“How’s dat?” asked some one.
“Hit’s dis way,” said the old man,
thoughtfully. “In co’se you knows
w’at kinder wedder you wants. Well, den,
w’en de man comes long, w’ich Miss Sally
say he will, you des gotter go up dar, pick out yo’
wedder an’ dere’ll be a clock sot fer ter
suit yo’ case, an’ w’en you git
home, dere’ll be yo’ wedder a settin’
out in de yard waitin’ fer you. I wish
he wuz yer now,” the old man continued.
“I’d take a pa’r er frosts in mine,
ef I kotched cold fer it. Dat’s me!”
There were various exclamations of assent, and the
old man went on his way singing, “Don’t
you Grieve Atter Me.”
“WHAT makes you look so lonesome, Brer Remus?”
asked a well-dressed negro, as the old man came shuffling
down the street by James’s corner yesterday.
“You er mighty right, I’m lonesome, Brer
John Henry. W’en a ole nigger like me is
gotter paddle de canoe an’ do de fishin’
at de same time, an’ w’en you bleedzd
ter ketch de fish an’ dassent turn de paddle
loose fer ter bait de hook, den I tell you, Brer John,
you er right whar de mink had de goslin’.
Mars John and Miss Sally, dey done bin gone down unto
Putmon County fer ter see der kinfolks mighty nigh
fo’ days, an’ you better bleeve I done
bin had ter scratch ‘roun’ mighty lively
fer ter make de rashuns run out even.
“I wuz at yo’ house las’ night,
Brer Remus,” remarked Brer John Henry, “but
I couldn’t roust you outer bed.”
“Hit was de unseasonableness er de hour, I speck,”
said Uncle Remus, dryly. “‘Pears unto
me dat you all chu’ch deacons settin’
up mighty late deze col’ nights. You’ll
be slippin’ round arter hours some time er nudder,
an you’ll slip bodaciously inter de calaboose.
You mine w’at I tell you.”
“It’s mighty col’ wedder,”
said Brer John Henry, evidently wishing to change
the subject.
“Col’!” exclaimed Uncle Remus; “hit
got pas’ col’ on der quarter stretch.
You oughter come to my house night ‘fo’
las’. Den you’d a foun’ me
‘live an’ kickin’.”
“How’s dat?”
“Well, I tell you, Brer John Henry, de col’
wuz so col’, an’ de kiver wuz so light,
dat I thunk I’d make a raid on Mars John’s
shingle pile, an’ out I goes an totes in a whole
armful. Den I gits under de kiver an’ tells
my ole ’oman fer ter lay ’em onto me like
she was roofin’ a house. Bimeby she crawls
in, an’ de shingles w’at she put on her
side fer ter kiver wid, dey all drap off on de flo’.
Den up I gits an’ piles ’em on agin, an’
w’en I gits in bed my shingles draps off, an’
dat’s de way it wuz de whole blessid night.
Fus’ it wuz me up an’ den de ole ‘oman,
an’ it kep’ us pow’ful warm, too,
dat kinder exercise. Oh, you oughter drapt roun’
’bout dat time, Brer John Henry. You’d
a year’d sho’ nuff cussin’!”
“You don’t tell me, Brer Remus!”
“My ole ‘oman say de Ole Boy wouldn’t
a foun’ a riper nigger, ef he wer’ ter
scour de country fum Ferginny ter de Alabam’”
