“But what will they put me in jail for?” the child asked.
“What dey put you in dar fer? Kaze you wipe yo’ mouf on yo’ sleeve. Well, when you git a little bigger, you’ll say ter yo’se’f, ‘Dey shet me in de parlor fer nothin’, an’ now I’ll see ef dey ’ll put me in jail fer sump’n’; an’ den you’ll make a mouf at de gov’ner up dar in Atlanta—I know right whar his house is—an’ dey’ll slap you in jail an’ never ax yo’ name ner whar you come fum. Dat’s de way dey does in dat town, kaze I done been dar an’ see der carryin’s on.”
“I believe I’ll try it when I go back home,” said the little lad.
“Co’se you will,” Uncle Remus assented, “an’ you’ll be glad fer ter git in jail atter bein’ in a parlor what de sun ain’t shine in sence de war. You come down here fer ter git strong an’ well, an’ here you is in de dampest room in de house. You’ll git well—oh, yes! I see you well right now, speshually atter you done had de croup an’ de pneumony, an’ de browncreeturs.”
“There’s mother,” said the little boy under his breath.
“I wish ’twuz yo’ daddy!” Uncle Remus replied. “I’d gi’ ’im a piece er my min’ ez long ez a waggin tongue.”
But the young mother never heard this remark. She had felt she was doing wrong when she banished the child to the parlor for a trivial fault, and now she made haste to undo it. She ran into the house and released the little boy, and told him to run to play. “Thank you, mother,” he said courteously, and then when he disappeared, what should the young mother do but cry?
The child, however, was very far from crying. He ran around to the front yard just in time to meet Uncle Remus as he came out. He seized the old darky’s hand and went skipping along by his side. “You put me in min’ er ol’ Grandaddy Cricket ’bout de time he had his big kickin’ match. He sho wuz lively.”
“That was just what I was going to ask you about,” said the child enthusiastically, for his instinct told him that Uncle Remus’s remarks about Grandaddy Cricket were intended to lead up to a story. When they had both climbed into the wagon, and were well on their way to the Wood Lot, where the surplus corn had been temporarily stored, the old man, after some preliminaries, such as looking in his hat to see if he had lost his hankcher, as he called it, and inquiring of the horses if they knew where they were going and what they were going after, suddenly turned to the child with a question: “Ain’t I hear you ax me ’bout sump’n n’er, honey? I’m gittin’ so ol’ an’ wobbly dat it seem like I’m deaf, yit ef anybody wuz ter call me ter dinner, I speck I could hear um a mile off ef dey so much ez whispered it.”
“Yes,” the child replied. “It was about old Grandaddy Cricket. I thought maybe you knew something about him.”