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
out:
“Don’t you come foolin’ longer me, nigger. Youer flippin’ yo’ sass
at de wrong color. You k’n go roun’ yer an’ sass deze w’ite people,
an’ maybe dey’ll stan’ it, but w’en you come a slingin’ yo’ jaw at a
man w’at wuz gray w’en de fahmin’ days gin out, you better go an’
git yo’ hide greased.”
“What’s the matter, old man?” asked a sympathizing policeman.
“Nothin’, boss, ’ceppin I ain’t gwineter hav’ no nigger chillun a
hoopin’ an’ a hollerin’ at me w’en I’m gwine long de streets.”
“0h, well, school-children—you know how they are.”
“Dat’s w’at make I say w’at I dtiz. Dey better be home pickin’ tip
chips. W’at a nigger gwineter larn outen books? I kin take a ba’l
stave an’ fling mo’ sense inter a nigger in one minnit dan all de
schoolhouses betwixt dis en de State er Midgigin. Don’t talk,
honey! Wid one bar’l stave I kin fa’rly lif’ de vail er ignunce.”
“Then you don’t believe in education?”
“Hit’s 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 ain’t larnt nuthin’ in books, ’en yit
I kin count all de money I gits. No use talkin’, boss. Put a
spellin’-book in a nigger’s han’s, en right den en dar’ you loozes a
plow-hand. I done had de speunce un it.”
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