AS Uncle Remus came up Whitehall Street recently, he met a little
colored boy carrying a slate and a number of books. Some words
passed between them, but their exact purport will probably never
be known. They were unpleasant, for the attention of a wandering
policeman was called to the matter by hearing the old man bawl
Dont you come foolin longer me, nigger. Youer flippin yo sass
at de wrong color. You kn go roun yer an sass deze wite people,
an maybe deyll stan it, but wen you come a slingin yo jaw at a
man wat wuz gray wen de fahmin days gin out, you better go an
git yo hide greased.
Whats the matter, old man? asked a sympathizing policeman.
Nothin, boss, ceppin I aint gwineter hav no nigger chillun a
hoopin an a hollerin at me wen Im gwine long de streets.
0h, well, school-childrenyou know how they are.
Dats wat make I say wat I dtiz. Dey better be home pickin tip
chips. Wat a nigger gwineter larn outen books? I kin take a bal
stave an fling mo sense inter a nigger in one minnit dan all de
schoolhouses betwixt dis en de State er Midgigin. Dont talk,
honey! Wid one barl stave I kin farly lif de vail er ignunce.
Then you dont believe in education?
Hits de ruinashun er dis country. Look at my gal. De ole oman
sont er ter school las year, an now we dassent hardly ax er fer ter
kyar de washin home. She done got beyant er bizness. I aint larnt nuthin in books, en yit
I kin count all de money I gits. No use talkin, boss. Put a
spellin-book in a niggers hans, en right den en dar you loozes a
plow-hand. I done had de speunce un it.