UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT
"'KEEP STEP, RABBIT, MAN!'"
"'KEEP STEP, RABBIT, MAN!'"
UNCLE EPHE'S ADVICE TO BRER RABBIT
Keep step, Rabbit, man!
Hunter comin' quick's he can!
H'ist yo'se'f! Don't cross de road,
Less 'n he'll hit you fur a toad!
Up an' skip it, 'fo' t's too late!
Hoppit—lippit! Bull-frog gait!
Hoppit—lippit—lippit—hoppit!
Goodness me, why don't you stop it?
Shame on you, Mr. Ge'man Rabbit,
Ter limp along wid sech a habit!
'F you'd balumps on yo' hime-legs straight,
An' hurry wid a mannish gait,
An' tie yo' ears down onder yo' th'oat,
An' kivir yo' tail wid a cut-away coat,
Rabbit-hunters by de dozen
Would shek yo' han' an' call you cousin,
An' like as not, you onery sinner,
Dey'd ax' you home ter eat yo' dinner!
But don't you go, 'caze ef you do,
Dey'll set you down to rabbit-stew.
An' de shape o' dem bones an' de smell o' dat meal
'Ll meck you wish you was back in de fiel'.
An' ef you'd stretch yo' mouf too wide,
You know yo' ears mought come ontied;
An' when you'd jump, you couldn't fail
To show yo' little cotton tail,
An' den, 'fo' you could twis' yo' phiz,
Dey'd reconnize you who you is;
An' fo' you'd sca'cely bat yo' eye,
Dey'd have you skun an' in a pie,
Or maybe roasted on a coal,
Widout one thought about yo' soul.
So better teck ole Ephe's advice,
Des rig yo'se'f out slick an' nice,
An' tie yo' ears down, like I said,
An' hide yo' tail an' lif' yo' head.
"'WELL, ONE MO' RABBIT FUR DE POT'"
"'WELL, ONE MO' RABBIT FUR DE POT'"
An' when you balumps on yo' foots,
It wouldn't hurt ter put on boots.
Den walk straight up, like Mr. Man,
An' when he offer you 'is han',
Des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip;
But don't you show yo' rabbit lip.
An' don't you have a word ter say,
No mo'n ter pass de time o' day.
An' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs,
Des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares,
An' ax 'im is he seen a jack—
An' dat 'll put 'im off de track.
Now, ef you'll foller dis advice,
Instid o' bein' et wid rice,
Ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage,
You'll live ter die of nachel age.
'Sh! hush! What's dat? Was dat a gun?
Don't trimble so. An' don't you run!
Come, set heah on de lorg wid me—
Hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee.
Don't run, I say. Tut—tut! He's gorn.
Right 'cross de road, as sho's you born!
Slam bang! I know'd he'd ketch a shot!
Well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot!
MAY BE SO
MAY BE SO
September butterflies flew thick
O'er flower-bed and clover-rick,
When little Miss Penelope,
Who watched them from grandfather's knee,
Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?"
And, "Where do flowers go to when they die?"
For questions hard as hard can be
I recommend Penelope.
But grandpa had a playful way
Of dodging things too hard to say,
By giving fantasies instead
Of serious answers, so he said,
"Whenever a tired old flower must die,
Its soul mounts in a butterfly;
Just now a dozen snow-wings sped
From out that white petunia bed;
"And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure,
A dozen shrivelled cups or more;
Each pansy folds her purple cloth,
And soars aloft in velvet moth.
"So when tired sunflower doffs her cap
Of yellow frills to take a nap,
'Tis but that this surrender brings
Her soul's release on golden wings."
"But is this so? It ought to be,"
Said little Miss Penelope;
"Because I'm sure, dear grandpa, you
Would only tell the thing that's true.
"Are all the butterflies that fly
Real angels of the flowers that die?"
Grandfather's eyes looked far away,
As if he scarce knew what to say.
"Dear little Blossom," stroking now
The golden hair upon her brow,
"I can't—exactly—say—I—know—it;
I only heard it from a poet.
"And poets' eyes see wondrous things.
Great mysteries of flowers and wings,
And marvels of the earth and sea
And sky, they tell us constantly.
"But we can never prove them right,
Because we lack their finer sight;
And they, lest we should think them wrong,
Weave their strange stories into song
"So beautiful, so seeming-true,
So confidently stated too,
That we, not knowing yes or no,
Can only hope they may be so."
"But, grandpapa, no tale should close
With ifs or buts or may-be-sos;
So let us play we're poets, too,
And then we'll know that this is true."
THE END
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Transcriber's note
The following changes have been made to the text:
Page 25: "whem he was young" changed to
"when he was young".
Page 40: "Félice" changed to
"Félicie".