Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings Part 23

"I done tell you all I knows, chile. Jim, he tuck'n light on de mule, an' de mule she up'n hump 'erse'f, an den dey wuz a skuffle, an' w'en de dus' blow 'way, dar lay de n.i.g.g.e.r on de groun', an' de mule she stood eatin' at de troff wid wunner Jim's gallusses wrop 'roun' her behime-leg. Den atterwuds, de ker'ner, he come 'roun', an' he tuck'n gin it out dat Jim died sorter accidental like. Hit's des like I tell you: de n.i.g.g.e.r wern't sick a minnit. So long! Bimeby you won't ketch yo' train. I got ter be knockin' long."

II. UNCLE REMUS'S CHURCH EXPERIENCE

THE deacon of a colored church met Uncle Remus recently, and, after some uninteresting remarks about the weather, asked:

"How dis you don't come down ter chu'ch no mo', Brer Remus? We er bin er havin' some mighty 'freshen' times lately."

"Hit's bin a long time sence I bin down dar, Brer Rastus, an'

hit'll be longer. I done got my dose."

"You ain't done gone an' unjined, is you, Brer Remus?"

"Not zackly, Brer Rastus. I des tuck'n draw'd out. De members 'uz a blame sight too mutuel fer ter suit my doctrines."

"How wuz dat, Brer Remus?"

"Well, I tell you, Brer Rastus. W'en I went ter dat chu'ch, I went des ez umbill ez de nex' one. I went dar fer ter sing, an'

fer ter pray, an' fer ter wushup, an' I mos' giner'lly allers had a stray s.h.i.+n-plarster w'ich de ole 'oman say she want sont out dar ter dem cullud fokes 'cross de water. Hit went on dis way twel bimeby, one day, de fus news I know'd der was a row got up in de amen cornder. Brer d.i.c.k, he 'nounced dat dey wern't nuff money in de box; an' Brer Sim said if dey wern't he speck Brer d.i.c.k know'd whar it disappeared ter; an' den Brer d.i.c.k 'low'd dat he won't stan' no 'probusness, an' wid dat he haul off an' tuck Brer Sim under de jaw--ker blap!--an' den dey clinched an'

drapped on de flo' an' fout under de benches an' 'mong de wimmen.

"'Bout dat time Sis Tempy, she lipt up in de a'r, an' sing out dat she done gone an tromple on de Ole Boy, an' she kep' on lippin' up an' slingin' out 'er han's twel bimeby--blip!--she tuck Sis Becky in de mouf, an' den Sis Becky riz an' fetch a grab at Sis Tempy, an' I 'clar' ter grashus ef didn't 'pear ter me like she got a poun' er wool. Atter dat de revivin' sorter het up like. Bofe un um had kin 'mong de mo'ners, an' ef you ever see skufflin' an' scramblin' hit wuz den an' dar. Brer Jeems Henry, he mounted Brer Plato an' rid 'im over de railin', an' den de preacher he start down fum de pulpit, an' des ez he wuz skippin'

onter de platform a hym'-book kotch 'im in de bur er de year, an I be bless ef it didn't soun' like a bung-sh.e.l.l'd busted. Des den, Brer Jesse, he riz up in his seat, sorter keerless like, an'

went down inter his britches atter his razer, an' right den I know'd sho' nuff trubble wuz begun. Sis Dilsey, she seed it herse'f, an' she tuck'n let off wunner dem hallyluyah hollers, an' den I disremember w'at come ter pa.s.s.

"I'm gittin' sorter ole, Brer Rastus, an' it seem like de dus'

sorter shet out de pannyrammer. Fuddermo', my lim's got ter akin, mo' speshully w'en I year Brer Sim an' Brer d.i.c.k a snortin' and a skufflin' under de benches like ez dey wuz sorter makin' der way ter my pew. So I kinder hump myse'f an' scramble out, and de fus man w'at I seed was a pleeceman, an' he had a n.i.g.g.e.r 'rested, an'

de fergiven name er dat n.i.g.g.e.r wuz Remus."

"He didn't 'res' you, did he, Brer Remus?"

"Hit's des like I tell you, Brer Rastus, an' I hatter git Mars John fer to go inter my bon's fer me. Hit ain't no use fer ter sing out chu'ch ter me, Brer Rastus. I done bin an' got my dose.

W'en I goes ter war, I wanter know w'at I'm a doin'. I don't wanter git hemmed up 'mong no wimmen and preachers. I wants elbow-room, an I'm bleedzd ter have it. Des gimme elbow-room."

"But, Brer Remus, you ain't--"

"I mout drap in, Brer Rastus, an' den ag'in I moutn't, but w'en you duz see me santer in de do', wid my specs on, you k'n des say to de congergashun, sorter familious like, 'Yer come ole man Remus wid his hoss-pistol, an' ef dar's much uv a skuffle 'roun'

yer dis evenin' you er gwineter year fum 'im.' Dat's me, an'

dat's what you kin tell um. So long! Member me to Sis Abby."

III. UNCLE REMUS AND THE SAVANNAH DARKEY

THE notable difference existing between the negroes in the interior of the cotton States and those on the seaboard--a difference that extends to habits and opinions as well as to dialect--has given rise to certain ineradicable prejudices which are quick to display themselves whenever an opportunity offers.

These prejudices were forcibly, as well as ludicrously, ill.u.s.trated in Atlanta recently. A gentleman from Savannah had been spending the summer in the mountains of north Georgia, and found it convenient to take along a body-servant. This body- servant was a very fine specimen of the average coast negro-- sleek, well-conditioned, and consequential--disposed to regard with undisguised contempt everything and everybody not indigenous to the rice-growing region--and he paraded around the streets with quite a curious and critical air. Espying Uncle Remus languidly sunning himself on a corner, the Savannah darkey approached.

"Mornin', sah."

"I'm sorter up an' about," responded Uncle Remus, carelessly and calmly. "How is you stannin' it?"

"Tanky you, my helt' mos' so-so. He mo' hot dun in de mountain.

Seem so lak man mus' git need*1 de shade. I enty fer see no rice-bud in dis pa'ts."

"In dis w'ich?" inquired Uncle with a sudden affectation of interest.

"In dis pa'ts. In dis country. Da plenty in Sawanny."

"Plenty whar?"

"Da plenty in Sawanny. I enty fer see no crab an' no oscher; en swimp, he no stay 'roun'. I lak some rice-bud now."

"You er talkin' 'bout deze yer sparrers, w'ich dey er all head, en 'lev'm un makes one mouffle,*2 I speck," suggested Uncle Remus. "Well, dey er yer," he continued, "but dis ain't no climate whar de rice-birds flies inter yo' pockets en gits out de money an' makes de change derse'f; an' de isters don't shuck off der sh.e.l.ls en run over you on de street, an' no mo' duz de s'imp hull derse'f an' drap in yo' mouf. But dey er yer, dough. De scads 'll fetch um."

"Him po' country fer true," commented the Savannah negro; "he no like Sawanny. Down da, we set need de shade an' eaty de rice-bud, an' de crab, an' de swimp tree time de day; an' de buckra man drinky him wine, an' smoky him seegyar all troo de night. Plenty fer eat an' not much fer wuk."

"Hit's mighty nice, I speck," responded Uncle Remus, gravely. "De n.i.g.g.e.r dat ain't hope up 'longer high feedin' ain't got no grip.

But up yer whar fokes is gotter scramble 'roun' an' make der own livin', de vittles w'at's k.u.merlated widout enny sweatin' mos'

allers gener'ly b'longs ter some yuther man by rights. One hoe- cake an' a rasher er middlin' meat las's me fum Sunday ter Sunday, an' I'm in a mighty big streak er luck w'en I gits dat."

The Savannah negro here gave utterance to a loud, contemptuous laugh, and began to fumble somewhat ostentatiously with a big bra.s.s watch-chain.

"But I speck I struck up wid a payin' job las' Chuseday,"

continued Uncle Remus, in a hopeful tone.

"Wey you gwan do?"

"Oh, I'm a waitin' on a culled gemmun fum Savannah--wunner deze yer high livers you bin tellin' 'bout."

"How dat?"

"I loant 'im two dollars," responded Uncle Remus, grimly, "an'

I'm a waitin' on 'im fer de money. Hit's wunner deze yer jobs w'at las's a long time."

The Savannah negro went off after his rice-birds, while Uncle Remus leaned up against the wall and laughed until he was in imminent danger of falling down from sheer exhaustion.

*1 Underneath.

*2 Mouthful.

TURNIP SALAD AS A TEXT

As Uncle Remus was going down the street recently he was accosted by several acquaintances.

"Heyo!" said one, "here comes Uncle Remus. He look like he gwine fer ter set up a bo'din-house."

Several others bantered the old man, but he appeared to be in a good humor. He was carrying a huge basket of vegetables.

"How many er you boys," said he, as he put his basket down, "is done a han's turn dis day? En yit de week's done commence. I year talk er n.i.g.g.e.rs dat's got money in de bank, but I lay hit ain't none er you fellers. Whar you speck you gwineter git yo' dinner, en how you speck you gwineter git 'long?"

"Oh, we sorter knocks 'roun' an' picks up a livin'," responded one.