “dat a man wuz comin’
down yer fer ter take keer er de wedder—
wunner deze yer Buro mens w’at goes ‘roun’
a puttin’ up an’ pullin’ down.”
“W’at he gwine do ‘roun’ yer?”
asked one.
“He’s a gwineter regelate de wedder,”
replied Uncle Remus, sententiously. “He’s
a gwineter fix hit up so dat dere won’t be so
much worriment ’mong de w’ite fokes ’bout
de kinder wedder w’at falls to dere lot.”
“He gwine dish em up,” suggested one of
the older ones, “like man dish out sugar.
“No,” answered Uncle Remus, mopping his
benign features with a very large and very red bandana.
“He’s a gwineter fix um better’n
dat. He’s a gwineter fix um up so you kin
have any kinder wedder w’at you want widout
totin’ her home.”
