“Ole Mr. Owl, he ruffle up he fedders, he did, en smack he mouf, en look down at Becky’s Bill, en ’low:
“‘Who cooks—who cooks—who cooks fer you-all?’
“Becky’s Bill, he take off he hat, he did, en ’low, sezee:
“‘Well, sir, hit’s des like I tell you. Mo’ inginer’lly endurin’ er de week, mammy, she cooks, but on Sundays, mo’ speshually w’en dey got comp’ny, ole Aunt Dicey, she cooks.’
“Ole Mr. Owl, he keep axin’, en Becky’s Bill keep on tellin’ twel, bimeby, Becky’s Bill, he got skeerd, en tired, en mad, en den he le’pt out fum dar en he run home like a quarter-hoss; en now ef you git ’im in dat swamp you got ter go ’long wid ’im.”
The little boy sat and gazed in the fire after Uncle Remus had paused. He evidently had no more questions to ask. After a while the old man resumed:
“But ’t ain’t des de owls dat kin talk. I des want you ter git up in de mornin’ en lissen at de chickens. I kin set right yer en tell you des zackly w’at you ’ll year um say.”
The little boy laughed, and Uncle Remus looked up into the rafters to hide a responsive smile.
“De old Dominicker Hen, she ’ll fly off’n ’er nes’ in de hoss-trough, en squall out:
“‘Aigs I lay eve’y day en yer dey come en take um ’way! I lay, I lay, I lay, en yit I hatter go bare-footed, bare-footed, bare-footed! Ef I lay, en lay twel doomsday, I know I’ll hatter go bare-footed, bare-footed, bare-footed!’”