Told by Uncle Remus: New Stories of the Old Plantation

by Joel Chandler Harris

“Who? Me? I mought er said sump’n ’bout um day ’fo’ yistiddy, but it done gone off ’n my min’. I done got so ol’ dat my min’ flutters like a bird in de bush.”

“Why, you said that there was a tale about Brother Rabbit and the chickens, but if you told it, my feelings would be hurt. You must think I am a girl.”

Uncle Remus laughed. “Not ez bad ez dat, honey; but I’m fear’d youer monstous tetchous. I’ll tell you de tale, an’ den you kin tell it ter yo’ pa, kaze it’s one he ain’t never hear tell ’bout.

“Well, den, one time, ’way back yander dey wuz a man what live neighbor ter de creeturs. Dey wa’n’t nothin’ quare ’bout dis Mr. Man; he wuz des a plain, eve’yday kinder man, an’ he try ter git ’long de best he kin. He ain’t had no easy time, needer, kaze ’twant den like ’tis now, when you kin take yo’ cotton er yo’ corn ter town an’ have de money planked down fer you.

“In dem times dey wa’n’t no town, an’ not much money. What folks dey wuz hatter git ’long by swappin’ an’ traffickin’. How dey done it, I’ll never tell you, but do it dey did, an’ it seem like dey wuz in about ez happy ez folks is deze days.

“Well, dish yer Mr. Man what I’m a-tellin’ you ’bout, he had a truck patch, an’ a roas’in’-year patch, an’ a goober patch. He grow’d wheat an’ barley, an’ likewise rye, an’ kiss de gals an’ make um cry. An’ on top er dat, he had a whole yard full er chickens, an’ dar’s whar de trouble come in. In dem times, all er de creeturs wuz meat-eaters, an’ twuz in about ez much ez dey kin do, an’ sometimes a little mo’, fer ter git ’long so dey won’t go ter bed hongry. Dey got in de habit er bein’ hongry, an’ dey ain’t never git over it. Look at Brer Wolf—gaunt; look at Brer Fox—gaunt! Dey ain’t never been able fer ter make deyse’f fat.

“So den, ez you see um now, dat de way dey wuz in dem days, an’ a little mo’ so. Mr. Man, he had chickens, des like I tell you. Hens ez plump ez a pa’tridge; pullets so slick dey’d make yo’ mouf water, an’ fryin’-size chickens dat look like dey want ter git right in de pan. Now, when dat’s de case, what you reckon gwineter happen? Brer Wolf want chicken, Brer Fox want chicken, an’ Brer Rabbit want chicken. An’ dey ain’t got nothin’ what dey kin swap fer um. In deze days dey’d be called po’, but I take notice dat po’ folks gits des ez hongry ez de rich uns—an’ hongrier, when it comes ter dat; yes, Lord! lots hongrier.

“Well, de creeturs got mighty frien’ly wid Mr. Man. Dey’d call on ’im, speshually on Sundays, an’ he ain’t had no better sense dan ter cluck up his chickens des ter show um what a nice passel he had. When dis happen, Brer Wolf under-jaw would trimble, an’ Brer Fox would dribble at de mouf same ez a baby what cuttin’ his toofies. Ez fer Brer Rabbit, he’d des laugh, an’ nobody ain’t know what he laughin’ at. It went on dis way twel it look like natur’ can’t stan’ it, an’ den, bimeby, one night when de moon ain’t shinin’, Brer Rabbit take a notion dat he’d call on Mr. Man; but when he got ter de place, Mr. Man done gone ter bed. De lights wuz all out, an’ de dog wuz quiled up un’ de house soun’ asleep.

“Brer Rabbit shake his head. He ’low, ‘Sholy dey’s sump’n wrong, kaze allers, when I come, Mr. Man call up his chickens whar I kin look at um.’ I dunner what de matter wid ’im. An’ I don’t see no chickens, needer. I boun’ you sump’n done happen, an’ nobody ain’t tell me de news, kaze dey know how sorry I’d be. Ef I could git in de house, I’d go in dar an’ see ef ever’thing is all right; but I can’t git in.’

“He walk all ’roun’, he did, but he ain’t see nobody. He wuz so skeer’d he’d wake um up dat he walk on his tippy-toes. He ’low, ‘Ef Mr. Man know’d I wuz here, he’d come out an’ show me his chickens, an’ I des might ez well look in an’ see ef deyer all right.’ Wid dat he went ter de chicken-house an’ peep in, but he can’t see nothin’. He went ter de door, an’ foun’ it onlocked. Brer Rabbit grin, he did, an’ ’low, ‘Mr. Man mos’ know’d dat I’d be ’long some time ter-day, an’ done gone an’ lef’ his chicken-house open so I kin see his pullets—an’ he know’d dat ef I can’t see um, I’d wanter feel um fer ter see how slick an’ purty dey is.’