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THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, NOVEMBER 2<5, 1892.
9
UNCLE REMUS.
He Tells Two Stories in Season.
[Written specially for Thanksgiving issue.]
Uncle Remus was never without a
little boy to talk to. It was uis good
fortune to have lived long enough to
tell his stories to two generations of
youngsters—to his old master’s children
and grand-children—and whatever lit
tle bov he had for his audience was
the little boy. Therefore—
One day the little boy went to Uncle
Remus’ house and snated himself on
the shoemaker’s bench which stood in
one corner Ho was not running when
he went in, and he had a languid ap
pearance that was not in keeping with
either his style or his habits. The old
man noticed this, and commented on
it.
“You aint sick, is you honey?” he
asked after awhile.
“I don’t know,” the littleboy replied.
“I don’t feel good.”
“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Uncle Remus.
“I bouu’ you been swallerin’ sumpin
you aint got no business. ’Twant no
longer ’n yistiddy dat I cotch you eatin’
some er dem ar big green acorns. Ef
you don’t pizen yo’set, hit’ll be bekaze
dey aint nothin’ pizen growin’ roun
here. Bimeby you’ll git to nibblin’ at
dem ar j.mson weed bolls, en den ’fo’
de doctor kin git here you’ll be too dead
ter skin. Dats what!”
“Well,” said the little boy, “I
haven’t been eating anything but din
ner, but I eat too much.”
By tl lis time he had slid from the
bench to the floor and lay sprawling
on his stomach. Uncle Remus groaned
scornfully and said :
“Hit must a been a powerful dinner.
Yit dis aint Sunday.”
“It was a big dinner,” the child ex
plained. “We had turkey, and apple
dumpling, and custard, and cake and
quince jelly, and—oh, ever so much.”
“How cum dat?” asked the old
negro.
“Thanksgiving,” replied the little
boy.
“Well!” exclaimed the old man
with a snort. “What kinder doin’s is
dat ? I b~en hear tell er bobbeycues
on de fo’rt’ er July, en chicken fixins
in Chris’mas times, but dish yer
Thank’givin’ doin’s is done sprung up
sence de farmin’ days was over. Yit
taint come none too soon. Hit’s high
time dey wuz a thank’givin’ gwineon,
en de mo’ vittles dey crams in it de
better hit’ll be fer me. Whyn’t you
fetch me some er dat cake eu de udder
whatyermay callum ? ”
“Because mamma told me not to
bring you any,” said the little boy.
“What!” exclaimed the old man,
straightening himself up and glaring
at the child. “Did Miss Sally tell you
dat right pine blank out’n her own
mouf? ”
“She said she’d fix you something
and you could come up there and eat
it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Uncle Remus,
“dat sorter soun’ like sumpn.”
His whole form relaxed. He closed
his eyes, and swayed his head from
side to side, smiling to himself. Then
he straightened himself up again.
“ Hit’s in about time fer folks fer ter
whirl in en show dey er thankful.
Dey never is ter ketch up widde dumb
creeturs in dat kinder doin’s. Look at
dem chickens at de water trough out
yauder! Look at ’urn ! Eve’y time
dey take a drink er water dey lift up
der heads en shet der eyes en give
thanks.”
The little boy rose from the floor and
looked, and, sure enough, it seemed to
be so. The chickens were drinking
and lifting their heads heavenward.
Uncle Remus, feeling happy in expec-
totiou of a good dinner, soon switched
oft into some of his fables. The first
one he told was about
BROTHER RABBIT AS A RAIN-MAKER.
“Dey wuz one time,” he began,
“when ole Brer Rabbit had a kinder
thank’givin’. Hit seem like dey wuz
a big drout’, en de craps wus all
agwine ter ruin kaze dey want no rain.
De cotton wuz all swiveled up, en de
corn wuz dat dry it look like it gwine
ter ketch a fire anyhow. Hit went on
dis away twel everything wuz parched
up. De wells en de creeks run dry, en
de mills had ter stop, en it seem like
dey wuz bleedze ter be a famine in dat
country.
“In dem days de creeturs wuz a
farmin’ and eve’y time dey’d meet at
de cross roads dey’d hold der confabs
eu make der complaints. Dey say ef
dey gwine to save any part of der crops
dey er bleedze ter have rain. Dey all
gwineon pow’ful ’cep’ Brer Rabbit. He
des set back cross-legged, he did, en
smoke his pipe. Maybe sometimes j
he’d scratch hisse’f on de year wid his
behime foot, but mos’ inginer’ly he’d
des set up dar cross-legged wid his eyes
shot en smoke his pipe, en lissen at de
yuthers while dey runnin on.
“Bimeby de yuther creeturs tuck
notice dat all dis time ole Brer Rabbit
aint sayin’ nothin’, en dey ax dey se’f
dey did, how come dis. Den dey watch
’im more closer dan dey been doin’, en,
sho uuff, dar he wuz, settiu’ up cross-
legged wid his eyes shot en smokin his
pipe. Den, atter awhile, one day,
Brer Wolf, he up’u say, sezee:
‘Heyo, Brer Rabbit! How yo’
craps ?’
“Brer Rabbit low: ‘Dey aint so!
good ez dey mought be, Brer Wolf, but
Ts you had any
none ter
been had
—a drizzle
dey er good nufF ter keep me fum
grumbliu.”
“Brer Wolf say:
rain at yo’ house?”
“Brer Rabbit low: “Not
brag un, Brer Wolf, yit I
some right freshenin’ seasons
here en a drizzle dar—but none to brag
un.’
“De yuther creeturs hear dis en dey
stood dar ’stouished. Dey tuck one er
nudder off ter one side en ax how dis
kin be, but none un um can’t fin’ out.”
“Bimeby Brer Wolf say: ‘Brer
Rabbit, how come you have fain when
we-all aint got none? ’
“Brer Rabbit open one eye en look
at ’im. He say: ‘Some folks what
know me mighty well call me de
Rain-Maker. Dey may be right. Dey
may be wrong. I aint gwine ter squab
ble ’bout ic. You-all kin call me what
you please. I aint gwine ter ’spute
’long wid you.’
“Well, suh, dey got ’roun’ Brer Rab
bit, de creeturs did, en dey ax ’im ter
please, suh, tell um how ter make some
rain, so dey kin save der craps. Dey
beg en dey beg, en ole Brer Rabbit sot
up dar cross-legged wid his eyes shot
a-smokin’ his pipe. Dey beg, en dey
beg. Brer B’ar, he amble ’roun’, he
did, en beg. Brer Wolf sot right flat-
footed on de groun’ en beg. Brer Fox
got down on his hunkers en beg. En
all the yuther creeturs jine in de beg-
gin’.
“Bimeby Brer Rabbit tuck de pipe
outin his mouf en sorter stretch his
se’f. Den he’low dat he’ll make rain
fer de whole settlement ef so be dey’d
pay him toll. Fer
dem what pay de
toll, he’d make de
rain, but fer dem
what don’t pay de
toll he won’t make
none. He say dat
es de long en de
short un it. So dey
sot ir, dey did, en
eve’y one un um
fetch Brer Rabbit a
turn er pervisions.
Some fotch corn, en
some fotch meal;
some fotch wdieat,
en some fotch flour;
some fotch milk en
some fotch butter;
some fotch one sort
en some fotch an ud
der. But, bles* yo’
soul, dey all fotch
sumpin’.
“Den, atter dat,
dey all got ’roun’
Brer Rabbit, en beg
’im fer ter please,
suh, make ’ase en
make de rain, kaze
dey say ef he don’t
der craps will be tee-
tool ly ruint. Brer
Rabbit look at um
right hard like he
studyin’ ’bout sum
pin n’er long ways
oft' en den he ’low :
“ ‘All un you does
like you want rain,
dey aint no ’sputin’
dat. You done paid
de toll, ’cordin’ ter
de’greement. You
done yearnt de rain,
en now dey aint
nothin’ ter do but
fer me ter fin’ out
how much rain you
want.
“Dey all start ter
speak out, mo’
speshually Brer
B’a, which lie live
in de uplan’, bur ole
Brer Rabbit ’low he
did :
“ ‘Hoi’ on dar!
Des wait! Don’t
git in no scramble
’roun’ here. Dis my
ter hoi’ der confab, en I bouu’ you dey
spoke der min’. Ole Brer B’ar, he live
in de upland, he did, en he say ef dey
gwineter have any rain ’tall, he want
one er deze yer ole tirney trash-
movers. Brer Wolf, he live in de low
lan’, en he say he des want one er deze
common sense, eve’y day rains. Brer
Mink, he live in de branch, en he say
he don’t want no fresh’ fer ter come
floodin’ his house. Brer Coon say he
des want 'null fer ter coax de frogs out.
Brer Possum say he want it ter rain
des long ez it kin rain. Brer Fox, lie
live in de river bottom, eu he say ho
don’t want nothin’ but one er deze yer
Sat’day night drizzles.
“ Well suh, dar dey had it up en
down, en ’roun,’ en ’roun’. Dey ’spute
en dey ’spute; dey quoii en dey i
quoil; dey wrangle en dey wrangle.
Brer Rabbit got his dinner, en come
out on de peazzer en smoke his pipe.
Still dey wrangle. Ole Miss Rabbit
come out en sot ’long wid ’im. Still
de creeters quoil. De little Rabs, d«-y
come out en got ter playin’ in de san\
Still de creeters jower. Ole Brer Rab
bit leant back in his cheer en put his
red silk hankecher over his head en
went ter sleep. Still de creeters ’spute.
Some want big rain, en some want
little rain; some want drizzle en some
want mizzle. De sun git low. Siill
dey jower. De cows come home. Still
dey ’spute. Ole Brer Rabbit en his
fambly got der supper en eat it eu went
ter bed. Still de yuther creeturs ’spute
en ’spute.
“Well, suh,” continued Uncle Re
mus, shifting his position in the chair.
house en my “You might ez well say de tale stops
place, en my ole’oman aint feelin’ so j right dar. It aint stop itself des dry
mighty well nohow. Des go up yau’
on de hill en fix up mongst you how
much raiD you want. De minnit you
’greeon w’hat kinder rain you want des
sen’ me word, en den hist yo’ parasol,
kaze dey’ll be asprinkle sho’.
“Wid dat, Brer Rabbit went in de
house en shot de door, en den he drapt
in a cheer en laugh twel a li r tie mo’en
he’d a los’ his breft. Dat de kinder
man what Brer Rabbit is,” the old
negro continued, noticing a look of
surprise on the little boy’s face.
“When he see fun ahead he bleedz to
laugh.”
“But what was he laughing at, Un
cle Remus?” the youngster asked.
“Wait!” responded the old man.
“Wait! Now dat we er up en a
gwine le’s pursue on atter de tale. I
keep on a-dreamin’ dat you er older
dan what you is, kaze you set dar en
looks so full er circumstances. Le’s
pursue on atter de tale.
“So den, ole Brer Rabbit went in
de house en shot de door, en broke
outin big—boohoo. Aint I say boohoo
befo’?”
“You said he laughed,” remarked
the little boy.
“Tooby sho,” said Uncle Remus.
“Dat what I sav, but de laughin’ aint
suit you, en I des thunk I’d make ’im
cry, kaze he bleedz ter do sump’n.
Well den, he laugh en laugh twel de
tears come in his eyes, en folks coinin’
long dar would a-thunk he uz cryin’.
“ By dat time de creeturs done got
ter de top er de hill whar dey gwine j
so; de creelurs tuck ’n stop it. I aint
right certain en sho but what dey had
a scuftie ’fo’ dey quit der jawin’ en j<>w-
erin’. But dey aint come ter no ’gree
ment, en darfo dey aint git no rain.”
“Why, Uucle Remus,” exclaimed
the little boy with an air of disappoint
ment, “I thought you said Brother
Rabbit could make rain.”
“Well, suh,” replied the old man,
squaring himself as if for an argument,
“how he gwine to make rain ef dey
don’t gin ’im a chance? Does you
speck he gwineter whirl in en please
some en dispint de yuthers ? No suh !
Brer Rabbit aint dat kinder man.
Dey all paid ’im well, en dey all got
der entitlements ter de rain. Now,
den, how come dey aint got no rain ?
Is it on ’count er Brer Rabbit ’fusin’
ter make it? Dar he sot ready en a-
waitin’. How come den, dey aint got
none? Hits des pine blank bekaze de
creeturs aint got boss sense nuft fer ter
’gree mongst deyself.”
“Well, Uucle Remus,” said the little
boy, tell me this. Could Brer Rabbit
make rain sure enough?” The old
negro rubbed both hands over his face
in order to chase away a tell-tale smile.
Then he leaned his head to one side
and looked at the little boy.
“Well, honey, you hear what de tale
say he gwine do. De tale say he gwine
ter up en make rain de minnit de
creeturs come ter some ’greement’bout
how much dey want. I tell you right
now,” he went on, “I believe anybody
in de ’roun w*orl’ kin make rain en
durin’ a dry spell ef all de yuther folks
’ud come ter some ’greement ’bout
bow much dey want. One aint no
ha der dan de yuther.”
Thereupon Uncle Remus leaned hi-
head agiiost the chimney-jamb and
closed lii-> eyes. The little boy, mean
while, hud moved from the floor to the
rude shoe-maker’s bench, and sat there
silent and patient. Presently Uncle
Remus opened his eyes and remarked :
! “I wuz des runnin’ on in my mind
’bout dat ar thank’givin’, en it come
’crosi me dat dey wuz one time when
ole Mr. Man had mighty good chance
fer ter git in a weavin’ way ’bout
thank’-givin.”
“When was that, Uncle Remus?”
the little boy asked.
“Bless yo’ soul, honey!” exclaimed
the old man, “I aint gwine tell you d^
year, en de niont’, en dc day, en needer
is I gwine to tell you de time er day
kaze de tale been handed roun’ so
much dat all dat been rubbed oft’. But
’twuz in ole timer-, I’ll say dat much,
en de w T oods wuz full er creeturs. Dem
wlnit’s tame now wuz wil’ den.”
“If I don’t make no mistakes I done
tole you some er dis tale—’bout de time
Brer Lion start out ter fine Mr. Man,
en fine ’im splittin’ wood, en ’bout how
Brer Lion got his paw cotch in de crack
er de log what Mr. Man splittin.’ Aint
T done tole you ’bout dat?”
“Yes,” replied the little boy. “I
remember that tale.”
“Well,” said Uncle Remus, “dish
yer’n what I'm gwine tell you is delas’
part er de same tale. Leas’ ways hit’s
bout de same Mr. Man en de same
Brer Lion. Hit
seem like dat when
Brer Lion git his
paw out er de split
in de log, he feel so
bad d it he limp oft
homede bes’ way he
kin. He live a
mighty fur ways
fum dar, but dat
aint make no dif-
funce, kaze de cree
ters is mighty trav
elers, cripple er not
cripple.
“So, den, Brer
Lion, he tuck’n
wrop up his paw in
some burdock leaves
fer ter keep down
de infurmation, en
den he put out fer
home. Atter so
long a time he got
dar, en when his
mammy see what
kinder fix lie’s in,
she up en scold ’im
en ’buze ’im right
smart. She low:
““Ah-ha! whatT
tell you ’bout gwine
en foolin’ long er
dat what aint none
er yo’ business? I
aint one bit sorry
fer you—not one
bit; kaze ef vou’d a
minded me you
wouldn’t er come
home wid yo’ han’
all squshed up dis a
way. But n o—
d a d d y -1 i k e—y o u
got ter go on a per-
su in’atter Mr. Man ;
en now you see what
you got! I aint
feelin’ nigh well
myself, en now here
I got ter go ter work
en make a whole*
lot er poultices en
tie yo’ han’ up, en
nuss you, when,
goodness knows,
somebody orter be
nussin’ me.
“Dat de way Brer
Lion’s mammy run
Uncle Remus, “but
say nothin’. He des
Bimeby, one morn in’, whiles deyer
gwine marchic’ long two by two, feelin’
kinder shaky in head en limb, dey
come Vro.-s Mr. Man in de middle er
<le woods, whar he be* n cuttin’ down
timber. Mr. Man, he seed Brer Lion
en his blood cousins time dey seed him,
eu he aint no sooner seed um dan he
drapt his ax en clum a tree. De man
got up in de tree, he did, en sat dar en
look down at ’em. Dey lick der chops
en look greedy. Mr. Man look like he
wish he wuz at home ’long side er his
ole’oman en de chiliuns.
“Den Brer Lion en his blood cousins,
dey sot dar, dey d d, en hoi’ a confab,
en Brer Lion, he fix up a plan. He say
he’ll stall’on de groun’en r’ar up gin
de tree, en one er his blood cousins kin
clime on his back eu r’ar up, en anud-
der one on top er him, en dey’ll keep
on dat a-way twel dey kin reach Mr.
Man en pull him oft’n his perch boda-
ciously. ’Bout time dey gwineter be
gin, BrerXioa look up at Mr. Man en
say, sezee : ‘What you doin’ up dar?’
“Mr. Man ’spon’ en say, sezee,
‘You’ll fine out lots too soon fer yo’
comfut.’
“Brer Lion say, sezee, ‘Come down
from dar.’
“Mr. Man ‘spoil’ en say, sezee, ‘I’ll
come dow n long ’fo’ you want me.’
“Dey swapped some mo’ sass,” con
tinued" Uncle Remus, “en den Brer
Lion and his blood cousins ’gun ter
build der ladder fer ter reach Mr. Man
en pull ’im down. Brer Lion wuz
at de bottom, en his blood cousins
clum up on his back en on one anud-
der’s back twel dey got mos’ ter de top.
“Den Mr. Man, he holler out loud tz
he kin : ‘ Des hoi’ on ! Des stan’
right still! I aint got nothin’ ’gin you-
all ’ceppin dat ar smart chap at de
bottom. I aint gwine ter hurt you.
Des’ hoi’ dat feller at de bottom tw r el
I kin drap down dar whar he is! Hoi’
’im right tight! You all is on toper
him, en he can’t git aw r ay ! ’
“ Wid dat, Mr. Man gun ter scramble
’bout mongst de leaves en de limbs, en
drapt down some bark. Well, suh !
Ole Brer Lion can’t stan de racket.
He done had some speunce wid Mr.
Man, en he git so skeerd dat he can’t
hoi’ still, so he make a break en all
er his blood cousins come a-tumbliu’
down.
“I dunner how r many un um wuz
kilt,” remarked Uncle Remus, after a
pause, “ but dem whut could git away
wuz done gone when Mr. Man clum
down fum dar. Dat whut make I say
dat Mr. Man oughter ’gun ter eat his
thank’givin’ dinners long time ago.”
THRILLING ADVENTURE.
A Prospector’s Interview with a
Mountain Lion.
on,” continued
Brer Lion aint
lay down on de pallet what she make
f,*r ’im, en study en study how he gwine
ter git even wid Mr. Man. De mo’ he
study, de mo’ madder he git, en he des
lay dar en grit his tushes en make his
eyes look green.
“Well, suh, he lay dar en grit his
tushes en got madder en madder, en
bimeby he ’*un ter git well. Den he
tuck’n sont word ter all his kin folks
fer ter meet ’im oft'in de woods en hoi’
a confab. ’Twant long ’fo’ dey come
fum eve’y which-a-way, en dey wuz
servigrous lookin’, mou’. Dey shuck
der manes, and showed der tushes.
Dat’us des when dey wus playin’—I
dunner what dey done when
in yearnest. Xummine dat.
wuz.
“Sc fur so good. Brer Lion
all tergedder, en den he up en
‘bout de kind er treatment he
Mr. Man ; en he ax um ef dey want
hep’im ter tit even. Mon, dey des
jump at de idee ! Hit look like dey
wuz greedy fer ter git Mr. Man. Dey
rip en dey r’ar. ' Dey r’ar en dey rip.
Dey say dey gwine whar Mr. Man is
at en gnyaw ’im en claw T ’im but what
dey’ll git der revengeance on ’c<*unt er
de way he done done der blood cousin.
“Brer Lion’s mammy, she shuck ’er
hed fum side to side en ’low’ dat dey
all better go back whar dey come fum,
kaze time dey git thoo w T id Mr. Man
dey’ll wish dey aint never been born.
Yit, go dey would en go dey did.
“Dey start out en dey travel all day
en all night fer mighty nigh a week.
The story comes of a thrilling adven
ture recently on lining to William
.Johnson, a prospector. On a trip from
Alamo to the broken country north of
the Trinidad Pass his horse was pick
ing its trail through a dark canyon
when he w r as stunned and almost
thrown from his horse by a mountain
lion that dropped upon him from an
overhanging tree. The frightened
horse plunged down the canyon, and
Johnson, twisting in his saddle, man
aged to wrench the murderous claws
of the lion from his shoulder, says the
Lower Californian.
At this moment the horse saw a
Sonora lynx in his pathway, and
swerving suddenly aside, hurled the
lion from his back directly upon the
lynx. As the horse emerged from the
canyon, Johnson became faint from loss
of blood and became lightheaded, and
did not recover his senses until found
by his partner two days later on the
desert. After he had partially recov
ered the two men visited the spot, but
only a few blood-bespattered boulders
marked the scene of the fray. The
wounded man has a wobbly sho.lder
to prove his participation in the event.
A RATTLING GOOD FAMILY.
Dar dey
got um
tell um
got fum
Miss Gladys Upton of Boston has
recently been visiting her old uncle,
Job Medderland, for the first timesince
she was a young thing, and the first
morning after she got to the old farm
house good, hospitable old Uncle Med
derland remarked:
“Now, niece, I just want you to have
dey wuz a good time all the while you’re here.
We ain’t got many young folks round,
but there’s Sally Wheatiy just across
the lots on t’other road. You an’ her’s
jest ’bout of an age, an’ I’ll warrant
you’ll git to be jolly good friends.”
“Ah, yes?” remarked Miss Upton,
in her prim Boston way. “This Miss—
eh—Wheatiy, whom you say will prove
a pleasant acquaintance for me during
my stay here; does she come of good
family ?”
“Why, yes,” responded Uncle Med
derland, with a sort of puzzled expres
sion on his face; “yes, yes—I believe
she did, now you speak of it.
“Let me see, old man Wheatiy had
three boys and three gals by his fust
wife, an’ six boys an’ four gals by his
second wife, and nine gals straight by
his third wife ; an’ he’s just married
ag’in. Yes—yes; for these days that’s
a purty good family.”—Puck.