Transcriber’s Note: The reader may wish to be warned that this book contains language which is nowadays considered racially offensive.

Drawn by A. B. Frost

“Is anybody ever hear de beat er dat?”—“Brother Rabbit’s Laughing-Place”

Told by
UNCLE REMUS

New Stories of the
Old Plantation

by
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Illustrated by
A. B. FROST, J. M. CONDE
and FRANK UERBECK

GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers
NEW YORK

Copyright, 1903, 1904, 1905, by
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Copyright, 1903, 1904, 1905, by P. F. Collier & Son
Copyright, 1904, 1905, by The Metropolitan Magazine Company

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

CONTENTS

LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS

THE REASON WHY

The main reason why Uncle Remus retired from business as a story-teller was because the little boy to whom he had told his tales grew to be a very big boy, and grew and grew till he couldn’t grow any bigger. Meanwhile, his father and mother moved to Atlanta, and lived there for several years. Uncle Remus moved with them, but he soon grew tired of the dubious ways of city life, and one day he told his Miss Sally that if she didn’t mind he was going back to the plantation where he could get a breath of fresh air.

He was overjoyed when the lady told him that they were all going back as soon as the son married. As this event was to occur in the course of a few weeks, Uncle Remus decided to wait for the rest of the family. The wedding came off, and then the father and mother returned to the plantation, and made their home there, much to the delight of the old negro.

In course of time, the man who had been the little boy for ever so long came to have a little boy of his own, and then it happened in the most natural way in the world that the little boy’s little boy fell under the spell of Uncle Remus, who was still hale and hearty in spite of his age.

This latest little boy was frailer and quieter than his father had been; indeed, he was fragile, and had hardly any color in his face. But he was a beautiful child, too beautiful for a boy. He had large, dreamy eyes, and the quaintest little ways that ever were seen; and he was polite and thoughtful of others. He was very choice in the use of words, and talked as if he had picked his language out of a book. He was a source of perpetual wonder to Uncle Remus; indeed, he was the wonder of wonders, and the old negro had a way of watching him curiously. Sometimes, as the result of this investigation, which was continuous, Uncle Remus would shake his head and chuckle; at other times, he would shake his head and sigh.

This little boy was not like the other little boy. He was more like a girl in his refinement; all the boyishness had been taken out of him by that mysterious course of discipline that some mothers know how to apply. He seemed to belong to a different age—to a different time; just how or why, it would be impossible to say. Still, the fact was so plain that any one old enough and wise enough to compare the two little boys—one the father of the other—could not fail to see the difference; and it was a difference not wholly on the surface. Miss Sally, the grandmother, could see it, and Uncle Remus could see it; but for all the rest the tendencies and characteristics of this later little boy were a matter of course.

“Miss Sally,” said Uncle Remus, a few days after the arrival of the little boy and his mother, “what dey gwineter do wid dat chile? What dey gwineter make out ’n ’im?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied. “A grandmother doesn’t count for much these days unless there is illness. She is everything for a few hours, and then she is nothing.” There was no bitterness in the lady’s tone, but there was plenty of feeling—feeling that only a grandmother can appreciate and understand.

“I speck dat’s so,” Uncle Remus remarked; “an’ a ole nigger dat oughter been dead long ago, by good rights, don’t count no time an’ nowhar. But it’s a pity—a mighty pity.”

“What is a pity?” the lady inquired, though she knew full well what was in the old negro’s mind.

“I can’t tell you, ma’am, an’ ’twouldn’t be my place ter tell you ef I could; but dar ’tis, an’ you can’t rub it out. I see it, but I can’t say it; I knows it, but I can’t show you how ter put yo’ finger on it; yit it’s dar ef I’m name Remus.”

The grandmother sat silent so long, and gazed at the old negro so seriously, that he became restive. He placed the weight of his body first on one foot and then on the other, and finally struck blindly at some imaginary object with the end of his walking-cane.

“I hope you ain’t mad wid me, Miss Sally,” he said.

“With you?” she cried. “Why——” She was sitting in an easy-chair on the back porch, where the warmth of the sun could reach her, but she rose suddenly and went into the house. She made a noise with her throat as she went, so that Uncle Remus thought she was laughing, and chuckled in response, though he felt little like chuckling. As a matter of fact, if his Miss Sally had remained on the porch one moment longer she would have burst into tears.

She went in the house, however, and was able to restrain herself. The little boy caught at the skirt of her dress, saying: “Grandmother, you have been sitting in the sun, and your face is red. Mother never allows me to sit in the sun for fear I will freckle. Father says a few freckles would help me, but mother says they would be shocking.”

Uncle Remus received his dinner from the big house that day, and by that token he knew that his Miss Sally was very well pleased with him. The dinner was brought on a waiter by a strapping black girl, with a saucy smile and ivory-white teeth. She was a favorite with Uncle Remus, because she was full of fun. “I dunner how come de white folks treat you better dan dey does de balance un us,” she declared, as she sat the waiter on the small pine table and removed the snowy napkin with which it was covered. “I know it ain’t on ’count er yo’ beauty, kaze yo’ ain’t no purtier dan what I is,” she went on, tossing her head and showing her white teeth.

Uncle Remus looked all around on the floor, pretending to be looking for some weapon that would be immediately available. Finding none, he turned with a terrible make-believe frown, and pointed his forefinger at the girl, who was now as far as the door, her white teeth gleaming as she laughed.

“Mark my words,” he said solemnly; “ef I don’t brain you befo’ de week’s out it’ll be bekaze you done been gobbled up by de Unkollopsanall.” The girl stopped laughing instantly, and became serious. The threats of age have a meaning that all the gaiety of youth cannot overcome. The gray hair of Uncle Remus, his impersonation of wrath, his forefinger held up in warning, made his threat so uncanny that the girl shivered in spite of the fact that she thought he was joking. Let age shake a finger at you, and you feel that there is something serious behind the gesture.

Now, Miss Sally had taken advantage of the opportunity to send the grandchild with the girl; she was anxious that he should make the acquaintance of Uncle Remus, and have instilled into his mind the quaint humor that she knew would remain with him all his life, and become a fragrant memory when he grew old. But the later little boy was very shy, and when he saw the terrible frown and the threatening gesture with which Uncle Remus had greeted the girl, he shrank back in a corner, seeing which the old negro began to laugh. It was not a genuine laugh, but it was so well done that it answered every purpose.

“I don’t see nothin’ ter laugh at,” remarked the girl, and with that she flirted out.

Uncle Remus turned to the little boy. “Honey, you look so much like Brer Rabbit dat I bleeze ter laugh. ’Long at fust, I had a notion dat you mought be Mr. Cricket. But youer too big fer dat, an’ den you ain’t got no elbows in yo’ legs. An’ den I know’d ’twuz Brer Rabbit I had in min’. Yasser, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat—you look like Brer Rabbit when he tryin’ fer ter make up his min’ whedder ter run er no.”

Then, without waiting to see the effect of this remark, Uncle Remus turned his attention to the waiter and its contents. “Well, suh!” he exclaimed, with apparent surprise, “ef dar ain’t a slishe er tater custard! An’ ef I ain’t done gone stone blin’, dar’s a dish er hom’ny wid ham gravy on it! Yes, an’ bless gracious, dar’s a piece er ham! Dey all look like ol’ ’quaintances which dey been gone a long time an’ des come back; an’ dey look like deyer laughin’ kaze dey er glad ter see me. I wish you’d come here, honey, an’ see ef dey ain’t laughin’; you got better eyes dan what I is.”

The lure was entirely successful. The little boy came forward timidly, and when he was within reach, Uncle Remus placed him gently on his knee. The child glanced curiously at the dishes. He had heard so much of Uncle Remus from his father and his grandmother that he was inclined to believe everything the old man said. “Why, they are not laughing,” he exclaimed. “How could they?”

“I speck my eyes is bad,” replied Uncle Remus. “When anybody gits ter be a himbly an’ hombly-hombly year ol’ dey er liable fer ter see double.”

The child was a very serious child, but he laughed in spite of himself. “Oh, pshaw!” he exclaimed.

“I’m mighty glad you said dat,” remarked Uncle Remus, smacking his lips, “kaze ef you hadn’t ’a’ said it, I’d ’a’ been a bleeze ter say it myse’f.”

“Say what?” inquired the little boy, who was unused to the quips of the old man.

“’Bout dat tater custard. It’s de funniest tater custard dat I ever laid eyes on, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.”

“Grandmother wanted to give me some,” said the little boy longingly, “but mother said it wasn’t good for me.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Uncle Remus in a tone of triumph. “What I tell you? Miss Sally writ on here wid dese dishes dat she want you ter eat dat tater custard. Mo’ dan dat she sont two pieces. Dar’s one, an’ dar de yuther.” There wasn’t anything wrong about this counting, except that Uncle Remus pointed twice at the same piece.

The little boy was sitting on Uncle Remus’s knee, and he turned suddenly and looked into the weather-beaten face that had harbored so many smiles. The child seemed to be searching for something in that venerable countenance, and he must have found it, for he allowed his head to fall against the old negro’s shoulder and held it there. The movement was as familiar to Uncle Remus as the walls of his cabin, for among all the children that he had known well, not one had failed to lay his head where that of the little boy now rested.

“Miss Sally is de onliest somebody in de roun’ worl’ dat know what you an’ me like ter eat,” remarked Uncle Remus, making a great pretense of chewing. “I dunner how she fin’ out, but fin’ out she did, an’ we oughter be mighty much beholden ter ’er. I done et my piece er tater custard,” he went on, “an’ you kin eat yone when you git good an’ ready.”

“I saw only one piece,” remarked the child, without raising his head, “and if you have eaten that there is none left for me.” Uncle Remus closed his eyes, and allowed his head to fall back. This was his favorite attitude when confronted by something that he could not comprehend. This was his predicament now, for there was something in this child that was quite beyond him. Small as the lad was he was old-fashioned; he thought and spoke like a grown person; and this the old negro knew was not according to nature. The trouble with the boy was that he had had no childhood; he had been subdued and weakened by the abnormal training he had received.

“Tooby sho you ain’t seed um,” Uncle Remus declared, returning to the matter of the potato custard. “Ef yo’ pa had ’a’ been in yo’ place he’d ’a’ seed um, kaze when he wuz long ’bout yo’ age, he had mo’ eyes in his stomach dan what he had his head. But de ol’ nigger wuz a little too quick fer you. I seed de two pieces time de gal snatch de towel off, an’ I ’low ter myse’f dat ef I didn’t snatch one, I’d not git none. Yasser! I wuz a little too quick fer you.”

The child turned his head, and saw that the slice of potato custard was still on the plate. “I’m so sorry that mother thinks it will hurt me,” he said with a sigh.

“Well, whatsomever she say ’bout de yuther piece er custard, I boun’ she ain’t say dat dat piece ’ud hurt you, kaze she ain’t never lay eyes on it. An’ mo’ dan dat,” Uncle Remus went on with a very serious face: “Miss Sally writ wid de dishes dat one er de pieces er tater custard wuz fer you.”

“I don’t see any writing,” the child declared, with a longing look at the potato custard.

“Miss Sally ain’t aim fer you ter see it, kaze ef you could see it, eve’ybody could see it. An’ dat ain’t all de reason why you can’t see it. You been hemmed up dar in a big town, an’ yo’ eyes ain’t good. But dar’s de writin’ des ez plain ez pig-tracks.” Uncle Remus made believe to spell out the writing, pointing at a separate dish every time he pronounced a word. “Le’ me see: she put dis dish fust—‘One piece is fer de chil’.’”

The little boy reflected a moment. “There are only five dishes,” he said very gravely, “and you pointed at one of them twice.”

“Tooby sho I did,” Uncle Remus replied, with well affected solemnity. “Ain’t dat de way you does in books?”

The little lad was too young to be well-grounded in books, but he had his ideas, nevertheless. “I don’t see how it can be done,” he suggested. “A is always A.”

“Ah-yi!” exclaimed Uncle Remus triumphantly. “It’s allers big A er little a. But I wa’n’t callin’ out no letters; I wuz callin’ out de words what yo’ granmammy writ wid de dishes.” The little boy still looked doubtful, and Uncle Remus went on. “Now, spozin’ yo’ pa wuz ter come ’long an’ say, ‘Unk Remus, I wanter gi’ you a cuff.’ An’ den, spozin’ I wuz ter ’low, ‘Yasser, an’ thanky, too, but you better gi’ me a pa’r un um while you ’bout it.’ An’ spozin’ he’d be talkin’ ’bout maulin’ me, whiles I wuz talkin’ ’bout dem contraptions what you got on yo’ shirt-sleeves, an’ you ain’t got no mo’ business wid um dan a rooster is wid britches. Spozin’ all dat wuz ter happen, how you speck I’d feel?”

Something in the argument, or the way Uncle Remus held his head, appealed to the little boy’s sense of humor, and he laughed heartily for the first time since Uncle Remus had known him. It was real laughter, too, so real that the old negro joined in with gusto, and the two laughed and laughed until it seemed unreasonable to laugh any more. To make matters worse, Uncle Remus pretended to become very solemn all of a sudden, and then just as suddenly went back to laughter again. This was more than the little chap could stand. He laughed until he writhed in the old man’s arms; in fact, till laughter became painful.

“Ef we go on dis a-way,” Uncle Remus remarked, “you’ll never eat yo’ tater custard in de worl’.” With that, he seized a biscuit and pretended to place the whole of it in his mouth at once, closing his eyes with a smile of ecstasy on his face. “Don’t, Uncle Remus! please don’t!” cried the little boy who had laughed until he was sore.

At this the old man became serious again. “I hear um say,” he remarked with some gravity, “dat ef you laugh too much you’ll sprain yo’ goozle-um, er maybe git yo’ th’oat-latch outer j’int. Dat de reason you see me lookin’ so sollumcolly all de time. You watch me right close, an’ you’ll see fer yo’se’f.”

The little boy ceased laughing, and regarded Uncle Remus closely. The old negro’s face was as solemn as the countenance of one of the early Puritans. “You were laughing just now,” said the child; “you were laughing when I laughed.”

The old man looked off into space as though he were considering a serious problem. Then he said with a sigh: “I speck I did, honey, but how I gwineter he’p myse’f when I see you winkin’ at dat tater custard? I mought not ’a’ laughed des at dat, but when I see you bek’nin’ at it wid yo’ tongue, I wuz bleeze ter turn loose my hyuh-hyuh-hyuhs!”

This was the beginning of the little boy’s acquaintance with Uncle Remus, of whom he had heard so much. Some of the results of that acquaintance are to be set forth in the pages that follow.

I
WHY MR. CRICKET HAS ELBOWS ON HIS LEGS

It was not often that Uncle Remus had to search for the boys who had, in the course of a very long life, fallen under his influence. On the contrary, he had sometimes to plan to get rid of them when he had work of importance to do; but now, here he was in his old age searching all about for a little chap who wasn’t as big as a pound of soap after a hard day’s washing, as the old man had said more than once.

The child had promised to go with Uncle Remus to fetch a wagon-load of corn that had been placed under shelter in a distant part of the plantation, and though the appointed hour had arrived, and the carriage-horses had been hitched to the wagon, he had failed to put in an appearance.

Uncle Remus had asked the nurse, a mulatto woman from the city, where the child was, and the only reply she deigned to make was that he was all right. This nurse had been offended by Uncle Remus, who, on more than one occasion, had sent her about her business when he wanted the little boy to himself. She resented this and lost no opportunity to show her contempt.

All his other resources failing, Uncle Remus went to the big house and asked his Miss Sally. She, being the child’s grandmother, was presumed to know his whereabouts; but Miss Sally was not in a very good humor. She sent word that she was very busy, and didn’t want to be bothered; but before Uncle Remus could retire, after the message had been delivered, she relented. “What is it now?” she inquired, coming to the door.

“I wuz des huntin’ fer de little chap,” Uncle Remus replied, “an’ I ’lowed maybe you’d know whar he wuz at. We wuz gwine fer ter haul a load er corn, but he ain’t showed up.”

“Well, I made him some molasses candy—something I shouldn’t have done—and he has been put in jail because he wiped his mouth on his coat-sleeve.”

“In jail, ma’am?” Uncle Remus asked, astonishment written on his face.

“He might as well be in jail; he’s in the parlor.”

“Wid de winders all down? He’ll stifle in dar.”

The grandmother went into the house too indignant to inform Uncle Remus that she had sent the house-girl to open the windows under the pretense of dusting and cleaning. The old man was somewhat doubtful as to how he should proceed. He knew that in a case of this kind, Miss Sally could not help him. She had set herself to win over the young wife of her son, and she knew that she would cease to be the child’s grandmother and become the mother-in-law the moment her views clashed with those of the lad’s mother—and we all know from the newspapers what a terrible thing a mother-in-law is.

Knowing that he would have to act alone, Uncle Remus proceeded very cautiously. He went around into the front yard, and saw that all the parlor windows were up and the curtains looped back, something that had never happened before in his experience. To his mind the parlor was a dungeon, and a very dark one at that, and he chuckled when he saw the sunshine freely admitted, with no fear that it would injure the carpet. If one little bit of a boy could cause such a change in immemorial custom, what would two little boys be able to do? With these and similar homely thoughts in his mind, Uncle Remus cut short his chuckle and began to sing about little Crickety Cricket, who lives in the thicket.

Naturally, this song attracted the attention of the little lad, who had exhausted whatever interest there had been in an album, and was now beginning to realize that he was a prisoner. He stuck his head out of the window, and regarded the old man rather ruefully. “I couldn’t go with you after the corn, Uncle Remus; mother said I was too naughty.”

“I ain’t been atter no corn, honey; I hear tell er yo’ gwines on, an’ I felt too bad fer ter go atter de corn; but de waggin’s all ready an’ a-waitin’. Dey ain’t no hurry ’bout dat corn. Ef you can’t go ter-day, maybe you kin go ter-morrer, er ef not, den some yuther day. Dey ain’t nobody hankerin’ atter corn but de ol’ gray mule, an’ he’d hanker an’ whicker fer it ef you wuz ter feed ’im a waggin-load three times a day. How come you ter be so bad dat yo’ ma hatter shet you up in dat dungeon? What you been doin’?”

“Mother said I was very naughty and made me come in here,” the little lad replied.

“I bet you ef dey had ’a’ put yo’ pa in der, dey wouldn’t ’a’ been no pennaner lef’, an’ de kyarpit would ’a’ looked like it been throo a harrycane. Dey shet ’im up in a room once, an’ dey wuz a clock in it, an’ he tuck ’n tuck dat clock ter pieces fer ter see what make it run. ’Twan’t no big clock, needer, but yo’ pa got nuff wheels out er dat clock fer ter fill a peck medjur, an’ when dey sont it ter town fer ter have it mended, de clock man say he know mighty well dat all dem wheels ain’t come outer dat clock. He mended it all right, but he had nuff wheels an’ whirligigs left over fer ter make a n’er clock.”

“There’s a clock in here,” said the little boy, “but it’s in a glass case.”

“Don’t pester it, honey, kaze it’s yo’ granma’s, an’ ’twant yo’ granma dat had you shot up in dar. No, suh, not her—never in de roun’ worl’.”

The little prisoner sighed, but said nothing. He was not a talkative chap; he had been taught that it is impolite to ask questions, and as a child’s conversation must necessarily be made up of questions, he had little to say. Uncle Remus found a rake leaning against the chimney. This he took and examined critically, and found that one of the teeth was broken out. “Now, I wonder who could ’a’ done dat!” he exclaimed. “Sholy nobody wouldn’t ’a’ come ’long an’ knock de toof out des fer fun. Ef de times wuz diffunt, I’d say dat a cricket hauled off an’ kicked it out wid one er his behime legs. But times done change; dey done change so dat when I turn my head an’ look back’erds, I hatter ketch my breff I gits so skeer’d. Dey done been sech a change dat de crickets ain’t dast ter kick sence ol’ Grandaddy Cricket had his great kickin’ match. I laid off fer ter tell you ’bout it when we wuz gwine atter dat load er corn dat’s waitin’ fer us; but stidder gwine atter corn, here you is settin’ in de parlor countin’ out yo’ money.” Uncle Remus came close to the window and looked in. “Ol’ Miss useter keep de Bible on de table dar—yasser! dar ’tis, de same ol’ Bible dat’s been in de fambly sence de year one. You better git it down, honey, an’ read dat ar piece ’bout de projickin’ son, kaze ef dey shet you up in de parlor now, dey’ll hatter put you in jail time youer ten year ol’.”

This remark was intended for the ear of the young mother, who had come into the front yard searching for roses. Uncle Remus had seen her from the corner of his eye, and he determined to talk so she could hear and understand.

“But what will they put me in jail for?” the child asked.

“What dey put you in dar fer? Kaze you wipe yo’ mouf on yo’ sleeve. Well, when you git a little bigger, you’ll say ter yo’se’f, ‘Dey shet me in de parlor fer nothin’, an’ now I’ll see ef dey ’ll put me in jail fer sump’n’; an’ den you’ll make a mouf at de gov’ner up dar in Atlanta—I know right whar his house is—an’ dey’ll slap you in jail an’ never ax yo’ name ner whar you come fum. Dat’s de way dey does in dat town, kaze I done been dar an’ see der carryin’s on.”

“I believe I’ll try it when I go back home,” said the little lad.

“Co’se you will,” Uncle Remus assented, “an’ you’ll be glad fer ter git in jail atter bein’ in a parlor what de sun ain’t shine in sence de war. You come down here fer ter git strong an’ well, an’ here you is in de dampest room in de house. You’ll git well—oh, yes! I see you well right now, speshually atter you done had de croup an’ de pneumony, an’ de browncreeturs.”

“There’s mother,” said the little boy under his breath.

“I wish ’twuz yo’ daddy!” Uncle Remus replied. “I’d gi’ ’im a piece er my min’ ez long ez a waggin tongue.”

But the young mother never heard this remark. She had felt she was doing wrong when she banished the child to the parlor for a trivial fault, and now she made haste to undo it. She ran into the house and released the little boy, and told him to run to play. “Thank you, mother,” he said courteously, and then when he disappeared, what should the young mother do but cry?

The child, however, was very far from crying. He ran around to the front yard just in time to meet Uncle Remus as he came out. He seized the old darky’s hand and went skipping along by his side. “You put me in min’ er ol’ Grandaddy Cricket ’bout de time he had his big kickin’ match. He sho wuz lively.”

“That was just what I was going to ask you about,” said the child enthusiastically, for his instinct told him that Uncle Remus’s remarks about Grandaddy Cricket were intended to lead up to a story. When they had both climbed into the wagon, and were well on their way to the Wood Lot, where the surplus corn had been temporarily stored, the old man, after some preliminaries, such as looking in his hat to see if he had lost his hankcher, as he called it, and inquiring of the horses if they knew where they were going and what they were going after, suddenly turned to the child with a question: “Ain’t I hear you ax me ’bout sump’n n’er, honey? I’m gittin’ so ol’ an’ wobbly dat it seem like I’m deaf, yit ef anybody wuz ter call me ter dinner, I speck I could hear um a mile off ef dey so much ez whispered it.”

“Yes,” the child replied. “It was about old Grandaddy Cricket. I thought maybe you knew something about him.”

“Who? Me, honey? Why, my great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy live nex’ door ter whar ol’ Grandaddy Cricket live at. Folks is lots littler now dan what dey wuz in dem days, an’ likewize de creeturs, an’ de creepin’ an’ crawlin’ things. My grandaddy say dat his great-grandaddy would make two men like him, an’ my grandaddy wuz a monst’us big man, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat. It seems like dat folks is swunk up. My grandaddy’s great-grandaddy say it’s kaze dey done quit eatin’ raw meat.

“I can’t tell you ’bout dat myself, but my great-grandaddy’s great-great-grandaddy could eat a whole steer in two days, horn an’ huff, an’ dem what tol’ me ain’t make no brags ’bout it; dey done like dey’d seen it happen nine times a mont’ off an’ on fer forty year er mo’. Well, den,” Uncle Remus went on, looking at the little chap to see if he was swallowing the story with a good digestion—“well, den, dat bein’ de case, it stan’s ter reason dat de creeturs an’ de crawlin’ an’ creepin’ things wuz lots bigger dan what dey is now. Dey had bigger houses, ef dey had any ’tall, an’ ef dey had bigger houses dey must ’a’ had bigger chimbleys.

“So den, all dat bein’ settle’, I’m gwine tell yo’ ’bout ol’ Grandaddy Cricket. He must ’a’ been a grandaddy long ’bout de time dat my great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy wuz workin’ for his great-grandaddy. Howsomever dat mought be, ol’ Grandaddy Cricket wuz on han’, an’ fum all I hear he wuz bigger dan a middlin’-size goat. All endurin’ er de hot weather, he’d stay out in de woods wid his fife an’ his fiddle, an’ I speck he had great times. One day he’d fiddle fer de fishes fer ter dance, an’ de nex’ he’d l’arn de young birds how ter whistle wid his fife. Day in an’ day out he frolicked an’ had his fun, but bimeby de weather ’gun ter git cool an’ de days ’gun ter git shorter, an’ ol’ Grandaddy Cricket hatter keep his han’s in his pockets fum soon in de mornin’ twel ten o’clock. An’ ’long ’bout de time when de sun start down hill, he’d hatter put his fiddle under his arm an’ his fife in his side-pocket.

“Dis wuz bad nuff, but wuss come. It got so col’ dat Grandaddy Cricket can’t skacely walk twel de sun wuz shinin’ right over ’im. Mo’ dan dat, he ’gun ter git hongry and stay hongry. Ef yu’d ’a’ seed ’im in de hot weather, fiddlin’ an’ dancin’, an’ fifin’ an’ prancin’, you’d ’a’ thunk dat he had a stack er vittles put by ez big ez de barn back yander; but bimeby it got so cold dat he know sump’n got ter be done. He know sump’n got ter be done, but how er when he couldn’t ’a’ tol’ you ef it had ’a’ been de las’ ac’. He went ’long, creepin’ an’ crawlin’ fum post ter pillar, an’ he ’membered de days when he went wid a hop, skip an’ a jump, but he wuz too col’ fer ter cry.

“He crope along, tryin’ ter keep on de sunny side er de worl’, twel bimeby, one day he seed smoke a-risin’ way off yander, an’ he know’d mighty well dat whar der’s smoke dey bleeze ter be fire. He crope an’ he crawled, an’ bimeby he come close nuff ter de smoke fer ter see dat it wuz comin’ out’n a chimbley dat’d been built on one ’een uv a house. ’Twant like de houses what you see up yander in Atlanty, kaze ’twuz made out er logs, an’ de chink ’twix’ de logs wuz stopped up wid red clay. De chimbley wuz made out’n sticks an’ stones an’ mud.

“Grandaddy Cricket wuz forty-lev’m times bigger dan what his fambly is deze days, but he wan’t so big dat he couldn’t crawl un’ de house, kaze ’twuz propped up on pillars. So un’ de house he went an’ scrouge close ter de chimbley fer ter see ef he can’t git some er de warmf, but, bless you, it ’uz stone col’. Ef it had ’a’ been like de chimbleys is deze days, ol’ Grandaddy Cricket would ’a’ friz stiff, but ’twuz plain, eve’yday mud plastered on some sticks laid crossways. ’Twuz hard fer ol’ Grandaddy Cricket fer ter work his way inter de chimbley, but harder fer ter stay out ’n de col’—so he sot in ter work. He gnyawed an’ he sawed, he scratched an’ he clawed, he pushed an’ he gouged, an’ he shoved an’ he scrouged, twel, bimeby, he got whar he could feel some er de warmf er de fire, an’ ’twant long ’fo’ he wuz feelin’ fine. He snickered ter hisse’f when he hear de win’ whistlin’ roun’ de cornders, an’ blowin’ des like it come right fresh fum de place whar de ice-bugs live at.”

The little boy laughed and placed his hand caressingly on Uncle Remus’s knee. “You mean ice-bergs, Uncle Remus,” he said.

“Nigh ez I kin ’member,” replied the old darky, with affected dignity, “ice-bugs is what I meant. I tell you dat p’intedly. What I know ’bout ice-berrigs?”

The little lad eyed the old darky curiously, but said nothing more for some time. Uncle Remus regarded him from the corner of his eye and smiled, for this was a little chap whose ways he was yet to understand. Finally, he took up the thread of his story. “It’s des like I tell you, honey; he ain’t no sooner git thawed out dan he ’gun ter feel good. Dey wuz some cracks an’ crannies in de h’ath er de fireplace, an’ when de chillun eat der mush an’ milk, some er de crum’s ’ud sift thoo de h’ath. Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket smelt um, an’ felt um, an’ helt um, an’ atter dat you couldn’t make ’im b’lieve dat he wan’t in hog-heav’m.

“De place whar he wuz at wa’n’t roomy nuff fer fiddlin’, but he tuck out his fife an’ ’gun ter play on it, an’ ev’y time he hear a noise he’d cut de chune short. He’d blow a little an’ den break off, but take de day ez it come, he put in a right smart lot er fifin’. When night come, an’ ev’ything wuz dark down dar whar he wuz at, he des turned hisse’f loose. De chillun in de house, dey des lis’en an’ laugh, but dey daddy shake his head an’ look sour. Dey wan’t no crickets in de country whar he come fum, an’ he wan’t usen ter um. But de mammy er de chillun ain’t pay no ’tention ter de fifin’; she des went on ’bout her business like dey ain’t no cricket in de roun’ worl’. Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket he fifed an’ fifed des like he wuz doin’ it fer pay. He played de chillun off ter bed an’ played um ter sleep; he played twel de ol’ man got ter nid-nid-noddin’ by de fire; he played twel dey all went ter bed ’cep’ de mammy, an’ he played whiles she sot by de h’ath, an’ dremp ’bout de times when she wuz a gal—de ol’ times dat make de gran’-chillun feel so funny when dey hear tell ’bout um.

“Night atter night de fifin’ went on, an’ bimeby de man ’gun ter git tired. De ’oman, she say dat de crickets brung good luck, but de man, he say he’d druther have mo’ luck an’ less fifin’. So he holler down thoo de crack in de h’ath, an’ tell ol’ Grandaddy Cricket fer ter hush his fuss er change his chune. But de fifin’ went on. De man holler down an’ say dat ef de fifin’ don’t stop, he gwine ter pour b’ilin’ water on de fifer. Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket holler back:

“‘Hot water will turn me brown,

An’ den I’ll kick yo’ chimbley down.’

“So he holler down thoo de crack”

“De man, he grin, he did, an’ den he put de kittle on de fire an’ kep’ it dar twel de water ’gun ter b’ile, an’ den, whiles de fifin’ wuz at de loudest, he tuck de kittle an’ tilted it so de scaldin’ water will run down thoo de cracks, an’ den de fust thing he know’d he ain’t know nothin’, kaze de water weakened de clay an’ de h’ath fell in an’ ol’ Grandaddy Cricket sot in ter kickin’ an’ de chimbley come down, it did, an’ bury de man, an’ when dey got ’im out, he wuz one-eyed an’ splay-footed.

“De ’oman an’ de chillun ain’t skacely know ’im. Dey hatter ax ’im his name, an’ whar he come fum, an’ how ol’ he wuz; an’ atter he satchified um dat he wuz de same man what been livin’ dar all de time, de ’oman say, ‘Ain’t I tell you dat crickets fetch good luck?’ An’ de man, he ’low, ‘Does you call dis good luck?’”

“What became of the cricket?” asked the little boy, after a long pause, during which Uncle Remus appeared to be thinking about other things.

“Oh!” exclaimed the old darky. “Dat’s so! I ain’t tol’ you, is I? Well, ol’ Grandaddy Cricket kicked so hard, an’ kicked so high, dat he onj’inted bofe his legs, an’ when he crawled out fum de chimbley, his elbows wuz whar his knees oughter be at.”

“But it was cold weather,” suggested the little boy. “Where did he go when he kicked the chimney down?”

Uncle Remus smiled as he took another chew of tobacco. “Dey wa’n’t but one thing he could do,” he replied; “he went on ter nex’ house an’ got in de chimbley an’ he been livin’ in chimbleys off an’ on down ter dis day an’ time.”

“‘Does you call dis good luck?’”

II
HOW WILEY WOLF RODE IN THE BAG

Uncle Remus soon had the wagon loaded with corn, and he and the little boy started back home. The plantation road was not a good one to begin with, and the spring rains had not improved it. Consequently there were times when Uncle Remus deemed it prudent to get out of the wagon and walk. The horses were fat and strong, to be sure, but some of the small hills were very steep, so much so that the old darky had to guide the team first to the right and then to the left in order to overcome the sheer grade. In other words, he had to see-saw as he explained to the little boy. “Drive um straight up, an’ dey fall back,” he explained, “but on de see-saw dey fergits dat deyer gwine uphill.”

All this was Dutch to the little boy, who knew nothing about driving horses, but he had been well trained, and so he said, “Yes, that is so.” The last time that Uncle Remus had to vacate the driver’s seat in order to relieve the horses of his weight, he stumbled into a ditch that had been dug on the side of the road to prevent the rains from washing it into gullies. He recovered himself immediately, but not before he had startled a little rabbit, which ran on ahead of the horses for a considerable distance. Instinct came to its aid after a while, and it darted into the underbrush which grew profusely on both sides of the road.

Before the little rabbit disappeared, however, Uncle Remus had time to give utterance to a hunting halloo that aroused the echoes all around and made the little boy jump, for he was not used to this sort of thing. “I declar’ ter gracious ef it don’t put me in min’ er ol’ times—de times dey tell ’bout in de tales dat been handed down. Ef dat little rab had ’a’ been five times ez big ez he is, an’ twice ez young, I’d ’a’ thunk we’d done got back ter de days when my great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy lived. You mayn’t b’lieve me, but ef you’ll count fum de time when my great-grandaddy’s great-grandaddy wuz born’d down ter dis minnit, you’ll fin’ dat youer lookin’ back on many a long year, an’ a mighty heap er Chris’mus-come-an’-gone.

“You may think dat deze times is de bes’; well, den, you kin have um ef you’ll des gi’ me de ol’ times when de nights wuz long an’ de days short, wid plenty er wood on de fire, an’ taters an’ ashcake in de embers. Han’ um here!” Uncle Remus held out his hand as if he thought the little chap had the old times and the ashcakes and the roasted potatoes in his pocket. “Den you ain’t got um,” he went on, as the child drew away and pretended to hold his pocket tight; “you ain’t got um, an’ you can’t git um. I done been had um, but I got ter nippy-nappin’ one night, an’ some un come ’long an’ tuck um—some nigger man, I speck, kaze dey wuz a big fat ’possum mixed up wid um, an’ a heap er yuther things liable fer ter make a nigger’s mouf water. Yasser! dey tuck um right away fum me, an’ I ain’t seed um sence; an’ maybe ef I wuz ter see um I wouldn’t know um.”

“Were the rabbits very large in old times?” inquired the little boy.

“Dey mought er been runts in de fambly,” replied Uncle Remus cautiously, “but fum all I kin hear fum dem what know’d, ol’ Brer Rabbit wuz a sight bigger dan any er de rabbits you see deze days.”

Uncle Remus paused to give the little boy an opportunity to make some comment, or ask such questions as occurred to him, as the other little boy had been so ready to do; but he said nothing. It seemed that his curiosity had been satisfied, and yet he wanted very much to hear a story such as Uncle Remus had been in the habit of telling his father when he was the little boy. But he had been so rigidly trained to silence in the presence of his elders that he hesitated about making his desires known.

The old negro, however, was so accustomed to anticipating the wants of children, especially those in whom he took an interest, that he knew perfectly well what the little boy wanted. The child’s attitude was expectant, even if his lips refused to give form to his thoughts. This sort of thing—the old negro could give it no name—was so new to Uncle Remus that he chuckled, and presently the chuckle developed into a hearty laugh.

The little boy regarded him with surprise. “Are you laughing at me, Uncle Remus?” he inquired, after some hesitation.

“Why, honey, what put dat idee in yo’ head? What I gwineter laugh at you fer? Ef you wuz a little bigger, I might laugh at you, des ter see how you’d take it. Ef you want me ter laugh at you, you’ll hatter do some growin’.”

“Grandmother says I’m a big boy,” said the child.

“Fer yo’ age an’ size, youer right smart chunk uv a boy,” assented Uncle Remus, “but you’ll hatter be lots bigger dan what you is ’fo’ I laugh at you. No, suh; I wuz gigglin’ at de way Brer Rabbit got away wid ol’ Brer Wolf endurin’ er de time when der chillun played tergedder; an’ dat little rabbit dat run ’cross de road put me in min’ un it. I bet ef I’d ’a’ been dar, I’d ’a’ done mo’ dan laugh—I’d ’a’ holler’d. Yasser, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout it—I’d ’a’ des flung back my head an’ ’a’ fetched a whoop dat you could ’a’ hearn fum here ter de big house. Dat’s what I’d ’a’ done.”

“It must have been very funny, then,” remarked the little boy.

Uncle Remus looked at the child with a serious face. Surely something must be wrong with him. And yet he was still expectant—expectant and patient. The old negro had never had dealings with such a youngster as this, and he was not in the habit of telling stories “des dry so,” as he put it; so he went at it in a new, but still a characteristic, way. “Ef yo’ pa had ’a’ been settin’ wha you settin’ he wouldn’t gi’ me no peace twel I tol’ ’im zackly what I wuz laughin’ ’bout; an’ he’d ’a’ pestered me wid his inquirements twel he foun’ out all about it. Does he pester you dat a-way, honey? Kaze ef he does, I’ll tell you de way ter fetch ’im up wid a roun’ turn; des tell ’im you gwineter tell his mammy on him, an’ I bet you he won’t pester you much atter dat.”

This tickled the little boy very much. The idea of asking his grandmother to make his father stop bothering him was so new and so ridiculous that he laughed unrestrainedly.

“De minnit dat little rab jumped out’n de bushes,” Uncle Remus went on, apparently paying no attention to the child’s laughter, “it put me in min’ er de time when ol’ Brer Rabbit had a lot er chillun an’ gran’chillun pirootin’ roun’ de neighborhoods whar he live at. Dey mought ’a’ not been any gran’chillun in de bunch, but dey wuz plenty er chillun, bofe young an’ ol’.

“Brer Rabbit ’ud move sometimes des like de folks does deze days, speshually up dar in ’Lantmatantarum, whar you come fum.” The little boy smiled at this new name for Atlanta, and snuggled a little closer to Uncle Remus, for the old man had, with this one word, entered the fields that belong to childhood. “He’d move, but mos’ allers he’d take a notion fer ter come back ter his ol’ home. Sometimes he hatter move, de yuther creeturs pursued atter ’im so close, but dey allers got de ragged en’ er de pursuin’, an’ dey wuz times when dey’d be right neighborly wid ’im.

“’Twuz ’bout de time dat Brer Wolf had kinder made up his min’ dat he can’t outdo Brer Rabbit, no way he kin fix it, an’ he say ter hisse’f dat he better let ’im ’lone twel he kin git ’im in a corner whar he can’t git out. So Brer Wolf, he live wid his fambly on one side de road, an’ Brer Rabbit live wid his fambly on de yuther side, not close nuff fer ter quoil ’bout de fence line, an’ yit close nuff fer der youngest chillun ter play tergedder whiles de ol’ folks wuz payin’ der Sunday calls.

“Dey sot dar … talkin’ ’bout ol’ times”

“It went on an’ went on dis way twel it look like Brer Rabbit done fergit how ter play tricks on his neighbors an’ Brer Wolf done disremember’d dat he yever is try fer ter ketch Brer Rabbit fer meat fer his fambly. One Sunday in speshual, dey wuz mighty frien’ly. It wuz Brer Rabbit’s time fer ter call on Brer Wolf, an’ bofe un um wuz settin’ up in de porch des ez natchal ez life. Brer Rabbit wuz chawin’ his terbacker an’ spittin’ over de railin’ an’ Brer Wolf wuz grinnin’ ’bout ol’ times, an’ pickin’ his toofies, which dey look mighty white an’ sharp. Dey wuz settin’ up dar, dey wuz, des ez thick ez fleas on a dog’s back, an’ lookin’ like butter won’t melt in der mouf.

“An’ whiles dey wuz settin’ dar, little Wiley Wolf an’ Riley Rabbit wuz playin’ in de yard des like chillun will. Dey run an’ dey romped, dey frisk an’ dey frolic, dey jump an’ dey hump, dey hide an’ dey slide, an’ it look like dey had mo’ fun dan a mule kin pull in a waggin. Little Wiley Wolf, he’d run atter Riley Rabbit, an’ den Riley Rabbit ’ud run atter Wiley Wolf, an’ here dey had it up an’ down an’ roun’ an’ roun’, twel it look like dey’d run deyse’f ter death. ’Bout de time you’d think dey bleeze ter drap, one un um would holler out, ‘King’s Excuse!’ an’ in dem days, when you say dat, nobody can’t ketch you, it ain’t make no diffunce who, kaze ef dey dast ter lay han’s on you atter you say dat, dey could be tuck ter de place whar dey done der judgin’, an ef dey wa’n’t mighty sharp dey’d git put in jail.

“Now, whiles Wiley Wolf an’ Riley Rabbit wuz havin’ der fun, der daddies wuz bleeze ter hear de racket what dey make, an’ see de dus’ dey raise. Dey squealed an’ dey squalled, an’ ripped aroun’ twel you’d a thunk dey wuz a good size whirlywin’ blowin’ in de yard. Brer Rabbit chaw’d his terbacker right slow an’ shot one eye, an’ ol’ Brer Wolf lick his chops an’ grin. Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘De youngsters is gittin’ mighty familious,’ an’ ol Brer Wolf say, ‘Dey is indeedy, an’ I hope dey’ll keep it up. You know how we useter be, Brer Rabbit; we wuz constant a-playin’ tricks on one an’er, an’ it lookt like we wuz allers at outs. I hope de young uns’ll have better manners!’

“Dey sot dar, dey did, talkin’ ’bout ol’ times, twel de sun got low, an’ de visitin’ had ter be cut short. Brer Rabbit say dat he had ter cut some kindlin’ so his ol’ ’oman kin git supper, an’ Brer Wolf ’low dat he allers cut his kindlin’ on Sat’day so he kin have all Sunday ter hisse’f, an’ smoke his pipe in peace. He went a piece er de way wid Brer Rabbit, an’ Wiley Wolf, he come, too, an’ him an’ Riley Rabbit had all sorts uv a time atter dey got in de big road. Dey wuz bushes on bofe sides, an’ dey kep’ up der game er hide an’ seek des ez fur ez Brer Wolf went, but bimeby, he say he gone fur nuff, an’ he say he hope Brer Rabbit’ll come ag’in right soon, an’ let Riley come an’ play wid Wiley endurin’ er de week.

“Not ter be outdone, Brer Rabbit invite Brer Wolf fer ter come an’ see him, an’ likewise ter let Wiley come an’ play wid Riley. ‘Dey ain’t nothin’ but chillun,’ sezee, ‘an’ look like dey done tuck a likin’ ter one an’er.’

“On de way back home, Brer Wolf make a mighty strong talk ter Wiley. He say, ‘It’s mo’ dan likely dat de little Rab will come ter play wid you some day when dey ain’t nobody here, an’ when he do, I want you ter play de game er ridin’ in de bag.’ Wiley Wolf say he ain’t never hear tell er dat game, an’ ol’ Brer Wolf say it’s easy ez fallin’ off a log. ‘You git in de bag,’ sezee, ‘an’ let ’im haul you roun’ de yard, an’ den he’ll git in de bag fer you ter haul him ’roun’. What you wanter do is ter git ’im use ter de bag; you hear dat, don’t you? Git ’im use ter de bag.’

“So when little Riley come, de two un um had a great time er ridin’ in de bag; ’twuz des like ridin’ in a waggin, ’ceppin’ dat Riley Rabbit look like he ain’t got no mo’ sense dan ter haul little Wiley Wolf over de roughest groun’ he kin fin’, an’ when Wiley holler’d dat he hurt ’im, Riley ’ud say he won’t do it no mo’, but de nex’ chance he got, he’d do it ag’in.

“‘Git ’im use to de bag!’”

“Well, dey had all sorts uv a time, an’ when Riley Rabbit went home, he up an’ tol’ um all what dey’d been a-playin’. Brer Rabbit ain’t say nothin’; he des sot dar, he did, an’ chaw his terbacker, an’ shot one eye. An’ when ol’ Brer Wolf come home dat night, Wiley tol’ ’im ’bout de good time dey’d had. Brer Wolf grin, he did, an’ lick his chops. He say, sezee, ‘Dey’s two parts ter dat game. When you git tired er ridin’ in de bag, you tie de bag.’ He went on, he did, an’ tol’ Wiley dat what he want ’im ter do is ter play ridin’ in de bag twel bofe got tired, an’ den play tyin’ de bag, an’ at de las’ he wuz ter tie de bag so little Riley Rabbit can’t git out, an’ den ter go ter bed an’ kiver up his head.

“So said, so done. Little Riley Rabbit come an’ played ridin’ in de bag, an’ den when dey got tired, dey played tyin’ de bag. ’Twuz mighty funny fer ter tie one an’er in de bag, an’ not know ef twuz gwineter be ontied. I dunner what would ’a’ happen ter little Riley Rab ef ol’ Brer Rabbit ain’t come along wid a big load er ’spicions. He call de little Rabbit ter de fence. He talk loud an’ he say dat he want ’im fer ter fetch a turn er kindlin’ when he start home, an’ den he say ter Riley, ‘Be tied in de bag once mo’, an’ den when Wiley gits in tie ’im in dar hard an’ fas’. Wet de string in yo’ mouf, an’ pull it des ez tight ez you kin. Den you come on home; yo’ mammy want you.’

“De las’ time Wiley Wolf got in de bag, little Riley tied it so tight dat he couldn’t ’a’ got it loose ef he’d ’a’ tried. He tied it tight, he did, an’ den he ’low, ‘I got ter go home fer ter git some kindlin’, an’ when I do dat, I’ll come back an’ play twel supper-time.’ But ef he yever is went back dar, I ain’t never hear talk un it.”

Uncle Remus closed his eyes apparently, but not so tight that he couldn’t watch the little boy. The youngster had been listening to the story too intently to ask questions, and now he sat silent waiting for Uncle Remus to finish. He waited and waited until he grew impatient, and then he raised his head. He still waited a few moments longer, but Uncle Remus to all appearances was nodding. “Uncle Remus,” he cried, “what became of Wiley Wolf?”

“‘Den you come on home; yo’ mammy want you’”

The old negro pretended to wake with a start. “Ain’t I hear some un talkin’?” He looked all around, and then his eye fell on the little boy. “Dar you is!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “I done been ter sleep an’ drempt dat I wuz eatin’ a slishe er tater custard ez big ez de waggin body.” The little boy repeated his question, whereupon Uncle Remus held up his hands with a gesture of astonishment. “Ain’t I tol’ you dat? Den I mus’ be gittin’ ol’ an’ wobbly. De fus’ thing when I git ter de house I’m gwineter be weighed fer ter see how ol’ I is. Now, whar wuz I at?”

“Wiley Wolf was in the bag,” the little boy answered.

“Ah-h-h! Right whar Riley Rab lef’ ’im. He wuz in de bag an’ dar he stayed twel ol’ Brer Wolf come fum whar he been workin’ in de fiel’—de creeturs wuz mos’ly farmers in dem days. He come back, he did, an’ he see de bag, an’ he know by de bulk un it dat dey wuz sump’n in it, an’ he ’uz so greedy dat his mouf fair dribbled. Now, den, when Wiley Wolf got in de bag, he wuz mighty tired. He’d been a-scufflin’ an a-rastlin’ twel he wuz plum’ wo’ out. He hear Riley Rab say he wuz comin’ back, an’ while he wuz waitin’, he drapt off ter sleep, an’ dar he wuz when his daddy come home—soun’ asleep.

“Ol’ Brer Wolf ain’t got but one idee, an’ dat wuz dat Riley Rab wuz in de bag, so he went ter de winder, an’ ax ef de pot wuz b’ilin’, an’ his ol’ ’oman say ’twuz. Wid dat, he pick up de bag, an’ fo’ you could bat yo’ eye, he had it soused in de pot.”

“In the boiling water!” exclaimed the child.

“Dat’s de way de tale runs,” replied Uncle Remus. “Ez dey gun it ter me, so I gin it to you.”

III
BROTHER RABBIT’S LAUGHING-PLACE

This new little boy was intensely practical. He had imagination, but it was unaccompanied by any of the ancient illusions that make the memory of childhood so delightful. Young as he was he had a contempt for those who believed in Santa Claus. He believed only in things that his mother considered valid and vital, and his training had been of such a character as to leave out all the beautiful romances of childhood.

Thus when Uncle Remus mentioned something about Brother Rabbit’s laughing-place, he pictured it forth in his mind as a sure-enough place that the four-footed creatures had found necessary for their comfort and convenience. This way of looking at things was, in some measure, a great help; it cut off long explanations, and stopped many an embarrassing question.

On one occasion when the two were together, the little boy referred to Brother Rabbit’s laughing-place and talked about it in much the same way that he would have talked about Atlanta. If Uncle Remus was unprepared for such literalness he displayed no astonishment, and for all the child knew, he had talked the matter over with hundreds of other little boys.

“Uncle Remus,” said the lad, “when was the last time you went to Brother Rabbit’s laughing-place?”

“To tell you de trufe, honey, I dunno ez I ever been dar,” the old man responded.

“Now, I think that is very queer,” remarked the little boy.

Uncle Remus reflected a moment before committing himself. “I dunno ez I yever went right spang ter de place an’ put my han’ on it. I speck I could ’a’ gone dar wid mighty little trouble, but I wuz so use ter hearin’ ’bout it dat de idee er gwine dar ain’t never got in my head. It’s sorter like ol’ Mr. Grissom’s house. Dey say he lives in a quare little shanty not fur fum de mill. I know right whar de shanty is, yit I ain’t never been dar, an’ I ain’t never seed it.

“It’s de same way wid Brer Rabbit’s laughin’-place. Dem what tol’ me ’bout it had likely been dar, but I ain’t never had no ’casion fer ter go dar myse’f. Yit ef I could walk fifteen er sixty mile a day, like I useter, I boun’ you I could go right now an’ put my han’ on de place. Dey wuz one time—but dat’s a tale, an’, goodness knows, you done hear nuff tales er one kin’ an’ anudder fer ter make a hoss sick—dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.”

Uncle Remus paused and sighed, and then closed his eyes with a groan, as though he were sadly exercised in spirit; but his eyes were not shut so tight that he could not observe the face of the child. It was a prematurely grave little face that the old man saw and whether this was the result of the youngster’s environment, or his training, or his temperament, it would have been difficult to say. But there it was, the gravity that was only infrequently disturbed by laughter. Uncle Remus perhaps had seen more laughter in that little face than any one else. Occasionally the things that the child laughed at were those that would have convulsed other children, but more frequently, as it seemed, his smiles were the result of his own reflections and mental comparisons.

“I tell you what, honey,” said Uncle Remus, opening wide his eyes, “dat’s de ve’y thing you oughter have.”

“What is it?” the child inquired, though apparently he had no interest in the matter.

“What you want is a laughin’-place, whar you kin go an’ tickle yo’se’f an’ laugh whedder you wanter laugh er no. I boun’ ef you had a laughin’-place, you’d gain flesh, an’ when yo’ pa comes down fum ’Lantamatantarum, he wouldn’t skacely know you.”

“But I don’t want father not to know me,” the child answered. “If he didn’t know me, I should feel as if I were some one else.”

“Oh, he’d know you bimeby,” said Uncle Remus, “an’ he’d be all de gladder fer ter see you lookin’ like somebody.”

“Do I look like nobody?” asked the little boy.

“When you fust come down here,” Uncle Remus answered, “you look like nothin’ ’tall, but sence you been ramblin’ roun’ wid me, you done ’gun ter look like somebody—mos’ like um.”

“I reckon that’s because I have a laughing-place,” said the child. “You didn’t know I had one, did you? I have one, but you are the first person in the world that I have told about it.”

“Well, suh!” Uncle Remus exclaimed with well-feigned astonishment; “an’ you been settin’ here lis’nin’ at me, an’ all de time you got a laughin’-place er yo’ own! I never would ’a’ b’lieved it uv you. Wharbouts is dish yer place?”

“It is right here where you are,” said the little boy with a winning smile.

“Honey, you don’t tell me!” exclaimed the old man, looking all around. “Ef you kin see it, you see mo’ dan I does—dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.”

“Why, you are my laughing-place,” cried the little lad with an extraordinary burst of enthusiasm.

“Well, I thank my stars!” said Uncle Remus with emotion. “You sho’ does need ter laugh lots mo’ dan what you does. But what make you laugh at me, honey? Is my britches too big, er is I too big fer my britches? You neen’ter laugh at dis coat, kaze it’s one dat yo’ grandaddy useter have. It’s mighty nigh new, kaze I ain’t wo’d it mo’ dan ’lev’m year. It may look shiny in places, but when you see a coat look shiny, it’s a sign dat it’s des ez good ez new. You can’t laugh at my shoes, kaze I made um myse’f, an’ ef dey lack shape dat’s kaze I made um fer ter fit my rheumatism an’ my foots bofe.”

“Why, I never laughed at you!” exclaimed the child, blushing at the very idea. “I laugh at what you say, and at the stories you tell.”

“La, honey! You sho’ dunno nothin’; you oughter hearn me tell tales when I could tell um. I boun’ you’d ’a’ busted de buttons off’n yo’ whatchermacollums. Yo’ pa useter set right whar you er settin’ an’ laugh twel he can’t laugh no mo’. But dem wuz laughin’ times, an’ it look like dey ain’t never comin’ back. Dat ’uz ’fo’ eve’ybody wuz rushin’ roun’ trying fer ter git money what don’t b’long ter um by good rights.”

“I was thinking to myself,” remarked the child, “that if Brother Rabbit had a laughing-place I had a better one.”

“Honey, hush!” exclaimed Uncle Remus with a laugh. “You’ll have me gwine roun’ here wid my head in de a’r, an’ feelin’ so biggity dat I won’t look at my own se’f in de lookin’-glass. I ain’t too ol’ fer dat kinder talk ter sp’ile me.”

“Didn’t you say there was a tale about Brother Rabbit’s laughing-place?” inquired the little boy, when Uncle Remus ceased to admire himself.

“I dunner whedder you kin call it a tale,” replied the old man. “It’s mighty funny ’bout tales,” he went on. “Tell um ez you may an’ whence you may, some’ll say tain’t no tale, an’ den ag’in some’ll say dat it’s a fine tale. Dey ain’t no tellin’. Dat de reason I don’t like ter tell no tale ter grown folks, speshually ef dey er white folks. Dey’ll take it an’ put it by de side er some yuther tale what dey got in der min’ an’ dey’ll take on dat slonchidickler grin what allers say, ‘Go way, nigger man! You dunner what a tale is!’ An’ I don’t—I’ll say dat much fer ter keep some un else fum sayin’ it.

“Now, ’bout dat laughin’-place—it seem like dat one time de creeturs got ter ’sputin’ ’mongs’ deyselves ez ter which un kin laugh de loudest. One word fotch on an’er twel it look like dey wuz gwineter be a free fight, a rumpus an’ a riot. Dey show’d der claws an’ tushes, an’ shuck der horns, an’ rattle der hoof. Dey had der bristles up, an’ it look like der eyes wuz runnin’ blood, dey got so red.

“Des ’bout de time when it look like you can’t keep um ’part, little Miss Squinch Owl flew’d up a tree an’ ’low, ‘You all dunner what laughin’ is—ha-ha-ha-ha! You can’t laugh when you try ter laugh—ha-ha-ha-haha!’ De creeturs wuz ’stonisht. Here wuz a little fowl not much bigger dan a jay-bird laughin’ herse’f blin’ when dey wa’n’t a thing in de roun’ worl’ fer ter laugh at. Dey stop der quoilin’ atter dat an’ look at one an’er. Brer Bull say, ‘Is anybody ever hear de beat er dat? Who mought de lady be?’ Dey all say dey dunno, an’ dey got a mighty good reason fer der sesso, kaze Miss Squinch Owl, she flies at night wid de bats an’ de Betsey Bugs.

“Well, dey quit der quoilin’, de creeturs did, but dey still had der ’spute; de comin’ er Miss Squinch Owl ain’t settle dat. So dey ’gree dat dey’d meet some’rs when de wedder got better, an’ try der han’ at laughin’ fer ter see which un kin outdo de yuther.” Observing that the little boy was laughing very heartily, Uncle Remus paused long enough to inquire what had hit him on his funny-bone.

“I was laughing because you said the animals were going to meet an’ try their hand at laughing,” replied the lad when he could get breath enough to talk.

Uncle Remus regarded the child with a benevolent smile of admiration. “Youer long ways ahead er me—you sho’ is. Dey ain’t na’er n’er chap in de worl’ what’d ’a’ cotch on so quick. You put me in min’ er de peerch, what grab de bait ’fo’ it hit de water. Well, dat’s what de creeturs done. Dey say dey wuz gwineter make trial fer ter see which un is de out-laughin’est er de whole caboodle, an’ dey name de day, an’ all prommus fer ter be dar, ceppin’ Brer Rabbit, an’ he ’low dat he kin laugh well nuff fer ter suit hisse’f an’ his fambly, ’sides dat, he don’t keer ’bout laughin’ less’n dey’s sump’n fer ter laugh at. De yuther creeturs dey beg ’im fer ter come, but he shake his head an’ wiggle his mustache, an’ say dat when he wanter laugh, he got a laughin’-place fer ter go ter, whar he won’t be pestered by de balance er creation. He say he kin go dar an’ laugh his fill, an’ den go on ’bout his business, ef he got any business, an’ ef he ain’t got none, he kin go ter play.

“‘Gracious me!’ an’ den he howl”

“De yuther creeturs ain’t know what ter make er all dis, an’ dey wonder an’ wonder how Brer Rabbit kin have a laughin’-place an’ dey ain’t got none. When dey ax ’im ’bout it, he ’spon’, he did, dat he speck ’twuz des de diffunce ’twix one creetur an’ an’er. He ax um fer ter look at folks, how diffunt dey wuz, let ’lone de creeturs. One man ’d be rich an’ an’er man po’, an’ he ax how come dat.

“Well, suh, dey des natchally can’t tell ’im what make de diffunce ’twix folks no mo’ dan dey kin tell ’im de diffunce ’twix’ de creeturs. Dey wuz stumped; dey done fergit all ’bout de trial what wuz ter come off, but Brer Rabbit fotch um back ter it. He say dey ain’t no needs fer ter see which kin outdo all de balance un um in de laughin’ business, kaze anybody what got any sense know dat de donkey is a natchal laugher, same as Brer Coon is a natchal pacer.

“Brer B’ar look at Brer Wolf, an’ Brer Wolf look at Brer Fox, an’ den dey all look at one an’er. Brer Bull, he say, ‘Well, well, well!’ an’ den he groan; Brer B’ar say, ‘Who’d ’a’ thunk it?’ an’ den he growl; an’ Brer Wolf say ‘Gracious me!’ an’ den he howl. Atter dat, dey ain’t say much, kaze dey ain’t much fer ter say. Dey des stan’ roun’ an’ look kinder sheepish. Dey ain’t ’spute wid Brer Rabbit, dough dey’d ’a’ like ter ’a’ done it, but dey sot about an’ make marks in de san’ des like you see folks do when deyer tryin’ fer ter git der thinkin’ machine ter work.

“Brer Rabbit he put his han’ ter his head”

“Well, suh, dar dey sot an’ dar dey stood. Dey ax Brer Rabbit how he know how ter fin’ his laughin’-place, an’ how he know it wuz a laughin’-place atter he got dar. He tap hisse’f on de head, he did, an’ ’low dat dey wuz a heap mo’ und’ his hat dan what you could git out wid a fine-toof comb. Den dey ax ef dey kin see his laughin’-place, an’ he say he’d take de idee ter bed wid ’im, an’ study ’pon it, but he kin say dis much right den, dat if he did let um see it, dey’d hatter go dar one at a time, an’ dey’d hatter do des like he say; ef dey don’t dey’ll git de notion dat it’s a cryin’-place.

“Dey ’gree ter dis, de creeturs did, an’ den Brer Rabbit say dat while deyer all der tergedder, dey better choosen ’mongs’ deyse’f which un uv um wuz gwine fus’, an’ he’d choosen de res’ when de time come. Dey jowered an’ jowered, an’ bimeby, dey hatter leave it all ter Brer Rabbit. Brer Rabbit, he put his han’ ter his head, an’ shot his eyeballs an’ do like he studyin’. He say ‘De mo’ I think ’bout who shill be de fus’ one, de mo’ I git de idee dat it oughter be Brer Fox. He been here long ez anybody, an’ he’s purty well thunk uv by de neighbors—I ain’t never hear nobody breave a breff ag’in ’im.’

“Dey all say dat dey had Brer Fox in min’ all de time, but somehow dey can’t come right out wid his name, an’ dey vow dat ef dey had ’greed on somebody, dat somebody would sho’ ’a’ been Brer Fox. Den, atter dat, ’twuz all plain sailin’. Brer Rabbit say he’d meet Brer Fox at sech an’ sech a place, at sech an’ sech a time, an’ atter dat dey wa’n’t no mo’ ter be said. De creeturs all went ter de place whar dey live at, an’ done des like dey allers done.

“De creeturs all went ter de place whar dey live at”

“Brer Rabbit make a soon start fer ter go ter de p’int whar he prommus ter met Brer Fox, but soon ez he wuz, Brer Fox wuz dar befo’ ’im. It seem like he wuz so much in de habits er bein’ outdone by Brer Rabbit dat he can’t do widout it. Brer Rabbit bow, he did, an’ pass de time er day wid Brer Fox, an’ ax ’im how his fambly wuz. Brer Fox say dey wuz peart ez kin be, an’ den he ’low dat he ready an’ a-waitin’ fer ter go an’ see dat great laughin’-place what Brer Rabbit been talkin’ ’bout.

“Brer Rabbit say dat suit him ter a gnat’s heel, an’ off dey put. Bimeby dey come ter one er deze here cle’r places dat you sometimes see in de middle uv a pine thicket. You may ax yo’se’f how come dey don’t no trees grow dar when dey’s trees all round, but you ain’t gwineter git no answer, an’ needer is dey anybody what kin tell you. Dey got dar, dey did, an’ den Brer Rabbit make a halt. Brer Fox ’low, ‘Is dis de place? I don’t feel no mo’ like laughin’ now dan I did ’fo’ I come.’

“But soon ez he wuz, Brer Fox wuz dar befo’ ’im”

“Brer Rabbit, he say, ‘Des keep yo’ jacket on, Brer Fox; ef you git in too big a hurry it might come off. We done come mighty nigh ter de place, an’ ef you wan ter do some ol’ time laughin’, you’ll hatter do des like I tell you; ef you don’t wanter laugh, I’ll des show you de place, an’ we’ll go on back whar we come fum, kaze dis is one er de days dat I ain’t got much time ter was’e laughin’ er cryin’.’ Brer Fox ’low dat he ain’t so mighty greedy ter laugh, an’ wid dat, Brer Rabbit whirl roun’, he did, an’ make out he gwine on back whar he live at. Brer Fox holler at ’im; he say, ‘Come on back, Brer Rabbit; I’m des a-projickin’ wid you.’

“‘Ef you wanter projick, Brer Fox, you’ll hatter go home an’ projick wid dem what wanter be projicked wid. I ain’t here kaze I wanter be here. You ax me fer ter show you my laughin’-place, an’ I ’greed. I speck we better be gwine on back.’ Brer Fox say he come fer ter see Brer Rabbit’s laughin’-place, an’ he ain’t gwineter be satchify twel he see it. Brer Rabbit ’low dat ef dat de case, den he mus’ ac’ de gentermun all de way thoo, an’ quit his behavishness. Brer Fox say he’ll do de best he kin, an’ den Brer Rabbit show ’im a place whar de bamboo briars, an’ de blackberry bushes, an’ de honeysuckles done start ter come in de pine thicket, an’ can’t come no furder. ’Twa’n’t no thick place; ’twuz des whar de swamp at de foot er de hill peter’d out in tryin’ ter come ter dry lan’. De bushes an’ vines wuz thin an’ scanty, an’ ef dey could ’a’ talked dey’d ’a’ hollered loud fer water.

“Brer Rabbit show Brer Fox de place, an’ den tell ’im dat de game is fer ter run full tilt thoo de vines an’ bushes, an’ den run back, an’ thoo um ag’in an’ back, an’ he say he’d bet a plug er terbacker ’g’in a ginger cake dat by de time Brer Fox done dis he’d be dat tickled dat he can’t stan’ up fer laughin’. Brer Fox shuck his head; he ain’t nigh b’lieve it, but fer all dat, he make up his min’ fer ter do what Brer Rabbit say, spite er de fack dat his ol’ ’oman done tell im ’fo’ he lef’ home dat he better keep his eye open, kaze Brer Rabbit gwineter run a rig on ’im.

“His ol’ ’oman done tell him dat he better keep his eye open”

“He tuck a runnin’ start, he did, an’ he went thoo de bushes an’ de vines like he wuz runnin’ a race. He run an’ he come back a-runnin’, an’ he run back, an’ dat time he struck sump’n wid his head. He try ter dodge it, but he seed it too late, an’ he wuz gwine too fas’. He struck it, he did, an’ time he do dat, he fetched a howl dat you might ’a’ hearn a mile, an’ atter dat, he holler’d yap, yap, yap, an’ ouch, ouch, ouch, an’ yow, yow, yow, an’ whiles dis wuz gwine on Brer Rabbit wuz thumpin’ de ground wid his behime foot, an’ laughin’ fit ter kill. Brer Fox run roun’ an’ roun’, an’ kep’ on snappin’ at hisse’f an’ doin’ like he wuz tryin’ fer ter t’ar his hide off. He run, an’ he roll, an’ wallow, an’ holler, an’ fall, an’ squall twell it look like he wuz havin’ forty-lev’m duck fits.

“An’ dat time he struck sump’n wid his head”

“He got still atter while, but de mo’ stiller he got, de wuss he looked. His head wuz all swell up, an’ he look like he been run over in de road by a fo’-mule waggin. Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘I’m glad you had sech a good time, Brer Fox; I’ll hatter fetch you out ag’in. You sho’ done like you wuz havin’ fun.’ Brer Fox ain’t say a word; he wuz too mad fer ter talk. He des sot aroun’ an’ lick hisse’f an’ try ter git his ha’r straight. Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘You ripped aroun’ in dar twel I wuz skeer’d you wuz gwine ter hurt yo’se’f, an’ I b’lieve in my soul you done gone an’ bump yo’ head ag’in a tree, kaze it’s all swell up. You better go home, Brer Fox, an’ let yo’ ol’ ’oman poultice you up.’

“Brer Fox show his tushes, an’ say, ‘You said dis wuz a laughin’-place.’ Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘I said ’twuz my laughin’-place, an’ I’ll say it ag’in. What you reckon I been doin’ all dis time? Ain’t you hear me laughin’? An’ what you been doin’? I hear you makin’ a mighty fuss in dar, an’ I say ter myse’f dat Brer Fox is havin’ a mighty big time.’

“‘I let you know dat I ain’t been laughin’,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.”

Uncle Remus paused, and waited to be questioned. “What was the matter with the Fox, if he wasn’t laughing?” the child asked after a thoughtful moment.

Uncle Remus flung his head back, and cried out in a sing-song tone,

“He run ter de Eas’ an he run ter de Wes’

An’ jammed his head in a hornet’s nes’!”

IV
BROTHER RABBIT AND THE CHICKENS

Uncle Remus was sorely puzzled as to the best method of pleasing this youngster. He wasn’t sure the little boy enjoyed such tales as the one in which Riley Rabbit turned the tables on Wiley Wolf. So he ventured a question. “Honey, what kinder tales does you like?”

“Oh, I like them all,” replied the little boy, “only some are nicer than the others;” and then, without waiting for an invitation, he told Uncle Remus the story of Cinderella. He told it very well for a small chap, and Uncle Remus pretended to enjoy it, although he had heard it hundreds of times.

“It’s a mighty purty tale,” he said. “It’s so purty dat you dunner whedder ter b’lieve it er not. Yit I speck it’s so, kaze one time in forty-lev’m hundred matters will turn out right een’ upperds. Now, de creeturs never had no godm’ers; dey des hatter scuffle an’ scramble an’ git ’long de bes’ way dey kin.”

“But they were very cruel,” remarked the little boy, “and they told stories.”

“When it come ter dat,” Uncle Remus replied, “de creeturs ain’t much ahead er folks, an’ yit folks is got preachers fer ter tell um when deyer gwine wrong. Mo’ dan dat, dey got de Bible; an’ yit when you git a little older, you’ll wake up some fine day an’ say ter yo’se’f dat de creeturs is got de ’vantage er folks, spite er de fack dat dey ain’t know de diffunce ’twix’ right an’ wrong. Dey got ter live ’cordin’ ter der natur’, kaze dey ain’t know no better. I had in min’ a tale ’bout Brer Rabbit an’ de chickens, but I speck it’d hurt you’ feelin’s.”

The little boy said nothing for some time; he was evidently expecting Uncle Remus to go ahead with his story. But he was mistaken about this, for when the old man broke the silence, it was to speak of something trivial or commonplace. The child, in spite of the training to which he had been subjected, retained his boy’s nature. “Uncle Remus,” he said, “what about Brother Rabbit and the chickens?”

“Which Brer Rabbit wuz dat, honey?” he asked with apparent surprise.

“You said something about Brother Rabbit and the chickens.”

“Who? Me? I mought er said sump’n ’bout um day ’fo’ yistiddy, but it done gone off ’n my min’. I done got so ol’ dat my min’ flutters like a bird in de bush.”

“Why, you said that there was a tale about Brother Rabbit and the chickens, but if you told it, my feelings would be hurt. You must think I am a girl.”

Uncle Remus laughed. “Not ez bad ez dat, honey; but I’m fear’d youer monstous tetchous. I’ll tell you de tale, an’ den you kin tell it ter yo’ pa, kaze it’s one he ain’t never hear tell ’bout.

“Well, den, one time, ’way back yander dey wuz a man what live neighbor ter de creeturs. Dey wa’n’t nothin’ quare ’bout dis Mr. Man; he wuz des a plain, eve’yday kinder man, an’ he try ter git ’long de best he kin. He ain’t had no easy time, needer, kaze ’twant den like ’tis now, when you kin take yo’ cotton er yo’ corn ter town an’ have de money planked down fer you.

“In dem times dey wa’n’t no town, an’ not much money. What folks dey wuz hatter git ’long by swappin’ an’ traffickin’. How dey done it, I’ll never tell you, but do it dey did, an’ it seem like dey wuz in about ez happy ez folks is deze days.

“Well, dish yer Mr. Man what I’m a-tellin’ you ’bout, he had a truck patch, an’ a roas’in’-year patch, an’ a goober patch. He grow’d wheat an’ barley, an’ likewise rye, an’ kiss de gals an’ make um cry. An’ on top er dat, he had a whole yard full er chickens, an’ dar’s whar de trouble come in. In dem times, all er de creeturs wuz meat-eaters, an’ twuz in about ez much ez dey kin do, an’ sometimes a little mo’, fer ter git ’long so dey won’t go ter bed hongry. Dey got in de habit er bein’ hongry, an’ dey ain’t never git over it. Look at Brer Wolf—gaunt; look at Brer Fox—gaunt! Dey ain’t never been able fer ter make deyse’f fat.

“So den, ez you see um now, dat de way dey wuz in dem days, an’ a little mo’ so. Mr. Man, he had chickens, des like I tell you. Hens ez plump ez a pa’tridge; pullets so slick dey’d make yo’ mouf water, an’ fryin’-size chickens dat look like dey want ter git right in de pan. Now, when dat’s de case, what you reckon gwineter happen? Brer Wolf want chicken, Brer Fox want chicken, an’ Brer Rabbit want chicken. An’ dey ain’t got nothin’ what dey kin swap fer um. In deze days dey’d be called po’, but I take notice dat po’ folks gits des ez hongry ez de rich uns—an’ hongrier, when it comes ter dat; yes, Lord! lots hongrier.

“Well, de creeturs got mighty frien’ly wid Mr. Man. Dey’d call on ’im, speshually on Sundays, an’ he ain’t had no better sense dan ter cluck up his chickens des ter show um what a nice passel he had. When dis happen, Brer Wolf under-jaw would trimble, an’ Brer Fox would dribble at de mouf same ez a baby what cuttin’ his toofies. Ez fer Brer Rabbit, he’d des laugh, an’ nobody ain’t know what he laughin’ at. It went on dis way twel it look like natur’ can’t stan’ it, an’ den, bimeby, one night when de moon ain’t shinin’, Brer Rabbit take a notion dat he’d call on Mr. Man; but when he got ter de place, Mr. Man done gone ter bed. De lights wuz all out, an’ de dog wuz quiled up un’ de house soun’ asleep.

“Brer Rabbit shake his head. He ’low, ‘Sholy dey’s sump’n wrong, kaze allers, when I come, Mr. Man call up his chickens whar I kin look at um.’ I dunner what de matter wid ’im. An’ I don’t see no chickens, needer. I boun’ you sump’n done happen, an’ nobody ain’t tell me de news, kaze dey know how sorry I’d be. Ef I could git in de house, I’d go in dar an’ see ef ever’thing is all right; but I can’t git in.’

“He walk all ’roun’, he did, but he ain’t see nobody. He wuz so skeer’d he’d wake um up dat he walk on his tippy-toes. He ’low, ‘Ef Mr. Man know’d I wuz here, he’d come out an’ show me his chickens, an’ I des might ez well look in an’ see ef deyer all right.’ Wid dat he went ter de chicken-house an’ peep in, but he can’t see nothin’. He went ter de door, an’ foun’ it onlocked. Brer Rabbit grin, he did, an’ ’low, ‘Mr. Man mos’ know’d dat I’d be ’long some time ter-day, an’ done gone an’ lef’ his chicken-house open so I kin see his pullets—an’ he know’d dat ef I can’t see um, I’d wanter feel um fer ter see how slick an’ purty dey is.’

“Went off home des ez gayly ez a colt in a barley patch”

“Brer Rabbit slap hisse’f on de leg an’ laugh fit ter kill. He ain’t make fuss nuff fer ter wake Mr. Man, but he woke de fat hens an’ de slick pullets, an’ dey ax one an’er what de name er goodness is de matter. Brer Rabbit laugh an’ say ter hisse’f dat ef he’d ’a’ brung a bag, it’d make a good overcoat fer four er five er de fat hens, an’ six er sev’m er de slick pullets. Den he ’low, ‘Why, what is I thinkin’ ’bout? I got a bag in my han’, an’ I fergit dat I had it. It’s mighty lucky fer de chickens dat I fotch it, kaze a little mo’—an’ dey’d ’a’ been friz stiff!’ So he scoop in de bag ez many ez he kin tote. He ’low, ‘I’ll take um home an’ kinder git um warm, an’ ter-morrer Mr. Man kin have um back—ef he want um.’ an’ wid dat he mighty nigh choke hisse’f tryin’ fer ter keep fum laughin’. De chickens kinder flutter, but dey ain’t make much fuss, an’ Brer Rabbit flung de sack ’cross his shoulders an’ went off home des ez gayly ez a colt in a barley patch.”

“Wouldn’t you call that stealing, Uncle Remus?” inquired the little boy very seriously.

“Ef Brer Rabbit had ’a’ been folks, it’d be called stealin’, but you know mighty well dat de creeturs dunno de diffunce ’twix’ takin’ an’ stealin’. When it come ter dat, dey’s a-plenty folks dat ain’t know de diffunce, an’ how you gwineter blame de creeturs?” Uncle Remus paused to see what comment the little boy would make, but he was silent, though it is doubtful if he was satisfied.

“Brer Rabbit tuck de chickens on home, he did, an’ made way wid um. Now, dat wuz de las’ er de chickens, but des de beginnin’s er de feathers. Ol’ Miss Rabbit, she wanter burn um in de fier, but Brer Rabbit say de whole neighborhood would smell um, an’ he ’low dat he got a better way dan dat. So, nex’ mornin’ atter brekkus, he borried a bag fum ol’ Brer Wolf, an’ inter dis he stuff de feathers, an’ start off down de road.

“Well, suh, ez luck would have it, Brer Rabbit hatter pass by Brer Fox house, an’ who should be stannin’ at de gate wid his walkin’-cane in han’, but Brer Fox? Brer Fox, he fetched a bow, wid, ‘Brer Rabbit, whar you gwine?’ Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘Ef I had de win’, Brer Fox, I’d be gwine to mill. Dish yer’s a turrible load I got, an’ I dunner how soon I’ll gi’ out. I ain’t strong in de back an’ limber in de knees like I useter be, Brer Fox. You may be holdin’ yo’ own, an’ I hope you is, but I’m on de down grade, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.’ Wid dat, he sot de bag down by de side er de road, an’ wipe his face wid his hankcher.

“‘Brer Rabbit, whar you gwine?’”

“Brer Fox, he come on whar Brer Rabbit wuz a-settin’ at, an’ ax ef it’s corn er wheat. Brer Rabbit ’low dat tain’t na’er one; it’s des some stuff dat he gwine ter sell ter de miller. Brer Fox, he want ter know what ’tis so bad he ain’t know what ter do, an’ he up an’ ax Brer Rabbit p’intedly. Brer Rabbit say he fear’d ter tell ’im kaze de truck what he got in de bag is de onliest way he kin make big money. Brer Fox vow he won’t tell nobody, an’ den Brer Rabbit say dat bein’ ez him an’ Brer Fox is sech good frien’s—neighbors, ez you might say—he don’t min’ tellin’ ’im, kaze he know dat atter Brer Fox done prommus, he won’t breave a word ’bout it. Den he say dat de truck what he got in de bag is roots er de Winniannimus grass, an’ when deyer groun’ up at de mill, dey er wuff nine dollars a poun’.

“Dis make Brer Fox open his eyes. He felt de heft er de bag, he did, an’ he say dat it’s mighty light, an’ he dunner what make Brer Rabbit pant an’ grunt when ’tain’t no heftier dan what it is.

“Brer Rabbit ’low dat de bag wouldn’t ’a’ felt heavy ter him ef he wuz big an’ strong like Brer Fox. Dat kinder talk make Brer Fox feel biggity, an’ he ’low dat he’ll tote de bag ter mill ef Brer Rabbit feel like it’s too heavy. Brer Rabbit say he’ll be mighty much erbleeged, an’ be glad fer ter pay Brer Fox sump’n ter boot. An’ so, off dey put down de road, Brer Fox a-trottin’ an’ Brer Rabbit gwine in a canter.

“Brer Fox ax what dey does wid de Winniannimus grass atter dey gits it groun’ up at de mill. Brer Rabbit ’low dat rich folks buys it fer ter make Whipmewhopme puddin’. Brer Fox say he’ll take some home when de miller git it groun’ an’ see how it tas’es, an’ Brer Rabbit say he’s mo’ dan welcome. Atter dey been gwine on some little time, Brer Rabbit look back an’ see Mr. Man a-comin’, an’ he say ter Brer Fox, sezee, ‘Brer Fox, you is de outdoinist man I ever is see. You done got me plum’ wo’ out, an’ I’m bleeze ter take a res’. You go on an’ I’ll ketch up wid you ef I kin; ef not, des wait fer me at de mill.’ Brer Fox ’low, ‘Shucks, Brer Rabbit! you ain’t ’quainted wid me; you dunner nothin’ ’tall ’bout me. I kin go on dis a-way all day long an’ half de night.’ Brer Rabbit roll his big eyes, an’ say, ‘Well, suh!’

“An’ den he sot down by de side er de road, an’ ’twuz all he kin do fer ter keep fum bustin’ out in a big laugh.

“Bimeby, Mr. Man come ’long an’ say, ‘Who dat wid de big bag on his back?’ Brer Rabbit make answer dat it’s Brer Fox. Mr. Man say, ‘What he got in his bag?’ Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘I ax ’im, an’ he say it’s some kinder grass what he takin’ ter de mill fer ter git groun’, but I seed mo’ dan one chicken feather stickin’ ter de bag.’ Mr. Man say, ‘Den he’s de chap what tuck an’ tuck my fat hens an’ my slick pullets, an’ I’ll make ’im sorry dat he yever is see a chicken.’

“Wid dat he put out atter Brer Fox, an’ Brer Rabbit, he put out too, but he stay in de bushes, so dat nobody can’t see ’im. Mr. Man he cotch up wid Brer Fox, an’ ax ’im what he got in de bag. Brer Fox say he got Winniannimus grass what he gwineter have groun’ at de mill. Mr. Man say he wanter see what Winniannimus grass look like. Brer Fox sot de bag down an’ say dat when it’s groun’ up de rich folks buys it fer ter make Whipmewhopme puddin’. Mr. Man open de bag, an’ dey wa’n’t nothin’ in it but chicken feathers. He ’low, ‘Whipmewhopme puddin’! I’ll whip you an’ whop you,’ an’ wid dat he grab Brer Fox in de collar, an’ mighty nigh frailed de life out’n ’im.

“Brer Rabbit seed it well done, an’ he des fell down in de bushes an’ roll an’ laugh twel he can’t laugh no mo’.”

“Well, I don’t see why he should think it was funny,” the little boy remarked.

Uncle Remus looked hard at this modern little boy before he answered: “Maybe you dunno Brer Fox, honey; I don’t speck you hear talk er de way he try ter git de inturn on Brer Rabbit. But on top er dat, Brer Rabbit wuz so ticklish dat mos’ anything would make ’im laugh. It sholy wuz scan’lous de way Brer Rabbit kin laugh.”

V
LITTLE MISTER CRICKET AND THE OTHER CREATURES

Uncle Remus was very anxious to know what the child thought about the story of Brother Rabbit and the chicken feathers, but he made no inquiries; he was willing to let the youngster’s preferences show themselves without any urging on his part.

When the little boy did speak, he made no reference to Brother Rabbit and the chicken feathers: his thoughts were elsewhere. “Uncle Remus,” he said, “I never saw a cricket. What do they look like?”

“You ain’t never see no cricket!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, with a great display of amazement. “Well, dat bangs my time! What yo’ ma an’ pa—speshually yo’ pa—what dey been doin’ all deze lonesome years dat they ain’t never show’d you no cricket? How dey speck you ter git ’long in de worl’ ef dey ain’t gwine ter tell you ’bout de things you oughter know, an’ show you de things dat you oughter see? You ain’t never see no cricket, an’ here you is mos’ ready ter shave off de down on your face!”

The child blushed. “Why, I have no down on my face, Uncle Remus,” he protested.

“Well, you will have some er deze days, an’ den what will folks think uv a great big man what ain’t never seed no cricket?”

“Mother has never seen one,” replied the little boy, somewhat triumphantly.