Uncle Remus

by Joel Chandler Harris

  “Well, den, dat year pass same ez t’er one. Mont’ in en mont’ out dat man wuz rollin’ in dram, en bimeby yer come de Bad Man. De blacksmif cry en he holler, en he rip ‘roun’ en t’ar his ha’r, but hit des like he didn’t, kase de Bad Man grab ‘im up en cram ‘im in a bag en tote ‘im off. W’iles dey wuz gwine ‘long dey come up wid a passel er fokes w’at wuz havin’ wunner deze yer fote er July bobbycues, en de Ole Boy, he ‘low dat maybe he kin git some mo’ game, en w’at do he do but jine in wid um. He jines in en he talk politics same like t’er fokes, twel bimeby dinnertime come ‘roun’, en dey ax ‘im up, w’ich ‘greed wid his stummuck, en he pozzit his bag under-need de table ‘longside de udder bags w’at de hongry fokes’d brung.

  “No sooner did de blacksmif git back on de groun’ dan he ‘gun ter wuk his way outer de bag. He crope out, he did, en den he tuck’n change de bag. He tuck’n tuck a n’er bag en lay it down whar dish yer bag wuz, en den he crope outer de crowd en lay low in de underbresh.

  “Las’, w’en de time come fer ter go, de Ole Boy up wid his bag en slung her on his shoulder, en off he put fer de Bad Place. W’en he got dar he tuck’n drap de bag off’n his back en call up de imps, en dey des come a squallin’ en a caperin’, w’ich I speck dey mus’ a bin hongry. Leas’ways dey des swawm’d ‘roun’, hollerin ou):

  “’Daddy, w’at you brung — daddy, w’at you brung?’

  “So den dey open de bag, en lo en beholes, out jump a big bull-dog, en de way he shuck dem little imps wuz a caution, en he kep’ on gnyawin’ un um twel de Ole Boy open de gate en tu’n ‘im out.”

  “And what became of the blacksmith?” the little boy asked, as Uncle Remus paused to snuff the candle with his fingers.

  “I’m drivin’ on ‘roun’, honey. Atter ‘long time, de blacksmif he tuck’n die, en w’en he go ter de Good Place de man at de gate dunner who he is, en he can’t squeeze in. Den he go down ter de Bad Place, en knock. De Ole Boy, he look out, he did, en he know’d de blacksmif de minnit he laid eyes on ‘im; but he shake his head en say, sezee:

  “’You’ll hatter skuze me, Brer Blacksmif, kase I dun had ‘speunce ‘longer you. You’ll hatter go some’rs else ef you wanter raise enny racket,’ sezee, en wid dat he shet de do’.

  “En dey do say,” continued Uncle Remus, with unction, “dat sence dat day de blacksmif bin sorter huv’rin’ ‘roun’ ‘twix’ de heavens en de ye’th, en dark nights he shine out so fokes call ‘im Jacky-my-lantun. Dat’s w’at dey tells me. Hit may be wrong er’t may be right, but dat’s w’at I years.”

  1This story is popular on the coast and among the rice-plantations, and, since the publication of some of the animal-myths in the newspapers, I have received a version of it from a planter in southwest Georgia; but it seems to me to be an intruder among the genuine myth stories of the negroes. It is a trifle too elaborate. Nevertheless, it is told upon the plantations with great gusto, and there are several versions in circulation.

  XXXIII.

  WHY THE NEGRO IS BLACK.

  One night, while the little boy was watching Uncle Remus twisting and waxing some shoe-thread, he made what appeared to him to be a very curious discovery. He discovered that the palms of the old man’s hands were as white as his own, and the fact was such a source of wonder that he at last made it the subject of remark. The response of Uncle Remus led to the earnest recital of a piece of unwritten history that must prove interesting to ethnologists.

  “Tooby sho de pa’m er my han’s w’ite, honey,” he quietly remarked; “en, w’en it come ter dat, dey wuz a time w’en all de w’ite folks ‘uz black — blacker dan me, kaze I done bin yer so long dat I bin sorter bleach out.”

  The little boy laughed. He thought Uncle Remus was making him the victim of one of his jokes; but the youngster was never more mistaken. The old man was serious. Nevertheless, he failed to rebuke the ill-timed mirth of the child, appearing to be altogether engrossed in his work. After a while he resumed:

  “Yasser. Folks dunner w’at bin yit, let ‘lone w’at gwineter be. Niggers is niggers now, but de time wuz w’en we ‘uz all niggers tergedder.”

  “When was that, Uncle Remus?”

  “Way back yander. In dem times we ‘uz all un us black; we ‘uz all niggers tergedder, en ‘cordin’ ter all de ‘counts w’at I years fokes ‘uz gittin ‘long ‘bout ez well in dem days ez dey is now. But atter ‘w’ile de news come dat dere wuz a pon’ er water some’rs in de naberhood, w’ich ef dey’d git inter dey’d be wash off nice en w’ite, en den one un um, he fine de place en make er splunge inter de pon’, en come out w’ite ez a town gal. En den, bless grashus! w’en de fokes seed it, dey make a break fer de pon’, en dem w’at wuz de soopless, dey got in fus’ en dey come out w’ite; en dem w’at wuz de nex’ soopless, dey got in nex’, en dey come out merlatters; en dey wuz sech a crowd un um dat dey mighty nigh use de water up, w’ich w’en dem yuthers come ‘long, de morest dey could do wuz ter paddle about wid der foots en dabble in it wid der han’s. Dem wuz de niggers, en down ter dis day dey ain’t no w’ite ‘bout a nigger ‘ceppin de pa’ms er der han’s en de soles er der foot.”

  The little boy seemed to be very much interested in this new account of the origin of races, and he made some further inquiries, which elicited from Uncle Remus the following additional particulars:

  “De Injun en de Chinee got ter be ‘counted ‘long er de merlatter. I ain’t seed no Chinee dat I knows un, but dey tells me dey er sorter ‘twix’ a brown en a brindle. Dey er all merlatters.”

  “But mamma says the Chinese have straight hair,” the little boy suggested.

  “Co’se, honey,” the old man unhesitatingly responded, “dem w’at git ter de pon’ time nuff fer ter git der head in de water, de water hit onkink der ha’r. Hit bleedzd ter be dat away.”

  XXXIV.

  THE SAD FATE OF MR. FOX.

  “Now, den,” said Uncle Remus, with unusual gravity, as soon as the little boy, by taking his seat, announced that he was ready for the evening’s entertainment to begin; “now, den, dish yer tale w’at I’m agwine ter gin you is de las’ row er stumps, sho. Dish yer’s whar ole Brer Fox los’ his breff, en he ain’t fine it no mo’ down ter dis day.”

  “Did he kill himself, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked, with a curious air of concern.

  “Hole on dar, honey!” the old man exclaimed, with a great affectation of alarm; “hole on dar! Wait! Gimme room! I don’t wanter tell you no story, en ef you keep shovin’ me forrerd, I mout git some er de facks mix up ‘mong deyse’f. You gotter gimme room en you gotter gimme time.”

  The little boy had no other premature questions to ask, and, after a pause, Uncle Remus resumed:

  “Well, den, one day Brer Rabbit go ter Brer Fox house, he did, en he put up mighty po’ mouf. He say his ole ‘oman sick, en his chilluns cole, en de fier done gone out. Brer Fox, he feel bad ‘bout dis, en he tuck’n s’ply Brer Rabbit widder chunk er fier. Brer Rabbit see Brer Fox cookin’ some nice beef, en his mouf gun ter water, but he take de fier, he did, en he put out to’rds home; but present’y yer he come back, en he say de fier done gone out. Brer Fox ‘low dat he want er invite ter dinner, but he don’t say nuthin’, en bimeby Brer Rabbit he up’n say, sezee:

  “’Brer Fox, whar you git so much nice beef?’ sezee, en den Brer Fox he up’n ‘spon’, sezee:

  “’You come ter my house ter-morrer ef yo’ fokes ain’t too sick, en I kin show you whar you kin git plenty beef mo’ nicer dan dish yer,’ sezee.

  “Well, sho nuff, de nex’ day fotch Brer Rabbit, en Brer Fox say, sezee:

  “’Dar’s a man down yander by Miss Meadows’s w’at got heap er fine cattle, en he gotter cow name Bookay,’ sezee, ‘en you des go en say Bookay, en she’ll open her mouf, en you kin jump in en git des ez much meat ez you kin tote,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.

  “’Well, I’ll go ‘long,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en you kin jump fus’ en den I’ll come follerin’ atter,’ sezee.

  “Wid dat dey put o
ut, en dey went promernadin’ ‘roun’ ‘mong de cattle, dey did, twel bimeby dey struck up wid de one dey wuz atter. Brer Fox, he up, he did, en holler Bookay, en de cow flung ‘er mouf wide open. Sho nuff, in dey jump, en w’en dey got dar, Brer Fox, he say, sezee:

  “’You kin cut mos’ ennywheres, Brer Rabbit, but don’t cut ‘roun’ de haslett,’ sezee.

  “Den Brer Rabbit, he holler back, he did: ‘I’m a gitten me out a roas’n-piece;’ sezee.

  “’Roas’n, er bakin’, er fryin’,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘don’t git too nigh de haslett,’ sezee.

  “Dey cut en dey kyarved, en dey kyarved en dey cut, en w’iles dey wuz cuttin’ en kyarvin’, en slashin’ ‘way, Brer Rabbit, he tuck’n hacked inter de haslett, en wid dat down fell de cow dead.

  “’Now, den,’ sez Brer Fox, ‘we er gone, sho’, sezee.

  “’W’at we gwine do?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

  “’I’ll git in de maul,’ sez Brer Fox, ‘en you’ll jump in de gall,’ sezee.

  “Nex’ mawnin’ yer cum de man w’at de cow b’long ter, an he ax who kill Bookay. Nobody don’t say nuthin’. Den de man say he’ll cut ‘er open en see, en den he whirl in, en twan’t no time ‘fo’ he had ‘er intruls spread out. Brer Rabbit, he crope out’n de gall, en say, sezee:

  “’Mister Man! Oh, Mister Man! I’ll tell you who kill yo’ cow. You look in de maul, en dar you’ll fine ‘im,’ sezee.

  “Wid dat de man tuck a stick and lam down on de maul so hard dat he kill Brer Fox stone-dead. W’en Brer Rabbit see Brer Fox wuz laid out fer good, he make like he mighty sorry, en he up’n ax de man fer Brer Fox head. Man say he ain’t keerin’, en den Brer Rabbit tuck’n brung it ter Brer Fox house. Dar he see ole Miss Fox, en he tell ‘er dat he done fotch her some nice beef w’at ‘er ole man sont ‘er, but she ain’t gotter look at it twel she go ter eat it.

  “Brer Fox son wuz name Tobe, en Brer Rabbit tell Tobe fer ter keep still w’iles his mammy cook de nice beef w’at his daddy sont ‘im. Tobe he wuz mighty hongry, en he look in de pot he did w’iles de cookin’ wuz gwine on, en dar he see his daddy head, en wid dat he sot up a howl en tole his mammy. Miss Fox, she git mighty mad w’en she fine she cookin’ her ole man head, en she call up de dogs, she did, en sickt em on Brer Rabbit; en ole Miss Fox en Tobe en de dogs, dey push Brer Rabbit so close dat he hatter take a holler tree. Miss Fox, she tell Tobe fer ter stay dar en mine Brer Rabbit, w’ile she goes en git de axe, en w’en she gone, Brer Rabbit, he tole Tobe ef he go ter de branch en git ‘im a drink er water dat he’ll gin ‘im a dollar. Tobe, he put out, he did, en bring some water in his hat, but by de time he got back Brer Rabbit done out en gone. Ole Miss Fox, she cut and cut twel down come de tree, but no Brer Rabbit dar. Den she lay de blame on Tobe, en she say she gwineter lash ‘im, en Tobe, he put out en run, de ole ‘oman atter ‘im. Bimeby, he come up wid Brer Rabbit, en sot down fer to tell ‘im how ‘twuz, en w’iles dey wuz a settin’ dar, yer come ole Miss Fox a slippin’ up en grab um bofe. Den she tell um w’at she gwine do. Brer Rabbit she gwineter kill, en Tobe she gwineter lam ef its de las’ ack. Den Brer Rabbit sez, sezee:

  “’Ef you please, ma’am, Miss Fox, lay me on de grindstone en groun’ off my nose so I can’t smell no mo’ w’en I’m dead.’

  “Miss Fox, she tuck dis ter be a good idee, en she fotch bofe un um ter de grindestone, en set um up on it so dat she could groun’ off Brer Rabbit nose. Den Brer Rabbit, he up’n say, sezee:

  “’Ef you please, ma’am, Miss Fox, Tobe he kin turn de’ handle w’iles you goes atter some water fer ter wet de grinestone,’ sezee.

  “Co’se, soon’z Brer Rabbit see Miss Fox go atter de water, he jump down en put out, en dis time he git clean away.”

  “And was that the last of the Rabbit, too, Uncle Remus?” the little boy asked, with something like a sigh.

  “Don’t push me too close, honey,” responded the old man; “don’t shove me up in no cornder. I don’t wanter tell you no stories. Some say dat Brer Rabbit’s ole ‘oman died fum eatin’ some pizen-weed, en dat Brer Rabbit married ole Miss Fox, en some say not. Some tells one tale en some tells nudder; some say dat fum dat time forrer’d de Rabbits en de Foxes make frien’s en stay so; some say dey kep on quollin’. Hit look like it mixt. Let dem tell you w’at knows. Dat w’at I years you gits it straight like I yeard it.”

  There was a long pause, which was finally broken by the old man:

  “Hit’s ‘gin de rules fer you ter be noddin’ yer, honey. Bimeby you’ll drap off en I’ll hatter tote you up ter de big ‘ouse. I hear dat baby cryin’, en bimeby Miss Sally’ll fly up en be a holler’n atter you.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t asleep,” the little boy replied. “I was just thinking.”

  “Well, dat’s diffunt,” said the old man. “Ef you’ll clime up on my back,” he continued, speaking softly, “I speck I ain’t too ole fer ter be yo’ hoss fum yer ter de house. Many en many’s de time dat I toted yo’ Unk Jeems dat away, en Mars Jeems wuz heavier sot dan w’at you is.”

  PLANTATION PROVERBS.

  Big ‘possum clime little tree.

  Dem w’at eats kin say grace.

  Ole man Know-All died las’ year.

  Better de gravy dan no grease ‘tall.

  Dram ain’t good twel you git it.

  Lazy fokes’ stummucks don’t git tired.

  Rheumatiz don’t he’p at de log-rollin’.

  Mole don’t see w’at his naber doin’.

  Save de pacin’ mar’ fer Sunday.

  Don’t rain eve’y time de pig squeal.

  Crow en corn can’t grow in de same fiel’.

  Tattlin’ ‘oman can’t make de bread rise.

  Rails split ‘fo’ bre’kfus’ ‘ll season de dinner.

  Dem w’at knows too much sleeps under de ash-hopper.

  Ef you wanter see yo’ own sins, clean up a new groun’.

  Hog dunner w’ich part un ‘im’ll season de turnip salad.

  Hit’s a blessin’ de w’ite sow don’t shake de plum-tree.

  Winter grape sour, whedder you kin reach ‘im or not.

  Mighty po’ bee dat don’t make mo’ honey dan he want.

  Kwishins on mule’s foots done gone out er fashun.

  Pigs dunno w’at a pen’s fer.

  Possum’s tail good as a paw.

  Dogs don’t bite at de front gate.

  Colt in de barley-patch kick high.

  Jay-bird don’t rob his own nes’.

  Pullet can’t roost too high for de owl.

  Meat fried ‘fo’ day wont las’ twel night.

  Stump water won’t kyo de gripes.

  De howlin’ dog know w’at he sees.

  Bline hoss don’t fall w’en he follers de bit.

  Hongry nigger won’t w’ar his maul out.

  Don’t fling away de empty wallet.

  Black-snake know de way ter de hin nes’.

  Looks won’t do ter split rails wid.

  Settin’ hens don’t hanker arter fresh aigs.

  Tater-vine growin’ w’ile you sleep.

  Hit take two birds fer to make a nes’.

  Ef you bleedzd ter eat dirt, eat clean dirt.

  Tarrypin walk fast ‘nuff fer to go visitin’

  Empty smoke-house makes de pullet holler.

  W’en coon take water he fixin’ fer ter fight.

  Corn makes mo’ at de mill dan it does in de crib.

  Good luck say: “Op’n yo’ mouf en shet yo’ eyes.”

  Nigger dat gets hurt wukkin oughter show de skyars.

  Fiddlin’ nigger say hit’s long ways ter de dance.

  Rooster makes mo’ racket dan de hin w’at lay de aig.

  Meller mush-million hollers at you fum over de fence.

  Nigger wid a pocket-han’kcher better be looked atter.

  Rain-crow don’t sing no chune, but youk’n ‘pen’ on ‘im.

  One-eyed mule can’t be handled on de bline side.

  Moon may shine, but a lightered knot’s mighty hand
y.

  Licker talks mighty loud w’en it git loose fum de jug.

  De proudness un a man don’t count w’en his head’s cold.

  Hongry rooster don’t cackle w’en he fine a wum.

  Some niggers mighty smart, but dey can’t drive de pidgins ter roos’.

  You may know de way, but better keep yo’ eyes on de seven stairs.

  All de buzzards in de settlement ‘ll come to de gray mule’s funer’l.

  Youk’n hide de fier, but w’at you gwine do wid de smoke?

  Ter-morrow may be de carridge-driver’s day for ploughin’.

  Hit’s a mighty deaf nigger dat don’t year de dinner-ho’n.

  Hit takes a bee fer ter git de sweetness out’n de hoarhoun’ blossom.

  Ha’nts don’t bodder longer hones’ folks, but you better go ‘roun’ de grave-yard.

  De pig dat runs off wid de year er corn gits little mo’ dan de cob.

  Sleepin’ in de fence-cornder don’t fetch Chrismus in de kitchen.

  De spring-house may freeze, but de niggers’ll keep de shuck-pen warm.

  ‘Twix’ de bug en de bee-martin ‘tain’t hard ter tell w’ich gwineter git kotch.

  Don’t ‘spute wid de squinch-owl. Jam de shovel in de fier.

  You’d see mo’ er de mink ef he know’d whar de yard dog sleeps.

  Troubles is seasonin’. ‘Simmons ain’t good twel dey ‘er fros’-bit.

  Watch out w’en you’er gittin all you want. Fattenin’ hogs ain’t in luck.

  HIS SONGS.