“ONE time,” said Uncle Remus, whetting his knife slowly and thoughtfully on the palm of his hand, and gazing reflectively in the fire—“one time Brer Wolf—”

“Why, Uncle Remus!” the little boy broke in, “I thought you said the Rabbit scalded the Wolf to death a long time ago.”

The old man was fairly caught and he knew it; but this made little difference to him. A frown gathered on his usually serene brow as he turned his gaze upon the child—a frown in which both scorn and indignation were visible. Then all at once he seemed to regain control of himself. The frown was chased away by a look of Christian resignation.

“Dar now! W’at I tell you?” he exclaimed as if addressing a witness concealed under the bed. “Ain’t I done tole you so? Bless grashus! ef chilluns ain’t gittin’ so dey knows mo’n ole fokes, en dey’ll spute longer you en spute longer you, ceppin der ma call urn, w’ich I speck twon’t be long ’fo’ she will, en den I’ll set yere by de chimbly-cornder en git some peace er mine. W’en ole Miss wuz livin’,” continued the old man, still addressing some imaginary person, “hit ’uz mo’n enny her chilluns ’ud dast ter do ter come ’sputin’ longer me,: en Mars John’ll tell you de same enny day you ax ’im.”

“Well, Uncle Remus, you know you said the Rabbit poured hot water on the Wolf and killed him,” said the little boy.

The old man pretended not to hear. He was engaged in searching among some scraps of leather under his chair, and kept on talking to the imaginary person. Finally, he found and drew forth a nicely plaited whip-thong with a red snapper all waxed and knotted.

“I wuz fixin’ up a wi’p fer a little chap,” he continued, with a sigh, “but, bless grashus! ’fo’ I kin git ’er done de little chap done grow’d up twel he know mo’n I duz.”

The child’s eyes filled with tears and his lips began to quiver, but he said nothing; whereupon Uncle Remus immediately melted.

“I ’clar’ to goodness,” he said, reaching out and taking the little boy tenderly by the hand, “ef you ain’t de ve’y spit en image er ole Miss wen I brung ’er de las’ news er de war. Hit’s des like skeerin’ up a ghos’ w’at you ain’t fear’d un.”

Then there was a pause, the old man patting the little child’s hand caressingly.

“You ain’t mad, is you, honey?” Uncle Remus asked finally, “kaze ef you is, I’m gwine out yere en butt my head ’gin de do’ jam’.”

But the little boy wasn’t mad. Uncle Remus had conquered him and he had conquered Uncle Remus in pretty much the same way before. But it was some time before Uncle Remus would go on with the story. He had to be coaxed. At last, however, he settled himself back in the chair and began:

“Co’se, honey, hit mout er bin ole Brer Wolf, er hit mout er bin er n’er Brer Wolf; it mout er bin ’fo’ he got kotch up wid, er it mont er bin atterwards. Ez de tale wer gun to me des dat away I gin it unter you. One time Brer Wolf wuz comm’ ’long home fum a fishin’ frolic. He s’anter long de road, he did, wid his string er fish ’cross his shoulder, wen fus news you know ole Miss Pa’tridge, she hop outer de bushes en flutter long right at Brer Wolf nose. Brer Wolf he say ter hisse’f dat ole Miss Pa’tridge tryin’ fer ter toll ’im ’way fum her nes’, en wid dat he lay his fish down en put out inter de bushes whar ole Miss Pa’tridge come fum, en ’bout dat time Brer Rabbit, he happen long. Dar wuz de fishes, en dar wuz Brer Rabbit, en w’en dat de case w’at you speck a sorter innerpen’ent man like Brer Rabbit gwine do? I kin tell you dis, dat dem fishes ain’t stay whar Brer Wolf put um at, en w’en Brer Wolf come back dey wuz gone.

“Brer Wolf, he sot down en scratch his head, he did, en study en study, en den hit sorter rush inter his mine dat Brer Rabbit bin ’long dar, en den Brer Wolf, he put out fer Brer Rabbit house, en w’en he git dar he hail ’im. Brer Rabbit, he dunno nuthin’ tall ’bout no fishes. Brer Wolf he up’n say he bleedzd ter bleeve Brer Rabbit got dem fishes. Brer Rabbit ’ny it up en down, but Brer Wolf stan’ to it dat Brer Rabbit got dem fishes. Brer Rabbit, he say dat if Brer Wolf b’leeve he got de fishes, den he give Brer Wolf lief fer ter kill de bes’ cow he got. Brer Wolf, he tuck Brer Rabbit at his word, en go off ter de pastur’ en drive up de cattle en kill Brer Rabbit bes’ cow.

“Brer Rabbit, he hate mighty bad fer ter lose his cow, but he lay his plans, en he tell his chilluns dat he gwineter have dat beef yit. Brer Wolf, he bin tuck up by de patter-rollers ’fo’ now, en he mighty skeerd un um, en fus news you know, yer come Brer Rabbit hollerin’ en tellin’ Brer Wolf dat de patter-rollers comm.

“‘You run en hide, Brer Wolf,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en I’ll stay yer en take keer er de cow twel you gits back,’ sezee.

“Soon’s Brer Wolf hear talk er de patter-rollers, he scramble off inter de underbrush like he bin shot out’n a gun. En he want mo’n gone ’fo’ Brer Rabbit, he whirl in en skunt de cow en salt de hide down, en den he tuck’n cut up de kyarkiss en stow it ’way in de smoke-’ouse, en den he tuck’n stick de een’ er de cow-tail in de groun’. Atter he gone en done all dis, den Brer Rabbit he squall out fer Brer Wolf:

“‘Run yer, Brer Wolf! Run yer! Yo’ cow gwine in de groun’! Run yer!’

“W’en ole Brer Wolf got dar, w’ich he come er scootin’, dar wuz Brer Rabbit horin’ on ter de cow-tail, fer ter keep it fum gwine in de groun’. Brer Wolf, he kotch holt, en dey ’gin a pull er two en up come de tail. Den Brer Rabbit, he wink his off eye en say, sezee:

“‘Dar! de tail done pull out en de cow gone,’ sezee.

“But Brer Wolf he wer’n’t de man fer ter give it up dat away, en he got ’im a spade, en a pick-axe, en a shovel, en he dig en dig fer dat cow twel diggin’ wuz pas’ all endu’unce, en ole Brer Rabbit he sot up dar in his front po’ch en smoke his seegyar. Eve’y time ole Brer Wolf stuck de pick-axe in de clay, Brer Rabbit, he giggle ter his chilluns:

“‘He diggy, diggy, diggy, but no meat dar! He diggy, diggy, diggy, but no meat dar!’

“Kase all de tiine de cow wuz layin’ pile up in his smoke-’ouse, en him en his chilluns wuz eatin’ fried beef an inguns eve’y time dey mouf water.

“Now den, honey, you take dis yer w’ip,” continued the old man, twining the leather thong around the little boy’s neck, “en scamper up ter de big ’ouse en tell Miss Sally fer ter gin you some un it de nex’ time she fine yo’ tracks in de sugar-bairl.”