UNCLE REMUS was in good humor one evening recently when
he dropped casually into the editorial room of “The Constitution,”
as has been his custom for the past year or two. He had a bag slung
across his shoulder, and in the bag was a jug. The presence of this
humble but useful vessel in Uncle Remus’s bag was made the
occasion for several suggestive jokes at his expense by the
members of the staff, but the old man’s good humor was proof
against all insinuations.
“Dat ar jug’s bin ter wab, mon. Hit’s wunner deze yer ole timers. I
got dat jug down dar in Putmon County w’en Mars ’Lisha Ferryman
wuz a young man, an’ now he’s done growed up, an’ got ole an’
died, an’ his chilluns is growed up an’ dey kin count dere
gran’chilluns, an’ yit dar’s dat jug des ez lively an’ ez lierbul fer ter
kick up devilment ez w’at she wuz w’en she come fum de foundry.”
“That’s the trouble,” said one of the young men. “That’s the reason
we’d like to know what’s in it now.
“Now youer gittin’ on ma’shy groun’,” replied Uncle Remus. “Dat’s
de p’int. Dat’s w’at make me say w’at I duz. I bin knowin’ dat jug
now gwine on sixty-fi’ year, an’ de jug w’at’s more seetful dan dat
jug ain’t on de topside er de worrul. Dar she sets,” continued the
old man, gazing at it reflectively, “dar she sets dez ez natchul ez er
ambertype, an’ yit whar’s de man w’at kin tell w’at kinder confab
she’s a gwineter carry on w’en dat corn-cob is snatched outen ’er
mouf? Dat jug is mighty seetful, mon.”
“Well, it don’t deceive any of us up here,” remarked the
agricultural editor, dryly. “We’ve seen jugs before.”
“I boun’ you is, boss; I boun’ you is. But you ain’t seed no seetful
jug like dat. Dar she sets a bellyin’ out an’ lookin’ mighty fat an’
full, an’ yit she’d set dar a bellyin’ out ef dere wuzent nuthin’ but
win’ under dat stopper. You knows dat she ain’t got no aigs in her,
ner no bacon, ner no grits, ncr no termartusses, ner no shellotes, an’
dat’s ’bout all you duz know. Dog my cats ef de seetfulness er dat
jug don’t git away wid me,” coutinued Uncle Remus, with a
chuckle. “I wuz comm’ ’cross de bridge des now, an’ Brer John
Henry seed me wid de bag slung onter my back, an’ de jug in it, an’
he ups an’ sez, sezee:
‘Heyo, Brer Remus, ain’t it gittin’ late for watermillions?’
“Hit wuz de seetfulness er dat jug. If Brer John Henry know’d de
color er dat watermillion, I speck he’d snatch me up ’fo’ de
confunce. I ’clar’ ter grashus ef dat jug ain’t a caution!”
“I suppose it’s full of molasses now,” remarked one of the young
men, sarcastically.
“Hear dat!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, triumphantly—“hear dat! W’at
I tell you? I sed dat jug wuz seetful, an’ I sticks to it. I bin knowin’
dat—”
“What has it got in it?” broke in some one; “molasses, kerosene, or
train-oil?”
“Well, I lay she’s loaded, boss. I ain’t shuk her up sence I drapt in,
but I lay she’s loaded.”
“Yes,” said the agricultural editor, “and it’s the meanest bug-juice
in town—regular sorghum skimmings.”
“Dat’s needer yer ner dar,” responded Uncle Remus. “Po’ fokes
better be fixin’ up for Chrismus now w’ile rashuns is cheap. Dat’s
me. W’en I year Miss Sally gwine ’bout de house w’isslin’ ‘W’en I
k’n Read my Titles Cier’—an’ w’en I see de martins swawmin’ atter
sundown—an’ w’en I year de peckerwoods confabbin’ togedder dese
moonshiny nights in my een er town—en I knows de hot wedder’s a
breakin’ up, an’ I know it’s ’bout time fer po’ fokes fer ter be rastlin’
’roun’ and huntin’ up dere rashuns. Dat’s me, up an down.”
“Well, we are satisfied. Better go and hire a hall,” remarked the
sporting editor, with a yawn. “If you are engaged in a talking
match you have won the money. Blanket him somebody, and take
him to the stable.”
“An’ w’at’s mo’,” continued the old man, scorning to notice the
insinuation, “dough I year Miss Sally w’isslin’, an’ de peckerwoods
a chatterin’, I ain’t seein’ none er deze yer loafin’ niggers fixin’ up
fer ter ’migrate. Dey kin holler Kansas all ’roun’ de naberhood, but
ceppin’ a man come ’long an’ spell it wid greenbacks, he don’t
ketch none er deze yer town niggers. You year me, dey ain’t
gwine.”
“Stand him up on the table,” said the Sporting editor; “give him
room.”
“Better go down yer ter de calaboose, an’ git some news fer ter
print,” said Uncle Remus, with a touch of irony in his tone. “Some
new nigger mighter broke inter jail.”
“You say the darkeys are not going to emigrate this year?” inquired
the agricultural editor, who is interested in these things.
“Shoo! dat dey ain’t! I done seed an’ I knows.”
“Well, how do you know?”
“How you tell w’en crow gwineter light? Niggers bin prom’nadin’
by my house all dis summer, holdin’ dere heads high up an’ de
w’ites er dere eyeballs shinin’ in de sun. Dey wuz too bigitty fer ter
look over de gyardin’ palm’s. ’long ’bout den de wedder wuz
fetchin’ de nat’al sperrits er turkentime outen de pine-trees an’ de
groun’ wuz fa’rly smokin’ wid de hotness. Now that it’s gittin’ sorter
airish in de mornin’s, dey don’t ’pear like de same niggers. Dey
done got so deyll look over in de yard, an’ nex’ news you know de’ll
be tryin’ fer ter scrape up ’quaintence wid de dog. W’en dey passes
now dey looks at de chicken-coop an’ at der tater-patch. W’en you
see niggers gittin’ dat familious, you kin ’pen’ on dere campin’ wid
you de ballunce er de season. Day ’fo’ yistiddy I kotch one un um
lookin’ over de fence at my shoats, an’ I sez, sez I:
‘Duz you wanter purchis dem hogs?’
“‘Oh, no,’ sezee, ‘I wuz des lookin’ at dere p’ints.’
“‘Well, dey ain’t p’intin’ yo’ way, sez I, ’an’, fuddermo’, ef you don’t
bodder longer dem hogs dey ain’t gwineter clime outer dat pen an’
’tack you, nudder,’” sez I.
“An’ I boun’,” continued Uncle Remus, driving the corn-cob
stopper a little tighter in his deceitful jug and gathering up his
bag—“an’ I boun’ dat my ole muskitil go off ’tween me an’ dat same
nigger yit, an’ he’ll be at de bad een’, an’ dis seetful jugll ’fuse ter go
ter de funer’l.”
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