She will kill de turkey hen;
Den we’ll have a new convention,
Den we’ll know de rights er men.’”
“Why, I ’ve heard grandma sing that song,” exclaimed the little boy.
“Tooby sho’ you is—tooby sho’ you is, honey,” said Uncle Remus, assuming an argumentative air that was irresistibly comic. “Ef Brer Rabbit kin sing dat chune, w’at gwine hender w’ite folks fum singin’ it? Bless yo’ soul, w’ite folks smart, mon, en I lay der ain’t no chune w’at Brer Rabbit kin sing dat dey can’t reel off.
“Well, suh, de gal year Brer Rabbit singin’, en she sorter toss ’er head en giggle. Brer Rabbit he look at ’er sideways en sorter grin. Den Brer Rabbit ’low:
“‘Mornin’, ma’m; how you come on dis fine mornin’?’
“De gal say: ‘I’m des toler’ble; how you do yo’se’f?’
“Brer Rabbit ’low, he did: ‘I thank you, ma’m, I’m right po’ly. I ain’t bin feelin’ ter say reely peart in mighty nigh a mont’.’
“De gal laugh en say: ‘Dat w’at I year tell. I speck you in love, Brer Rabbit. You ought ter go off some’rs en git you a wife.’