“Isn’t I met you before, down South?” Mistah Mule inquired.
“I hardly think so,” Mr. Crow replied. “I’ve been spending the winters in the North for a good many years. I haven’t been South since I don’t know when. And—er—when you speak to me, or of me, kindly omit the ‘Jim.’ Just say, ‘Mr. Crow.’”
Mistah Mule nodded. “I doesn’t blame you, not the leastest bit,” he remarked. “I knows just how you feels.”
“We won’t talk about that any more,” said Mr. Crow. “I came to talk about an entirely different matter.”
“What’s that?” Mistah Mule inquired.
“Your tail!” Mr. Crow explained. “You know, it’s rather an odd one.”
Mistah Mule was so surprised that he turned his head and looked back at his tail.
“I doesn’t see anything queer about it,” he murmured.
“Think hard!” Mr. Crow urged him. “Doesn’t it remind you of other tails on this farm?”
“No, sah!” Mistah Mule declared.