A Jonesboro negro, while waiting for the train to go out, met up
with Uncle Remus. After the usual time of day had been passed
between the two, the former inquired about an acquaintance.
Hows Jeems Roberson? he asked.
Aint you year bout Jim? asked Uncle Remus.
Dat I aint, responded the other; I aint hear talk er Jem sence he
cut loose fum de chain-gang. Dat wat make I ax. He aint down
wid de biliousness, is he?
Not dat I knows un, responded Uncle Remus, gravely. He aint
sick, an he aint bin sick. He des tuckn say he wuz gwineter ride
dat ar roan mule er Mars Johns de udder Sunday, an de mule, she
upn do like she got nudder ingagement. I done bin fool wid dat
mule befo, an I tuckn tole Jim dat he better not git tangle up wid
er; but Jim, he upn low dat he wuz a hoss-doctor, an wid dat he
ax me fer a chaw terbarker, en den he got de bridle, en tuckn
kotch de mule en got on herWell, continued Uncle Remus,
looking uneasily around, I speck you better go git yo ticket. Dey
tells me dish yer train goes a callyhootin.
Hole on dar, Uncle Remus; you aint tell me bout Jim, exclaimed
the Jonesboro negro.
I done tell you all I knows, chile. Jim, he tuckn light on de mule,
an de mule she upn hump ersef, an den dey wuz a skuffle, an
wen de dus blow way, dar lay de nigger on de groun, an de mule
she stood eatin at de troff wid wunner Jims gallusses wrop roun
her behime-leg. Den atterwuds, de kerner, he come roun, an he
tuckn gin it out dat Jim died sorter accidental like. Hits des like I
tell you: de nigger wernt sick a minnit. So long! Bimeby you wont
ketch yo train. I got ter be knockin long.