AS Uncle Remus was going down the street recently he was
accosted by several acquaintances.
“Heyo!” said one, “here comes Uncle Remus. He look like he
gwine fer ter set up a bo’din-house.”
Several others bantered the old man, but he appeared to be in a
good humor. He was carrying a huge basket of vegetables.
“How many er you boys,” said he, as he put his basket down, “is
done a han’s turn dis day? En yit de week’s done commence. I year
talk er niggers dat’s got money in de bank, but I lay hit ain’t none
er you fellers. Whar you speck you gwineter git yo’ dinner, en how
you speck you gwineter git ’long?”
“Oh, we sorter knocks ’roun’ an’ picks up a livin’,” responded one.
“Dat’s w’at make I say w’at I duz,” said Uncle Rcmus. “Fokes go
’bout in de day-time an’ makes a livin’, an’ you come ’long w’en dey
er res’in’ der bones an’ picks it up. I ain’t no han’ at figgers, but I lay
I k’n count up right yer in de san’ en number up how menny days
hitil be ’fo’ you’er cuppled on ter de chain-gang.”
“De ole man’s holler’n now sho’,” said one of the listeners, gazing
with admiration on the venerable old darkey.
“I ain’t takin’ no chances ’bout vittles. Hit’s proned inter me fum de
fus dat I got ter eat, en I knows dat I got fer ter grub for w’at I gits.
Hit’s agin de mor’l law fer niggers fer ter eat w’en dey don’t wuk,
an’ w’en you see um ’pariently fattenin’ on a’r, you k’n des bet dat
ruinashun’s gwine on some’rs. I got mustard, en poke salid, en
lam’s quarter in dat baskit, en me en my ole ’oman gwineter sample
it. Ef enny you boys git a invite you come, but ef you don’t you
better stay ’way. I gotter muskit out dar w’at’s used ter persidin’
’roun’ whar dey’s a cripple nigger. Don’t you fergit dat off’n yo’
mine.”
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