En he ain’t wait fer ter say howdy, nudder. He des sail inter de two un um. De ve’y fus pas he make Brer Possum fetch a grin fum year ter year, en keel over like he wuz dead. Den Mr. Dog, he sail inter Brer Coon, en right dar’s whar he drap his munnypus, kaze Brer Coon wuz cut out fer dat kinder bizness, en he fa’rly wipe up de face er de earf wid ‘im. You better b’leeve dat w’en Mr. Dog got a chance to make hisse’f skase he tuck it, en w’at der wuz lef’ un him went skaddlin’ thoo de woods like hit wuz shot outen a muskit. En Brer Coon, he sorter lick his cloze inter shape en rack off, en Brer Possum, he lay dar like he wuz dead, twel bimeby he raise up sotter keerful like, en w’en he fine de coas’ cle’r he scramble up en scamper off like sumpin was atter ‘im.”

Here Uncle Remus paused long enough to pick up a live coal of fire in his fingers, transfer it to the palm of his hand, and thence to his clay pipe, which he had been filling — a proceeding that was viewed by the little boy with undisguised admiration. The old man then proceeded:

“Nex’ time Brer Possum meet Brer Coon, Brer Coon ‘fuse ter ‘spon’ ter his howdy, en dis make Brer Possum feel mighty bad, seein’ ez how dey useter make so many ‘scurshuns tergedder.

“’W’at make you hol’ yo’ head so high, Brer Coon?’ sez Brer Possum, sezee.

“’I ain’t runnin’ wid cowerds deze days,’ sez Brer Coon. ‘W’en I wants you I’ll sen’ fer you,’ sezee.

“Den Brer Possum git mighty mad.

“’Who’s enny cowerd,’ sezee.

“’You is,’ sez Brer Coon, ‘dat’s who. I ain’t soshatin’ wid dem w’at lies down on de groun’ en plays dead w’en dar’s a free fight gwine on,’ sezee.

“Den Brer Possum grin en laff fit to kill hisse’f.

“’Lor’, Brer Coon, you don’t speck I done dat kaze I wuz ‘feared, duz you?’ sezee. ‘W’y I want no mo’ ‘feared dan you is dis minnit. W’at wuz dey fer ter be skeered un?’ sezee. ‘I know’d you’d git away wid Mr. Dog ef I didn’t, en I des lay dar watchin’ you shake him, waitin’ fer ter put in w’en de time come,’ sezee.

“Brer Coon tu’n up his nose.

“’Dat’s a mighty likely tale,’ sezee, ‘w’en Mr. Dog ain’t mo’n tech you ‘fo’ you keel over, en lay dar stiff,’ sezee.

“’Dat’s des w’at I wuz gwineter tell you ‘bout,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee. ‘I want no mo’ skeer’d dan you is right now, en’ I wuz fixin’ fer ter give Mr. Dog a sample er my jaw,’ sezee, ‘but I’m de most ticklish chap w’at you ever laid eyes on, en no sooner did Mr. Dog put his nose down yer ‘mong my ribs dan I got ter laffin, en I laft twel I ain’t had no use er my lim’s,’ sezee, ‘en it’s a mussy unto Mr. Dog dat I wuz ticklish, kaze a little mo’ en I’d e’t ‘im up,’ sezee. ‘I don’t mine fighting, Brer Coon, no mo’ dan you duz,’ sezee, ‘but I declar’ ter grashus ef I kin stan’ ticklin’. Git me in a row whar dey ain’t no ticklin’ ‘lowed, en I’m your man,’ sezee.

“En down ter dis day” — continued Uncle Remus, watching the smoke from his pipe curl upward over the little boy’s head — “down ter dis day, Brer Possum’s bound ter s’render w’en you tech him in de short ribs, en he’ll laff ef he knows he’s gwineter be smashed fer it.”

IV.

HOW MR. RABBIT WAS
TOO SHARP FOR MR. FOX.

“Uncle Remus,” said the little boy one evening, when he had found the old man with little or nothing to do, “did the fox kill and eat the rabbit when he caught him with the Tar-Baby?”

“Law, honey, ain’t I tell you ‘bout dat?” replied the old darkey, chuckling slyly. “I ‘clar ter grashus I ought er tole you dat, but ole man Nod wuz ridin’ on my eyeleds ‘twel a leetle mo’n I’d a dis’member’d my own name, en den on to dat here come yo’ mammy hollerin’ atter you.

“W’at I tell you w’en I fus’ begin? I tole you Brer Rabbit wuz a monstus soon beas’; leas’ways dat’s w’at I laid out fer ter tell you. Well, den, honey, don’t you go en make no udder kalkalashuns, kaze in dem days Brer Rabbit en his fambly wuz at de head er de gang w’en enny racket wuz on han’, en dar dey stayed. ‘Fo’ you begins fer ter wipe yo’ eyes ‘bout Brer Rabbit, you wait en see whar’bouts Brer Rabbit gwineter fetch up at. But dat’s needer yer ner dar.

“W’en Brer Fox fine Brer Rabbit mixt up wid de Tar-Baby, he feel mighty good, en he roll on de groun’ en laff. Bimeby he up’n say, sezee:

“’Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Rabbit,’ sezee; ‘maybe I ain’t, but I speck I is. You been runnin’ roun’ here sassin’ atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you done come ter de een’ er de row.