“De place whar he wuz at wa’n’t roomy nuff fer fiddlin’, but he tuck out his fife an’ ’gun ter play on it, an’ ev’y time he hear a noise he’d cut de chune short. He’d blow a little an’ den break off, but take de day ez it come, he put in a right smart lot er fifin’. When night come, an’ ev’ything wuz dark down dar whar he wuz at, he des turned hisse’f loose. De chillun in de house, dey des lis’en an’ laugh, but dey daddy shake his head an’ look sour. Dey wan’t no crickets in de country whar he come fum, an’ he wan’t usen ter um. But de mammy er de chillun ain’t pay no ’tention ter de fifin’; she des went on ’bout her business like dey ain’t no cricket in de roun’ worl’. Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket he fifed an’ fifed des like he wuz doin’ it fer pay. He played de chillun off ter bed an’ played um ter sleep; he played twel de ol’ man got ter nid-nid-noddin’ by de fire; he played twel dey all went ter bed ’cep’ de mammy, an’ he played whiles she sot by de h’ath, an’ dremp ’bout de times when she wuz a gal—de ol’ times dat make de gran’-chillun feel so funny when dey hear tell ’bout um.
“Night atter night de fifin’ went on, an’ bimeby de man ’gun ter git tired. De ’oman, she say dat de crickets brung good luck, but de man, he say he’d druther have mo’ luck an’ less fifin’. So he holler down thoo de crack in de h’ath, an’ tell ol’ Grandaddy Cricket fer ter hush his fuss er change his chune. But de fifin’ went on. De man holler down an’ say dat ef de fifin’ don’t stop, he gwine ter pour b’ilin’ water on de fifer. Ol’ Grandaddy Cricket holler back:
“‘Hot water will turn me brown,
An’ den I’ll kick yo’ chimbley down.’
“So he holler down thoo de crack”
“De man, he grin, he did, an’ den he put de kittle on de fire an’ kep’ it dar twel de water ’gun ter b’ile, an’ den, whiles de fifin’ wuz at de loudest, he tuck de kittle an’ tilted it so de scaldin’ water will run down thoo de cracks, an’ den de fust thing he know’d he ain’t know nothin’, kaze de water weakened de clay an’ de h’ath fell in an’ ol’ Grandaddy Cricket sot in ter kickin’ an’ de chimbley come down, it did, an’ bury de man, an’ when dey got ’im out, he wuz one-eyed an’ splay-footed.
“De ’oman an’ de chillun ain’t skacely know ’im. Dey hatter ax ’im his name, an’ whar he come fum, an’ how ol’ he wuz; an’ atter he satchified um dat he wuz de same man what been livin’ dar all de time, de ’oman say, ‘Ain’t I tell you dat crickets fetch good luck?’ An’ de man, he ’low, ‘Does you call dis good luck?’”
“What became of the cricket?” asked the little boy, after a long pause, during which Uncle Remus appeared to be thinking about other things.
“Oh!” exclaimed the old darky. “Dat’s so! I ain’t tol’ you, is I? Well, ol’ Grandaddy Cricket kicked so hard, an’ kicked so high, dat he onj’inted bofe his legs, an’ when he crawled out fum de chimbley, his elbows wuz whar his knees oughter be at.”