“No, ’m, dat’s so. I done know dat long time ago. All day long, en half de night, hit ’s ‘Remus, come yer,’ en ‘Remus, go dar,’ ’ceppin’ w’en it ’s eatin’-time, en w’en dat time come, dey ain’t nobody dast ter name de name er Remus. Dat Rachel nigger new ter de business, yet she mighty quick fer ter l’arn how ter tote off de vittles, en how ter make all de chillun on de place do ’er er’ns.”
“John,” to her husband, “I put some cold potatoes for the children on the sideboard in the dining-room. Please see if they are still there.”
“Nummine ’bout gittin’ up, Mars John. All de taters is dar. Old Remus ain’t never ’grudge w’at dem po’ little chillun gits. Let ’lone dat; dey comes down ter my house, en dey looks so puny en lonesome dat I ’vides my own vittles wid um. Goodness knows, I don’t ’grudge de po’ creeturs de little dey gits. Good-night, Mars John! Good-night, Miss Sally!”
“Take the potatoes, Remus,” said Mars John.
“I’m mighty much erbleege ter you,” said Uncle Remus, putting the potatoes in his pocket, “en thanky too; but I ain’t gwine ter have folks sayin’ dat ole Remus tuck ’n sneaked up yer en tuck de vittles out er deze yer chillun’s mouf, dat I ain’t.”
The tone in which Uncle Remus would carry on his quarrels was inimitable, and he generally succeeded in having his way. He would sometimes quarrel with the little boy to whom he told the stories, but either by dint of coaxing, or by means of complete silence, the youngster usually managed to restore the old man’s equanimity.
“Uncle Remus,” said the boy, “it ’s mighty funny that the birds and the animals don’t talk like they used to.”
“Who say dey don’t?” the old man cried, with some show of indignation. “Who say dey don’t? Now, dat ’s des w’at I’d like ter know.”
Uncle Remus’s manner implied that he was only waiting for the name of the malicious person to go out and brain him on the spot.
“Well,” replied the child, “I often listened at them, but I never hear them say a word.”