“Brer Rabbit shuck his head, but he got on, he did, an’ he ain’t no sooner git on dan he wish mighty hard he wuz off. Brer Yalligater say, sezee. ‘You kin pant ef you wanter, Brer Rabbit, but I’ll do de paddlin’,’ an’ den he slip thoo de water des like he greased. Brer Rabbit sho’ wuz skeer’d but he keep his eye open, an’ bimeby he tuck notice dat Brer Yalligater wa’n’t makin’ fer de place whar de lan’in’s at, an’ he up an’ sesso. He ’low, ‘Brer ’Gater, ef I ain’t mighty much mistooken, you ain’t headin’ fer de lan’in’.’ Brer Yalligater say, sezee, ‘You sho’ is got mighty good eyes, Brer Rabbit. I been waitin’ fer you a long time, an’ I’m de wust kinder waiter. I most know you ain’t ferget dat day in de stubble, when you say you gwineter show me ol’ man Trouble. Well, you ain’t only show ’im ter me, but you made me shake han’s wid ’im. You sot de dry grass afire, an’ burn me scandalious. Dat de reason my back so rough, an’ dat de reason my hide so tough. Well, I been a-waitin’ sence dat time, an’ now here you is. You burn me twel I hatter squench de burnin’ in de big quagmire.’

“Brer Yalligater laugh, but he had de laugh all on his side, kaze dat wuz one er de times when Brer Rabbit ain’t feel like gigglin’. He sot dar a-shakin’ an’ a-shiverin’. Bimeby he ’low, sezee, ‘What you gwine do, Brer ’Gater?’ Brer Yalligater, say, sezee, ‘It look like ter me dat sence you sot de dry grass afire, I been havin’ symptoms. Dat what de doctor say. He look at my tongue, an’ feel er my pulsh, an’ shake his head. He say dat bein’s he’s my frien’, he don’t mind tellin’ me dat my symptoms is gittin’ mo’ wusser dan what dey been, an’ ef I don’t take sump’n I’ll be failin’ inter one deze yer inclines what make folks flabby an’ weak.’

“Brer Rabbit, he shuck an’ he shiver’d. He ’low, sezee, ‘What else de doctor say, Brer ’Gater?’ Brer Yalligater keep on a-slippin’ along; he say, sezee, ‘De doctor ain’t only look at my tongue—he medjer’d my breff, an’ he hit me on my bosom—tip-tap-tap!—an’ he say dey ain’t but one thing dat’ll kyo me. I ax ’im what dat is, an’ he say it’s Rabbit gizzard.’ Brer Yalligater slip an’ slide along, an’ wait fer ter see what Brer Rabbit gwineter say ter dat. He ain’t had ter wait long, kaze Brer Rabbit done his thinkin’ like one er deze yer machines what got lightnin’ in it. He ’low, sezee, ‘It’s a mighty good thing you struck up wid me dis day, Brer ’Gater, kaze I got des perzackly de kinder physic what you lookin’ fer. All de neighbors say I’m mighty quare an’ I speck I is, but quare er not quare, I’m long been lookin’ fer de gizzard-eater.’

“Brer Yalligater ain’t say nothin’; he des slide thoo de water, an’ lissen ter what Brer Rabbit sayin’. Brer Rabbit ’low, sezee, ‘De las’ time I wuz tooken sick, de doctor come in a hurry, an’ he sot up wid me all night—not a wink er sleep did dat man git. He say he kin tell by de way I wuz gwine on, rollin’ an’ tossin’, an’ moanin’ an’ groanin’, dat dey wa’n’t no physic gwineter do me no good. I ain’t never see no doctor scratch his head like dat doctor did; he done like he wuz stumped, he sho’ did. He say he ain’t never see nobody wid my kind er trouble, an’ he went off an’ call in one er his brer doctors, an’ de two knock dey heads tergedder, an’ say my trouble all come fum havin’ a double gizzard. When my ol’ ’oman hear dat, she des flung her apron over her head, an’ fell back in a dead faint, an’ a little mo’ an’ I’d ’a’ had ter pay a doctor bill on her accounts. When she squalled, some er my chillun got skeer’d an’ tuck ter de woods, an’ dey ain’t all got back when I lef’ home las’ night.’

“Brer Yalligater, he des went a-slippin’ long thoo de water; he lissen, but he ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Brer Rabbit, he ’low, sezee, ‘It’s de fatal trufe, all dis dat I’m a-tellin’ you. De doctor, he flew’d roun’ twel he fotch my ol’ ’oman to, an’ den he say dey ain’t no needs ter be skittish on accounts er my havin’ a double gizzard, kaze all I had ter do wuz ter be kinder keerful wid my chawin’s an’ gnyawin’s, an’ my comin’s an’ gwines. He say dat I’d hatter suffer wid it twel I fin’ de gizzard-eater. I ax ’im whar bouts is he, an’ he say dat I’d know him when I seed him, an’ ef I fail ter know ’im, he’ll make hisse’f beknown ter me. Dis kinder errytate me, kaze when a man’s a doctor, an’ is got de idee er kyoin’ anybody, dey ain’t no needs ter deal in no riddles. But he say dat tain’t no use fer ter tell all you know, speshually fo’ dinner.’

“Brer Yalligater went a-slidin’ long thoo de water; he lissen an’ smack his mouf, but he ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Brer Rabbit, he talk on; he ’low, sezee, ‘An dey wuz one thing he tol’ me mo’ plainer dan all de rest. He say dat when anybody wuz ’flicted wid de double gizzard, dey dassent cross water wid it, kaze ef dey’s anything dat a double gizzard won’t stan’ it’s de smell er water.’

“Brer Yalligater went slippin’ long thoo de water, but he feel like de time done come when he bleeze ter say sump’n. He say, sezee, ‘How come youer crossin’ water now, ef de doctor tell you dat?’ Dis make Brer Rabbit laugh; he ’low, ‘Maybe I oughtn’t ter tell you, but fo’ I kin cross water dat double gizzard got ter come out. De doctor done tol’ me dat ef she ever smell water, dey’ll be sech a swellin’ up dat my skin won’t hol’ me; an’ no longer dan’ las’ night, ’fo’ I come ter dis creek—’twuz a creek den, whatsomever you may call it now—I tuck out my double gizzard an’ hid it in a hick’ry holler. An’ ef youer de gizzard-eater, now is yo’ chance, kaze ef you put it off, you may rue de day. Ef youer in de notion I’ll take you right dar an’ show you de stump whar I hid it at—er ef you wanter be lonesome ’bout it, I’ll let you go by yo’se’f an’ I’ll stay right here.’

“Brer Yalligater, he slip an’ slide thoo de water. He say, sezee, ‘Whar’d you say you’d stay?’ Brer Rabbit ’low, sezee, ‘I’ll stay right here, Brer ’Gater, er anywhar’s else you may choosen; I don’t keer much whar I stays er what I does, so long ez I get rid er dat double gizzard what’s been a-tarrifyin’ me. You better go by yo’se’f, kaze bad ez dat double gizzard is done me, I got a kinder tendersome feelin’ fer it, an’ I’m fear’d ef I wuz ter go ’long wid you, an’ see you grab it, dey’d be some boo-hooin’ done. Ef you go by yo’se’f, des rap on de stump an’ say—Ef youer ready, I’m ready an’ a little mo’ so, un’ you won’t have no trouble wid her. She’s hid right in dem woods yander, an’ de holler hick’ry stump ain’t so mighty fur fum whar de bank er de creek oughter be.’

“Brer ’Gater ain’t got much mo’ sense dan what it ’ud take fer ter clim’ a fence atter somebody done pulled it down, an’ so he kinder slew’d hisse’f aroun’, an’ steered fer de woods—de same woods whar dey’s so many trees, an’ whar ol’ Sis Owl starts all de whirl-win’s by fannin’ her wings. Brer Yalligater swum an’ steered, twel he come close ter lan’, an’ when he done dat Brer Rabbit make a big jump an’ lan’ on solid ground. He mought er got his feet wet, but ef he did ’twuz ez much. He ’low, sezee—

An’ wid dat, he wuz done gone—done clean gone!”

XV
BROTHER RABBIT AND MISS NANCY

One day, when Uncle Remus had told one of the stories that have already been set forth, the little boy was unusually thoughtful. He had asked his mother whether there was ever a time when the animals acted and talked like people, and she, without reflecting, being a young and an impulsive woman, had answered most emphatically in the negative. Now, this little boy was shrewder than he was given credit for being, and he knew that neither his grandmother nor Uncle Remus would set great store by what his mother said. How he knew this would be difficult to explain, but he knew it all the same. Therefore, when he interjected a doubt as to the truth of the tales, he kept the name of his authority to himself.

“Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, “how do you know that the tales you tell are true? Couldn’t somebody make them up?”

The old man looked at the little child, and knew who had sown the seeds of doubt in his mind, and the knowledge made him groan and shake his head. “Maybe you think I done it, honey, but ef you does, de sooner you fergit it off’n yo’ min’, de better fer you, kaze I’d set here an’ dry up an’ blow way ’fo’ I kin tell a tale er my own make-up; an’ ef dey’s anybody deze days what kin make um up, I’d like fer ter snuggle up ter ’im, an’ ax ’im ter l’arn me how.”

“Do you really believe the animals could talk?” asked the child.

“What diffunce do it make what I b’lieve, honey? Ef dey kin talk in dem days, er ef dey can’t, b’lievin’ er not b’lievin’ ain’t gwineter he’p matters. Ol’ folks what live in dem times dey say de creeturs kin talk, kaze dey done talk wid um, an’ dey tell it ter der chillun an’ der chillun tell it ter der chillun right on down ter deze days. So den what you gwineter do ’bout it—b’lieve dem what had it fum de ol’ folks dat know’d, er dem what ain’t never hear nothin’ ’tall about it twel dey git it second han’ fum a ol’ nigger man?”

The child perceived that Uncle Remus was hitting pretty close to home, as the saying is, and he said nothing for a while. “I haven’t said that I don’t believe them,” he remarked presently.

“Ef you said it, honey, you ain’t say it whar I kin hear you, but I take notice dat you hol’ yo’ head on one side an’ kinder wrinkle yo’ face up when I tell deze tales. Ef you don’t b’lieve um, tain’t no mo’ use fer me ter tell um dan ’tis fer me ter fly.”

“My face always wrinkles when I laugh, Uncle Remus.”

“An’ when you cry,” responded the old man so promptly that the child laughed, though he hardly knew what he was laughing at.

“I’m gwineter tell you one now,” remarked Uncle Remus, wiping a smile from his face with the back of his hand, “an’ you kin take it er leave it, des ez you please. Ef you see anything wrong in it anywhar, you kin p’int it out ez we go ’long. I been tellin’ you dat Brer Rabbit wuz a heap bigger in dem days dan what he is now. It looks like de fambly done run ter seed, an’ I bet you dat ninety-nine thousan’ year fum dis ve’y day, de Rabbit-tum-a-hash crowd won’ be bigger dan fiel’-mice—I bet you dat. He wa’n’t only bigger, but he wuz mighty handy ’bout a farm, when he tuck a notion, speshually ef Mr. Man had any greens in his truck-patch. Well, one time, times wuz so hard dat he hatter hire out fer his vittles an’ cloze. He had de idee dat he wuz gittin’ a mighty heap fer de work he done, an Mr. Man tell his daughter dat he gittin’ Brer Rabbit mighty cheap. Dey wuz bofe satchified, an’ when dat’s de case, eve’ybody else oughter be satchified. Brer Rabbit kin hoe taters, an’ chop cotton, an’ fetch up breshwood, an’ split de kindlin, an’ do right smart.

“He say ter hisse’f, Brer Rabbit did, dat ef he ain’t gittin’ no money an’ mighty few cloze, he boun’ he’d have a plenty vittles. De fust week er two, he ain’t cut up no shines; he wuz gittin’ usen ter de place. He stuck ter his work right straight along twel Mr. Man say he one er de bes’ han’s on de whole place, an’ he tell his daughter dat she better set ’er cap fer Brer Rabbit. De gal she toss her head an’ make a mouf, but all de samey she ’gun ter cas’ sheep eyes at ’im.

“One fine day, when de sun shinin’ mighty hot, Brer Rabbit ’gun ter git mighty hongry. He say he want some water. Mr. Man say, ‘Dar de bucket, an’ yan’ de spring. Eve’ything fix so you kin git water monstus easy.’ Brer Rabbit git de water, but still dey wuz a gnyawin’ in his stomach, an’ bimeby he say he want some bread. Mr. Man say, ’Tain’t been so mighty long sense you had brekkus, but no matter ’bout dat. Yan’s de house, in de house you’ll fin’ my daughter, an’ she’ll gi’ you what bread you want.’

“Wid dat Brer Rabbit put out fer de house, an’ dar he fin’ de gal. She say, ‘La, Brer Rabbit, you oughter be at work, but stidder dat here you is at de house. I hear pap say dat youer mighty good worker, but ef dis de way you does yo’ work, I dunner what make ’im sesso.’ Brer Rabbit say, ‘I’m here, Miss Nancy, kaze yo’ daddy sont me.’ Miss Nancy ’low, ‘Ain’t you ’shame er yo’se’f fer ter talk dat a-way? You know pap ain’t sont you.’ Brer Rabbit say, ‘Yassum, he did,’ an’ den he smole one er deze yer lopsided smiles. Miss Nancy kinder hang ’er head an’ low, ‘Stop lookin’ at me so brazen.’ Brer Rabbit stood dar wid his eyes shot, an’ he ain’t say nothin’. Miss Nancy say, ‘Is you gone ter sleep? You oughter be ’shame fer ter drap off dat a-way whar dey’s ladies.’

“Brer Rabbit make a bow, he did, an’ ’low, ‘You tol’ me not ter look at you, an’ ef I ain’t ter look at you, I des ez well ter keep my eyes shot.’ De gal she giggle an’ say Brer Rabbit oughtn’t ter make fun er her right befo’ her face an’ eyes. She ax what her pap sont ’im fer, an’ he ’low dat Mr. Man sont ’im for a dollar an’ a half, an’ some bread an’ butter. Miss Nancy say she don’t b’lieve ’im, an’ wid dat she run down todes de fiel’ whar her pa wuz workin’ an’ holler at ’im—‘Pap! Oh, pap!’ Mr. Man make answer, ‘Hey?’ an’ de gal say, ‘Is you say what Brer Rabbit say you say?’ Mr. Man he holler back dat dat’s des what he say, an’ Miss Nancy she run back ter der house, an’ gi’ Brer Rabbit a dollar an’ a half an’ some bread an’ butter.

“Time passed, an’ eve’y once in a while Brer Rabbit’d go ter de house endurin’ de day, an’ tell Miss Nancy dat her daddy say fer ter gi’ ’im money an’ some bread an’ butter. An’ de gal, she’d go part er de way ter whar Mr. Man is workin’, an’ holler an’ ax ef he sesso, an’ Mr. Man ’d holler back, ‘Yes, honey, dat what I say.’ It got so atter while dat dey ain’t so mighty much money in de house, an’ ’bout dat time, Miss Nancy, she had a beau, which he useter come ter see her eve’y Sunday, an’ sometimes Sat’day, an’ it got so, atter while, dat she won’t skacely look at Brer Rabbit.

“Dis make ’im laugh, an’ he kinder studied how he gwineter git even wid um, kaze de beau got ter flingin’ his sass roun’ Brer Rabbit, an’ de gal, she’d giggle, ez gals will. But Brer Rabbit des sot dar, he did, an’ chaw his terbacker, an’ spit in de fier. But one day Mr. Man hear ’im talkin’ ter hisse’f whiles deyer workin’ in de same fiel’, and he ax Brer Rabbit what he say. Brer Rabbit ’low dat he des try in’ fer ter l’arn a speech what he hear a little bird say, an’ wid dat he went on diggin’ in de groun’ des like he don’t keer whedder anything happen er not. But dis don’t satchify Mr. Man, an’ he ax Brer Rabbit what de speech is. Brer Rabbit ’low dat de way de little bird say it dey ain’t no sense ter it fur ez he kin see. But Mr. Man keep on axin’ ’im what ’tis, an’ bimeby he up an’ ’low, ‘De beau kiss de gal an’ call her honey; den he kiss her ag’in, an’ she gi’ im de money.’

“Mr. Man say, ‘Which money?’ Brer Rabbit ’low, ‘Youer too much fer me. Dey tells me dat money’s money, no matter whar you git it, er how you git it. Ef de little bird wa’n’t singin’ a song, den I’m mighty much mistooken.’ But dis don’ make Mr. Man feel no better dan what he been feelin’. He went on workin’, but all de time de speech dat de little bird made wuz runnin’ in his min’:

“He keep on sayin’ it over in his min’, an’ de mo’ he say it de mo’ it worry him. Dat night when he went home, de beau wuz dar, an’ he wuz mo’ gayly dan ever. He flung sass at Brer Rabbit, an Brer Rabbit des sot dar an’ chaw his terbacker, an’ spit in de fier. Den Mr. Man went ter de place whar he keep his money, an’ he fin’ it mos’ all gone. He come back, he did, an’ he say, ‘Whar my money?’ De gal, she ain’t wanter have no words ’fo’ her beau, an’ ’spon’, ‘You know whar ’tis des ez well ez I does,’ an’ de man say, ‘I speck youer right ’bout dat, an’ sence I does, I want you ter pack up an’ git right out ter dis house an’ take yo’ beau wid you.’ An’ so dar ’twuz.

“De gal, she cry some, but de beau muched her up, an’ dey went off an’ got married, an’ Mr. Man tuck all his things an’ move off somers, I dunner whar, an’ dey wa’n’t nobody lef’ in dem neighberhoods but me an’ Brer Rabbit.”

“You and Brother Rabbit?” cried the little boy.

“Dat’s what I said,” replied Uncle Remus. “Me an’ Brer Rabbit. De gal, she tol’ her chillun ’bout how Brer Rabbit had done her an’ her pa, an’ fum dat time on, deyer been persooin’ on atter him.”

XVI
THE HARD-HEADED WOMAN

Uncle Remus had observed a disposition on the part of the little boy to experiment somewhat with his elders. The child had come down to the plantation from the city such a model youngster that those who took an interest in his behavior, and who were themselves living the free and easy life possible only in the country places, were inclined to believe that he had been unduly repressed. This was particularly the case with the little fellow’s grandmother, who was aided and abetted by Uncle Remus himself, with the result that the youngster was allowed liberties he had never had before. The child, as might be supposed, was quick to take advantage of such a situation, and was all the time trying to see how far he could go before the limits of his privileges—new and inviting so far as he was concerned—would be reached. They stretched very much farther on the plantation than they would have done in the city, as was natural and proper, but the child, with that adventurous spirit common to boys, was inclined to push them still farther than they had ever yet gone; and he soon lost the most obvious characteristics of a model lad.

Little by little he had pushed his liberties, the mother hesitating to bring him to task for fear of offending the grandmother, whose guest she was, and the grandmother not daring to interfere, for the reason that it was at her suggestion, implied rather than direct, that the mother had relaxed her somewhat rigid discipline. It was natural, under the circumstances, that the little fellow should become somewhat wilful and obstinate, and he bade fair to develop that spirit of disobedience that will make the brightest child ugly and discontented.

Uncle Remus, as has been said, observed all these symptoms, and while he had been the first to deplore the system that seemed to take all the individuality out of the little fellow, he soon became painfully aware that something would have to be done to renew the discipline that had been so efficacious when the mother was where she felt free to exercise her whole influence.

“You ain’t sick, is you, honey?” the old man inquired one day in an insinuating tone. “Kaze ef you is, you better run back ter de house an’ let de white folks dose you up. Yo’ mammy knows des ’zackly de kinder physic you need, an’ how much, an’ ef I ain’t mighty much mistooken, ’twon’t be so mighty long ’fo’ she’ll take you in han’.” The child looked up quickly to see whether Uncle Remus was in earnest, but he could find nothing in that solemn countenance that at all resembled playfulness. “You may be well,” the old man went on, “but dey’s one thing certain an’ sho’—you don’t look like you did when you come ter we-all’s house, an’ you don’t do like you done. You may look at me ef you wanter, but I’m a-tellin’ you de fatal trufe, kaze you ain’t no mo’ de same chil’ what useter ’ten’ ter his own business all day an’ night—you ain’t no mo’ de same chil’ dan I’m dat ol’ hen out dar. I ’low’d I mought be mistooken, but I hear yo’ granny an’ yo’ mammy talkin’ t’er night atter you done gone ter bed, an’ de talk dat dey talked sho’ did open my eyes, kaze I never spected fer ter hear talk like dat.”

For a long time the little boy said nothing, but finally he inquired what Uncle Remus had heard. “I ain’t no eavesdrapper,” the old man replied, “but I hear ’nough fer ter last me whiles you stay wid us. I dunner how long dat’ll be, but I don’t speck it’ll be long. Now des look at you! Dar you is fumblin’ wid my shoe knife, an’ mos’ ’fo’ you know it one een’ er yo’ finger will be down dar on de flo’, an’ you’ll be a-squallin’ like somebody done killt you. Put it right back whar you got it fum. Why n’t you put it down when I ax you?—an’ don’t scatter my pegs! Put down dat awl! You’ll stob yo’se’f right in de vitals, an’ den Miss Sally will blame me. Laws-a-massy! take yo’ han’ outer dat peg box! You’ll git um all over de flo’, an’ dey’ll drap thoo de cracks. I be boun’ ef I take my foot in my han’, an’ go up yan’ an’ tell yo’ mammy how good you is, she’ll make you take off yo’ cloze an’ go ter bed—dat’s des ’zackly what she’ll do. An’ dar you is foolin’ wid my fillin’s!—an’, bless gracious, ef you ain’t settin’ right flat-footed on my shoemaker’s wax, an’ it right saft! I’ll hatter ax yo’ mammy ter please’m not let you come down here no mo’ twel de day you start home!”

“I think you are very cross,” complained the child. “I never heard you talk that way before. And grandmother is getting so she isn’t as nice as she used to be.”

“Ah-yi!” exclaimed Uncle Remus in a triumphant tone. “I know’d it! you done got so dat you won’t do a blessed thing dat anybody ax you ter do. You done got a new name, an’ ’tain’t so new but what I can put bofe han’s behime one, an’ shet my eyes an’ call it out. Eve’ybody on de place know what ’tis, an’ I hear de ol’ red rooster callin’ it out de yuther day when you wuz chunkin’ at ’im.” At once the little boy manifested interest in what the old negro was saying, and when he looked up, curiosity shone in his eyes. “What did the rooster say my name is, Uncle Remus?”

“Why, when you wuz atter him, he flew’d up on de lot fence, an’ he ’low, ‘Mr. Hardhead! Mr. Hardhead!’ an’ dat sho’ is yo’ name. You kin squirm, an’ frown, an’ twis’, but dat rooster is sho’ got yo’ name down fine. Ef he’d ’a’ des named you once, maybe folks would ’a’ fergot it off’n der min’, but he call de name twice des ez plain ez he kin speak, an’ dar you sets wid Mr. Hardhead writ on you des ez plain ez ef de rooster had a put it on you wid a paint-brush. You can’t rub it off an’ you can’t walk roun’ it.”

“But what must I do, Uncle Remus?”

“Des set still a minnit, an’ try ter be good. It may th’ow you in a high fever fer ter keep yo’ han’s outer my things, er it may gi’ you a agur fer ter be like you useter be, but it’ll pay you in de long run; it mos’ sholy will.”

“Well, if you want me to be quiet,” said the child, “you’ll have to tell me a tale.”

“Ef you sit still too long, honey, I’m afeard de creeturs on de plantation will git de idee dat sump’n done happen. Dar’s de ol’ sow—you ain’t run her roun’ de place in de last ten minnits er sech a matter; an’ dar’s de calf, an’ de chickens, an’ de Guinny hens, an’ de ol’ gray gooses—dey’ll git de idee dat you done broke yo’ leg er yo’ arm; an’ dey’ll be fixin’ up fer ter have a frolic if dey miss you fer longer dan fifteen minnits an’ a half. How you gwineter have any fun ef you set an’ lissen ter a tale stidder chunkin’ an’ runnin’ de creeturs? I mos’ know you er ailin’ an’ by good rights de doctor oughter come an’ look at you.”

The little boy laughed uneasily. He was not the first that had been sobered by the irony of Uncle Remus, which, crude though it was, was much more effective than downright quarreling. “Yasser!” Uncle Remus repeated, “de doctor oughter come an’ look at you—an’ when I say doctor, I mean doctor, an’ not one er deze yer kin’ what goes roun’ wid a whole passel er pills what ain’t bigger dan a gnat’s heart. What you want is a great big double-j’inted doctor wid a big black beard an’ specks on, what’ll fill you full er de rankest kin’ er physic. Ez you look now, you put me in min’ er de ’oman an’ de dinner-pot; dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.”

“If it is a tale, please tell it, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy.

“Oh, it sho is a tale all right!” exclaimed the old man, “but you ain’t no mo’ got time fer ter hear it dan de birds in de tree. You’d hatter set still an’ lissen, an’ dat ’ud put you out a whole lot, kaze dar’s de chickens ter be chunked, an’ de pigs ter be crippled an’ a whole lot er yuther things fer ter be did, an’ dey ain’t nobody else in de roun’ worl’ dat kin do it ez good ez you kin. Well, you kin git up an’ mosey long ef you wanter, but I’m gwineter tell dish yer tale ef I hatter r’ar my head back an’ shet my eyeballs an’ tell it ter myse’f fer ter see ef I done fergit it off’n my min’.

“Well, once ’pon a time—it mought ’a’ been in de year One fer all I know—dey wuz a ’oman dat live in a little cabin in de woods not so mighty fur fum water. Now, dis ’oman an’ dis cabin mought ’a’ been in de Nunited State er Georgy, er dey mought ’a’ been in de Nunited State er Yallerbammer—you kin put um whar you please des like I does. But at one place er de yuther, an’ at one time er nuther, dis ’oman live dar des like I’m a-tellin’ you. She live dar, she did, an’ fus’ an’ las’ dey wuz a mighty heap er talk about her. Some say she wuz black, some say she wuz mighty nigh white, an’ some say she wa’n’t ez black ez she mought be; but dem what know’d, dey say she wuz nine parts Injun an’ one part human, an’ I speck dat’s des ez close ter trufe ez we kin git in dis kinder wedder ef we gwineter keep cool.

“Fum all I kin hear—an’ I been keepin’ bofe years wide open, she wuz a monstus busy ’oman, kaze it wuz de talk ’mongst de neighbors dat she done a heap er things what she ain’t got no business ter do. She had a mighty bad temper, an’ her tongue wuz a-runnin’ fum mornin’ twel night. Folks say dat ’twuz long an’ loud an’ mighty well hung. Dey lissen an’ shake der head, an’ atter while word went roun’ dat de ’oman done killt her daughter. Ez ter dat, I ain’t never is hear de rights un it; she mought, an’ den ag’in she moughtn’t—dey ain’t no tellin’—but dey wuz one thing certain an’ sho’ she done so quare, dat folks say she cut up des like a Friday-born fool.

“Her ol’ man, he done de best dat he could. He went ’long an’ ten’ ter his own business, an’ when her tongue ’gun ter clack, he sot down an’ made fish-baskets, an’ ax-helves. But dat ain’t make no diffunce ter de ’oman, kaze she wuz one deze yer kin’ what could quoil all day whedder dey wuz anybody fer ter quoil at er not. She quoiled an’ she quoiled. De man, he ain’t say nothin’ but dis des make her quoil de mo’. He split up kin’lin’ an’ chopped up wood, an’ still she quoil’; he fotch home meal an’ he fotch home meat, but still she quoil’. An’ she ’fuse fer ter cook what he want her to cook; she wuz hard-headed des like you, an’ she’d have her own way ef she died fer it.

“Ef de man, he say, ‘Please ’m cook me some grits,’ she’d whirl in an’ bile greens; ef he ax fer fried meat, she’d bake him a hoe-cake er corn bread. Ef he want roas’ tater she’d bile him a mess er beans, an’ all de time, she’d be givin’ ’im de wuss kinder sass. Oh, she wuz a honey! An’ when it come ter low-down meanness, she wuz rank an’ ripe. She’d take de sparrer-grass what he fotch, an’ kindle de fire wid it. She’d burn de spar’-ribs an’ scorch de tripe, an’ she’d do eve’y kinder way but de right way, an’ dat she wouldn’t do, not ter save yo’ life.

“Well, dis went on an’ went on, an’ de man ain’t make no complaints; he des watch an’ wait an’ pray. But atter so long a time, he see dat dat ain’t gwine ter do no good, an’ he tuck an’ change his plans. He spit in de ashes, he did, an’ he make a cross-mark, an’ turn roun’ twice so he kin face de sunrise. Den he shuck a gourd-vine flower over de pot, an’ sump’n tol’ ’im fer ter take his res’ an’ wait twel de moon come up. All dis time de ’oman, she wuz a quoilin’, but bimeby, she went on ’bout her business, an’ de man had some peace; but not fer long. He ain’t no more dan had time fer ter put some thunderwood buds an’ some calamus-root in de pot, dan here she come, an’ she come a-quoilin’. She come in she did, an’ she slam things roun’ des like you slams de gate.

“Atter kickin’ up a rippet, an’ makin’ de place hot ez she kin, de ’oman made a big fire un’ de pot, an’ flew’d roun’ dar des like she tryin’ fer ter cook a sho’ ’nough supper. She made some dumplin’s an’ flung um in de pot; den she put in some peas an’ big pods er red pepper, an’ on top er all she flung a sheep’s head. De man, he sot dar, an’ look straight at de cross-mark what he done made in de ashes. Atterwhile, he ’gun to smell de calamus-root a-cookin’ an’ he know’d by dat, dat sump’n wuz gwineter happen.

“De pot, it biled, an’ biled, an’ fus’ news you know, de sheep’s head ’gun ter butt de dumplin’s out, an’ de peas, dey flew’d out an’ rattled on de flo’ like a bag er bullets done busted. De ’oman, she run fer ter see what de matter is, an’ when she got close ter de pot de steam fum de thunderwood hit her in de face an’ eyes an’ come mighty nigh takin’ her breff away. Dis kinder stumped ’er fer a minnit, but she had a temper big ’nough fer ter drag a bull down, an’ all she had ter do when she lose her breff wuz ter fling her han’s in de a’r an’ fetch a snort, an’ dar she wuz.

“She moughter been mad befo’, but dis time she wuz mighty nigh plum’ crazy. She look at de pot, an’ she look at her ol’ man; she shot her eyeballs an’ clinched her han’s; she yerked off her head-hankcher, an’ pulled her ha’r loose fum de wroppin’-strings; she stomped her foot, an’ smashed her toofies tergedder.

“She railed at de pot; she ’low, ‘What ail you, you black Dickunce? I b’lieve youer de own brer ter de Ol’ Boy! You been foolin’ wid me fer de longest, an’ I ain’t gwine ter put up wid it! I’m gwineter tame you down!’ Wid dat, she flung off de homespun sack what she been w’arin’ an’ run outer de house an’ got de ax.

“Her ol’ man say, ‘Whar you gwine, honey?’ She ’low, ‘I’m a gwine whar I’m a gwine, dat’s whar I’m a gwine!’ De man, he ain’t spon’ ter dat kinder talk, an’ de ’oman, she went out in back yard fer ter hunt fer de ax. Look like she gwineter keep on gittin’ in trouble, kaze de ax wuz on top er de wood what de man done pile up out dar. It wuz layin’ up dar, de ax wuz, des ez slanchendicklar ez you please, but time it see her comin’——”

“But, Uncle Remus!” the child exclaimed, “how could the ax see her?”

The old negro looked at the little boy with an expression of amazed pity on his face. He looked all around the room and then raised his eyes to the rafters, where a long cobweb was swaying slowly in a breeze so light that nothing else would respond to its invitation. Then he sighed and closed his eyes. “I wish yo’ pa wuz here right now, I mos’ sholy does—yo’ pa, what useter set right whar youer settin’! You done been raised in town whar dey can’t tell a ax fum a wheelbarrer. Ax ain’t got no eye! Well, whoever is hear de beat er dat! Ef anybody else is got dat idee, I’ll be much erbleege ef you’ll show um ter me. Here you is mighty nigh big ’nough fer eat raw tater widout havin’ de doctor called in, an’ a-settin’ dar sayin’ dat axes ain’t got no eyes. Well, you ax yo’ gran’ma when you go back ter de house an’ see what she say.

“Now, le’ me see; wharbouts wuz I at? Oh, yes! De ax wuz on top er woodpile, an’ when it seed de ’oman comin’, it des turned loose an’ slip down on de yuther side. It wa’n’t tryin’ fer ter show off, like I’ve seed some folks ’fo’ now; it des turned loose eve’ything an’ fell down on de yuther side er de woodpile. An’ whiles de ’oman wuz gwin roun’ atter it, de ax, it clum back on top er de woodpile an’ fell off on t’er side. Dem what handed de tale down ter me ain’t say how long de ’oman an’ de ax keep dis up, but ef a ax is got eyes, it ain’t got but one leg, an’ it must not ’a’ been so mighty long ’fo’ de ’oman cotch up wid it—an’ when she did she wuz so mad dat she could ’a’ bit a railroad track in two, ef dey’d ’a’ been one anywhar’s roun’ dar.

“Well, she got de ax, an’ it look like she wuz madder dan ever. De man, he say, ‘Better let de pot ’lone, honey; ef you don’t you’ll sholy wish you hadder.’ De ’oman, she squall out, ‘I’ll let you ’lone ef you fool wid me, an’ ef I do you won’t never pester nobody no mo’.’ Man, he say, ‘I’m a-tellin’ you de trufe, honey, an’ dis may be de las’ chance you’ll git ter hear it.’

“De ’oman raise de ax like she gwineter hit de man, an’ den it look like she tuck a n’er notion, an’ she start todes de pot. De man, he ’low, ‘You better hear me, honey! You better drap de ax an’ go out doors an’ cool yo’se’f off, honey!’ It seem like he wuz a mighty saf’-spoken man, wid nice feelin’s fer all. De ’oman, she say, ‘Don’t you dast ter honey me—ef you does I’ll brain you stidder de pot!’ De man smole a long smile an’ shuck his head; he say, ‘All de same, honey, you better pay ’tention ter deze las’ words I’m a-tellin’ you!’

“But de ’oman, she des keep right on. She’d ’a’ gone faster dan what she did, but it look like de ax got heavier eve’y step she tuck—heavier an’ heavier. An’ it look like de house got bigger—bigger an’ bigger; an’ it seem like de do’ got wider—wider an’ wider! She moughter seed all dis, an’ I speck she did, but she des keep right on, shakin’ de ax, an’ moufin’ ter herse’f. De man, he holler once mo’ an’ fer de las’ time, ‘Don’t let ol’ Nick fool you, honey, ef you does, he sho will git you!’

“But she keep on an’ keep on, an’ de house got bigger an’ de do’ got wider. De pot see her comin’, an’ it got fum a-straddle er de fire, whar it had been settin’ at, an’ skipped out’ de do’ an’ out in de yard.” Uncle Remus paused to see what effect this statement would have on the child, but save the shadow of a smile hovering around his mouth, the youngster gave no indication of unbelief. “De ’oman,” said Uncle Remus, with a chuckle that was repressed before it developed into a laugh, “look like she ’stonish’, but her temper kep’ hot, an’ she run out atter de pot wid de ax ez high ez she kin hol’ it; but de pot keep on gwine, skippin’ long on three legs faster dan de ’oman kin run on two; an’ de ax kep’ on gittin’ heavier an’ heavier, twel, bimeby, de ’oman hatter drap it. Den she lit out atter de pot like she wuz runnin’ a foot-race, but fast ez she run, de pot run faster.

“De chase led right inter de woods an’ down de spring branch, an’ away over yander beyan’ de creek. De pot went so fast an’ it went so fur dat atter while de ’oman ’gun ter git weak. But de temper she had helt ’er up fer de longest, an’ mo’ dan dat, eve’y time she’d sorter slack up, de pot would dance an’ caper roun’ on its three legs, an’ do like it’s givin’ her a dar’—an’ she keep a-gwine twel she can’t hardly go no furder.

“De man he stayed at de house, but de ’oman an’ de pot ain’t git so fur but what he kin hear um scufflin’ an scramblin’ roun’ in de bushes, an’ he set dar, he did, an’ look like he right sorry fer anybody what’s ez hard-headed ez de ’oman. But she look like she bleeze ter ketch dat pot. She say ter herse’f dat folks will never git done talkin’ ’bout her ef she let herse’f be outdone by a ol’ dinner-pot what been in de fambly yever sence dey been any fambly.

“So she keep on, twel she tripped up on a vine er de bamboo brier, an’ down she come! It seem like de pot seed her, an’ stidder runnin’ fum ’er, here it come a-runnin’ right at ’er wid a chunk er red fire. Oh, you kin laugh, honey, an’ look like you don’t b’lieve me, but dat ain’t make no diffunce, kaze de trufe ain’t never been hurted yit by dem what ain’t b’lieve it. I dunner whar de chunk er fire come fum, an’ I dunner how de dinner-pot come ter have motion, but dar ’tis in de tale—take it er leave it, des ez you bleeze.

“Well, suh, when de ’oman fell, de pot made at her wid a chunk er red fire. De ’oman see it comin’, an’ she set up a squall dat moughter been heard a mile. She jump up, she did, but it seem like she wuz so weak an’ tired dat she can’t stan’ on her foots, an’ she start fer ter fall ag’in, but de dinner-pot wuz dar fer ter ketch ’er when she fell. An’ dat wuz de last dat anybody yever is see er de hard-headed ’oman. Leas’ ways, she ain’t never come back ter de house whar de man wuz settin’ at.

“De pot? Well, de way dey got it in de tale is dat de pot des laugh twel it hatter hol’ its sides fer ter keep fum crackin’ open. It come a-hoppin’ an’ a-skippin’ up de spring paff. It hopped along, it did, twel it come ter de house, an’ it made a runnin’ jump in de do’. Den it wash its face, an’ scrape de mud off’n it foots, an’ wiped off de grease what de ’oman been too lazy fer ter clean off. Den it went ter de fireplace, an’ kinder spraddle out so it’ll fit de bricks what been put dar fer it ter set on.

“De man watch all dis, but he ain’t say nothin’. Atter while he hear a mighty bilin’ an’ bubblin’ an’ when he went ter look fer ter see what de matter, he see his supper cookin’ an’ atter so long a time, he fish it out an’ eat it. He eat in peace, an’ atter dat he allers had peace. An’ when you wanter be hard-headed, an’ have yo’ own way, you better b’ar in min’ de ’oman an’ de dinner-pot.”

THE END