UNCLE REMUS made his appearance recently with his
right arm in a sling and his head bandaged to that
extent that it looked like the stick made to accompany
the Centennial bass-drum. The old man evidently
expected an attack all around, for he was unusually
quiet, and fumbled in his pockets in an embarrassed
manner. He was not mistaken. The agricultural
editor was the first to open fire:
“Well, you old villain! what have you been up
to now?”
“It is really singular,” remarked a commencement
orator, “that not even an ordinary holiday—a
holiday, it seems to me, that ought to arouse all
the latent instincts of patriotism in the bosom of
American citizens—can occur without embroiling
some of our most valuable citizens. It is really
singular to me that such a day should be devoted by
a certain class of our population to broils and fisticuffs.”
This final moral sentiment, which was altogether an
impromptu utterance, and which was delivered with
the air of one who addresses a vast but invisible
audience of young ladies in white dresses and blue
sashes, seemed to add to the embarrassment of Uncle
Remus, and at the same time to make an explanation
necessary.
“Dey ain’t none er you young w’ite
men never had no ’casion fer ter strike up wid
one er deze Mobile niggers?” asked Uncle Remus.
“’Kaze ef you iz, den you knows wharbouts
de devilment come in. Show me a Mobile nigger,”
continued the old man, an I’ll show you a nigger
dat’s marked for de chain-gang. Hit may
be de fote er de fif’ er July, er hit may be
de twelf’ er Jinawerry, but w’en a Mobile
nigger gits in my naberhood right den an’ dar
trubble sails in an’ ’gages bode fer de
season. I speck I’m ez fon’ er deze
Nunited States ez de nex’ man w’at knows
dat de Buro is busted up; but long ez Remus kin stan’
on his hin’ legs no Mobile nigger can’t
flip inter dis town longer no Wes’ P’int
‘schushun an’ boss ‘roun’ ‘mong
de cullud fokes. Dat’s me, up an’
down, an’ I boun’ dere’s a nigger
some’rs on de road dis blessid day dat’s
got dis put away in his ’membunce.”
“How did he happen to get you down and maul
you in this startling manner?” asked the commencement
orator, with a tone of exaggerated sympathy in his
voice.
“Maul who?” exclaimed Uncle Remus, indignantly.
“Maul who? Boss, de nigger dat mauled me
ain’t bo’nded yit, an’ dey er got
ter have anudder war ’fo one is bo’nded.”
“Well, what was the trouble?”
“Hit wuz sorter dis way, boss. I wuz stannin’
down dere by Mars John Jeems’s bank, chattin’
wid Sis Tempy, w’ich I ain’t seed ’er
befo’ now gwine on seven year, an’ watchin’
de folks trompin’ by, w’en one er deze
yer slick-lookin’ niggers, wid a bee-gum hat
an’ a brass watch ez big ez de head uv a beerbar’l,
come long an’ bresh up agin me—so.
Dere wuz two un um, an’ dey went long gigglin’
an’ laffin’ like a nes’ful er yaller-hammers.
Bimeby dey come long agin an’ de smart Ellick
brush up by me once mo’. Den I say to myse’f,
‘I lay I fetch you ef you gimme anudder invite.’
An’, sho’ ‘nuff, yer he come agin,
an’ dis time he rub a piece er watermillion
rime under my lef’ year.”
