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 ‘oereshen’ 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 shin-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 Dick, he nounced dat dey wem’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 flatform a hyme-book kotch ’im in de
bur er de year, an I be bless ef it didn’t soun’ like a bung-shell’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 w’at I seed was a pleeceman, 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 ag’in 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’
youer gwineter year fum ’im.’ Dat’s me, an’ dat’s what you kin tell
um. So long! Member me to Sis Abby.”
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