UNCLE REMUS was enlightening a crowd of negroes at the
car-shed yesterday.
“Dar ain’t nuthin’,” said the old man, shaking his head pensively,
“dat ain’t got no change wrote on it. Dar ain’t nothin dat ain’t
spotted befo’ hit begins fer ter commence. We all speunces dat
p’overdence w’at lifts us up fum one place an’ sets us down in de
udder. Hit’s continerly a movin’ an a movin.
“Dat’s so!” “Youer talkin’ now!” came from several of his hearers.
“I year Miss Sally readin’ dis mawnin,” continued the old man, “dat
a man wuz comin’ down yer fer ter take keer er de wedder—wunner
deze yer Buro mens w’at goes ’roun’ a puttin’ up an’ pullin’ down.”
“W’at he gwine do ’roun’ yer?” asked one.
“He’s a gwineter regelate de wedder,” replied Uncle Remus,
sententiously. “He’s a gwineter fix hit up so dat dere won’t be so
much worriment ’mong de w’ite fokes ’bout de kinder wedder w’at
falls to dere lot.”
“He gwine dish em up,” suggested one of the older ones “like man
dish out sugar.
“No,” answered Uncle Remus, mopping his benign features with a
very large and very red bandana. “He’s a gwineter fix urn better’n
dat. He’s a gwineter fix urn up so you kin have any kinder wedder
w’at you want widout totin’ her home.”
“How’s dat?” asked some one.
“Hit’s dis way,” said the old man, thoughtfully. ‘In co’se you knows
w’at kinder wedder you wants. Well, den, w’en de man comes long,
w’ich Miss Sally say he will, you des gotter go up dar, pick out yo’
wedder an’ derell be a clock sot fer ter suit yo’ case, an’ w’en you
git home, derell be yo’ wedder a settin’ out in de yard waitin’ fer
you. I wish he wuz yer now,” the old man continued. ‘Td take a p’ar
er frosts in mine, ef I kotched cold fer it. Dat’s me!”
There were various exclamations of assent, and the old man went
on his way singing, “Don’t you Grieve Atter Me.”
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