Uncle Remus

by Joel Chandler Harris

  “Hole on dar, Uncle Remus; you ain’t tell me ‘bout Jim,” exclaimed the Jonesboro negro.

  “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 nigger 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 nigger 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 shinplarster 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 Dick, he ‘nounced dat dey wern’t nuff money in de box; an’ Brer Sim said if dey wern’t he speck Brer Dick know’d whar it disappeared ter; an’ den Brer Dick ‘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 hyme-book kotch ‘im in de bur er de year, an’ I be bless ef it didn’t soun’ like a bungshell’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 pass.

  “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 Dick 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 wa’t I seed was a p’leeceman, an’ he had a nigger ‘rested, an’ de fergiven name er dat nigger 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 agin I moutn’t, but w’en you duz see me santer in de do’, wid my specs on, youk’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’ your 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, illustrated 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 need1 de shade. I enty fer see no rice-bud in dis pa’ts.”

  “In dis wi’ch?” inquired Uncle Remus, 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.”

  “Youer 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 shells 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 nigger 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 wat’s kumerlated widout enny sweatin’ mos’ allers gener’lly 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 brass watch-chain.

  “But I speck I struck up wid a payir’ 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.

  1Underneath.

  2Mouthful.

  IV.

  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 niggers 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.

  “Dat’s w’at make I say w’at I duz,” said Uncle Remus. “Folks go ‘bout in de day-time an’ makes a livin’, an’ you come ‘long w’en dey er res’in’ der bones an’ picks it up. I ain’t no han’ at figgers, but I lay I k’n count up right yer in de san’ en number up how menny days hit’ll be ‘fo’ you’er cuppled on ter de chain-gang.”

  “De ole man’s holler’n now sho’,” said one of the listeners, gazing with admiration on the venerable old darkey.

  “I ain’t takin’ no chances ‘bout vittles. Hit’s proned inter me fum de fus dat I got ter eat, en I knows dat I got fer ter grub w’at I gits. Hit’s agin de mor’l law fer niggers fer ter eat w’en dey don’t wuk, an’ w’en you see um ‘pariently fattenin’ on a’r, you k’n des bet dat ruinashun’s gwine on some’rs. I got mustard, en poke salid, en lam’s quarter in dat basket, en me en my ole ‘oman gwineter sample it. Ef enny you boys git a invite you come, but ef you don’t you better stay ‘way. I gotter muskit out dar wa’t’s used ter persidin’ ‘roun’ whar dey’s a cripple nigger. Don’t you fergit dat off’n yo’ mine.”

  V.

  A CONFESSION.

  “W’at’s dis yer I see, great big niggers gwine ‘lopin’ ‘roun’ town wid cakes ‘n pies fer ter sell?” asked Uncle Remus recently, in his most scornful tone.

  “That’s what they are doing,” responded a young man; “that’s the way they make a living.”

  “Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz — dat w’at keep me grum’lin’ w’en I goes in cullud fokes s’ciety. Some niggers ain’t gwine ter wuk nohow, an’ hit’s flingin’ ‘way time fer ter set enny chain-gang traps fer ter ketch um.”

  “Well, now, here!” exclaimed the young man, in a dramatic tone, “what are you giving us now? Isn’t it just as honest and just as regular to sell pies as it is to do any other kind of work?”

  “Tain’t dat, boss,” said the old man, seeing that he was about to be cornered; “’tain’t dat. Hit’s de nas’ness un it w’at gits me.”

  “Oh, get out!”

  “Dat’s me, boss, up an’ down. Ef dere’s ruinashun ennywhar in de known wurril, she goes in de comp’ny uv a hongry nigger w’at’s a totin’ pies ‘roun’. Sometimes w’en I git kotch wid emptiness in de pit er de stummuck, an’ git ter fairly honin’ arter sump’n’ w’at got substance in it, den hit look like unto me dat I kin stan’ flat-footed an’ make more cle’r money eatin’ pies dan I could if I wuz ter sell de las’ one twix’t dis an’ Chrismus. An’ de nigger w’at k’n trapes ‘round wid pies and not git in no alley-way an’ sample um, den I’m bleedzd ter say dat nigger outniggers me an’ my fambly. So dar now!”

  VI.

  UNCLE REMUS WITH

  THE TOOTHACHE.

  When Uncle Remus put in an appearance one morning recently, his friends knew he had been in trouble. He had a red cotton handkerchief tied under his chin, and the genial humor that usually makes his aged face its dwelling-place had given way to an expression of grim melancholy. The young men about the office were inclined to chaff him, but his look of sullen resignation remained unchanged.

  “What revival did you attend last night?” inquired one.

  “What was the color of the mule that did the hammering?” asked another.

  “I always told the old man that a suburban chicken-coop would fall on him,” remarked some one.

  “A strange pig has been squealing in his ear,” suggested some one else.

  But Uncle Remus remained impassive. He seemed to have lost all interest in what was going on around him, and he sighed heavily as he seated himself on the edge of the trash-box in front of the office. Finally some one asked, in a sympathetic tone:

  “What is the matter, old man? You look like you’d been through the mill.”

  “Now you’er knockin’ at de back do’ sho’. Ef I ain’t bin thoo de mill sence day ‘fo’ yistiddy, den dey ain’t no mills in de lan’. Ef wunner deze yer scurshun trains had runned over me I couldn’t er bin wuss off. I bin trompin’ ‘roun’ in de low-groun’s now gwine on seventy-fi’ year, but I ain’t see no sich times ez dat w’at I done spe’unst now. Boss, is enny er you all ever rastled wid de toofache?”

  “Oh, hundreds of times! The toothache isn’t anything.”

  “Den you des played ‘roun’ de aidges. You ain’t had de kine w’at kotch me on de underjaw. You mout a had a gum-bile, but you ain’t bin boddered wid de toofache. I wuz settin’ up talkin’ wid my ole ‘oman, kinder puzzlin’ ‘roun’ fer ter see whar de nex’ meal’s vittles wuz a gwineter cum fum, an’ I feel a little ache sorter crawlin’ long on my jaw-bone, kinder feelin’ his way. But de ache don’t stay long. He sorter hankered ‘roun’ like, en den crope back whar he come fum. Bimeby I feel ‘im comin’ agin, an’ dis time hit look like he come up closer — kinder skummishin’ ‘roun’ fer ter see how de lan’ lay. Den he went off. Present’y I feel ‘im comin’, an’ dis time hit look like he kyar’d de news unto Mary, fer hit feel like der wuz anudder wun wid ‘im. Dey crep’ up an’ crep ‘roun’, an’ den dey crope off. Bimeby dey come back, an’ dis time dey come like dey wuzen’t ‘fear’d er de s’roundin’s, fer dey trot right up unto de toof, sorter zamine it like, an’ den trot all roun’ it, like deze yer circuous hosses. I sot dar mighty ca’m, but I spected dat sump’n’ wuz gwine ter happ’n.”

  “And it happened, did it?” asked some one in the group surrounding the old man.

  “Boss, don’t you fergit it,” responded Uncle Remus, fervidly. “W’en dem aches gallop back dey galloped fer ter stay, an’ dey wuz so mixed up dat I couldn’t tell one fum de udder. All night long dey racked an’ dey galloped, an’ w’en dey got tired er rackin’ an’ gallopin’, dey all cloze in on de ole toof an’ thumped it an’ gouged at it twel it ‘peared unto me dat dey had got de jaw-bone loosened up, an’ wuz tryin’ fer ter fetch it up thoo de top er my head an’ out at der back er my neck. An’ dey got wuss nex’ day. Mars John, he seed I wuz ‘stracted, an’ he tole me fer ter go roun’ yere an’ git sump’n’ put on it, an’ de drug man he ‘lowed dat I better have ‘er draw’d, an’ his wuds wuzent more’n cole ‘fo’ wunner deze yer watchyoumaycollums — wunner deze dentis’ mens — had retched fer it wid a pa’r er tongs w’at don’t tu’n loose w’en dey ketches a holt. Leas’ways dey didn’t wid me. You oughter seed dat toof, boss. Hit wuz wunner deze yer fo’-prong fellers. Ef she’d a grow’d wrong eend out’ard, I’d a bin a bad nigger long arter I jin’d de chu’ch. You year’d my ho’n!”

  VII.

  THE PHONOGRAPH.

  “Unc Remus,” asked a tall, awkward-looking negro, who was one of a crowd surrounding the old man, “wat’s dish ‘ere w’at dey calls de fonygraf — dish yer inst’ument w’at kin holler ‘roun’ like little chillun in de back yard?”

  “I ain’t seed um,” said Uncle Remus, feeling in his pocket for a fresh chew of tobacco. “I ain’t seed um, but I year talk un um. Miss Sally wuz a readin’ in de papers las’ Chuseday, an’ she say dat’s it’s a mighty big watchyoumaycollum.”

  “A mighty big w’ich?” asked one of the crowd.


  “A mighty big w’atzisname,” answered Uncle Remus, cautiously. “I wuzent up dar close to whar Miss Sarah wuz a readin’, but I kinder geddered in dat it wuz one er deze ‘ere w’atzisnames w’at you hollers inter one year an’ it comes out er de udder. Hit’s mighty funny unter me how dese folks kin go an’ prognosticate der eckoes inter one er deze yer i’on boxes, an’ dar hit’ll stay on twel de man comes ‘long an’ tu’ns de handle an’ let’s de fuss come pilin’ out. Bimeby dey’ll git ter makin’ sho’ nuff fokes, an’ den dere’ll be a racket ‘roun’ here. Dey tells me dat it goes off like one er deze yer torpedoes.”

  “You year dat, don’t you?” said one or two of the younger negroes.

  “Dat’s w’at dey tells me,” continued Uncle Remus. “Dat’s w’at dey sez. Hit’s one er deze yer kinder w’azisnames w’at sasses back w’en you hollers at it.”

  “W’at dey fix um up fer, den?” asked one of the practical negroes.

  “Dat’s w’at I wanter know,” said Uncle Remus, contemplatively. “But dat’s w’at Miss Sally wuz a readin’ in de paper. All you gotter do is ter holler at de box, an’ dar’s yo’ remarks. Dey goes in, an’ dar dey er tooken and dar dey hangs on twel you shakes de box, an’ den dey draps out des ez fresh ez deze yer fishes w’at you git fum Savannah, an’ you ain’t got time fer ter look at dere gills, nudder.”

  VIII.

  RACE IMPROVEMENT.

  “Dere’s a kind er limberness ‘bout niggers dese days dat’s mighty cu’us,” remarked Uncle Remus yesterday, as he deposited a pitcher of fresh water upon the exchange table. “I notisses it in de alleyways an’ on de street-cornders. Dey er rackin’ up, mon, deze yer cullud fokes is.”

  “What are you trying to give us now?” inquired one of the young men, in a bilious tone.