“Who heard them talking that way, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.
BILLY BIG-EYE AND TOMMY LONG-WING.
“Goodness en de gracious, honey!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, “you don’t ’speckt er ole nigger like I is fer ter note all deze yer folks’ name in he head, does you? S’pose’n de folks w’at year um done gone and move off, w’at good it gwine do you fer ter git der name? S’pose’n dey wuz settin’ right yer ’long side er you, w’at good dat gwine do? De trufe’s de trufe, en folks’ name ain’t gwine make it no trufer. Yit w’en it come ter dat, I kin go ter de do’ dar, en fetch a whoop, en fin’ you lots er niggars w’at done bin year dat Owl famberly gwine on in de swamp dar. En you ne’en ter go no fudder dan Becky’s Bill, nudder. W’en dat niggar wuz growin’ up, he went frolickin’ ’roun’, en one night he come froo de Two-Mile Swamp.
“He come froo dar,” Uncle Remus went on, emphasizing the seriousness of the situation by a severe frown, “des ez soople in de min’ ez w’at you is dis blessid minnit. He come ’long, he did, en de fus’ news you know a great big ole owl flew’d up in a tree en snap he bill des like somebody crackin’ a whip. Becky’s Bill make like he ain’t take no notice, but he sorter men’ he gait. Present’y, ole Mr. Owl flew’d up in ’n’er tree little ways ahead, en smack he mouf. Den he holler out:
“‘Who cooks—who cooks—who cooks fer you-all?’
“Becky’s Bill move on—he make like he ain’t year nothing. Ole Mr. Owl holler out:
“‘Who cooks—who cooks—who cooks fer you-all?’
“By dat time Becky’s Bill done git sorter skeerd, en he stop en say:
“‘Well, sir, endurin’ er de week, mammy, she cooks, but on Sundays, en mo’ speshually ef dey got comp’ny, den ole Aunt Dicey, she cooks.’