Told by Uncle Remus: New Stories of the Old Plantation

by Joel Chandler Harris

“Well, den, dar wuz ol’ Craney-Crow, an’ dar wuz de Swamp. Ol’ Craney-Crow wuz wide-awake, but de Swamp wuz fast asleep an’ dreamin’ bad dreams like a wil’ hoss an’ waggin gwine down hill. But de Swamp wa’n’t no stiller dan ol’ Craney-Crow, stannin’ on one leg wid one eye lookin’ in de tops er de trees, an’ de yuther one lookin’ down in de grass. But in de Swamp er out’n de Swamp, time goes on an’ night draps down, an’ dat’s de way it done dis time. An’ when night drapped down, de Swamp kinder stretch itse’f an’ ’gun ter wake up. Ol’ Brer Mud Turkle opened his eyes an’ sneeze so hard dat he roll off de bank inter de water—kersplash—an’ he so close ter ol’ Craney-Crow dat he fetched a hop sideways, an’ come mighty nigh steppin’ on Mr. Billy Black Snake. Dis skeer’d ’im so dat he fetched an’er hop, an’ mighty nigh lit on de frog what he been huntin’ fer. De frog he say ‘hey!’ an’ dove in de mud-puddle.

“Atter dat, when ol’ Craney-Crow move ’bout, he lif’ his foots high, an’ he done like de ladies does when dey walk in a wet place. De whole caboodle wuz bran’ new ter ol’ Craney-Crow, an’ he look wid all his eyes, an’ lissen wid all his years. Dey wuz sump’n n’er gwine on, but he can’t make out what ’twuz. He ain’t never is been in no swamp befo’, mo’ speshually a Swamp what got life in it. He been useter ma’shy places, whar dey ain’t nothin’ but water an’ high grass, but dar whar he fin’ hisse’f atter de harrycane, dey wa’n’t no big sight er water, an’ what grass dey wuz, wa’n’t longer ’n yo’ finger. Stidder grass an’ water, dey wuz vines, an’ reeds, an’ trees wid moss on um dat made um look like Gran’suh Graybeard, an’ de vines an’ creepers look like dey wuz reachin’ out fer ’im.

“He walked about, he did, like de groun’ wuz hot, an’ when he walk he look like he wuz on stilts, his legs wuz so long. He hunt roun’ fer a place fer ter sleep, an’ whiles he wuz doin’ dat he tuck notice dat dey wuz sump’n n’er gwine on dat he ain’t never is see de like un. De jacky-ma-lantuns, dey lit up an’ went sailin’ roun’ des like dey wuz huntin’ fer ’im an’ de frogs, dey holler at ’im wid, ‘What you doin’ here? What you doin’ here?’ Mr. Coon rack by an’ laugh at ’im; Mr. Billy Gray Fox peep out’n de bushes an’ bark at ’im; Mr. Mink show ’im de green eyes, an’ Mr. Whipperwill scol’ ’im.

“He move ’bout, he did, an’ atter so long a time dey let ’im ’lone, an’ den when dey wa’n’t nobody ner nothin’ pesterin’ ’im, he ’gun ter look roun’ fer hisse’f. Peepin’ fust in one bush an’ den in an’er, he tuck notice dat all de birds what fly by day had done gone ter bed widout der heads. Look whar he mought, ol’ Craney-Crow ain’t see na’er bird but what had done tuck his head off ’fo’ he went ter bed. Look close ez he kin, he ain’t see no bird wid a head on. Dis make ’im wonder, an’ he ax hisse’f how come dis, an’ de onliest answer what he kin think un is dat gwine ter bed wid der heads on wuz done gone out er fashion in dat part er de country.

“Now, you kin say what you please ’bout de creeturs an’ der kin’—’bout de fowls dat fly, an’ de feathery creeturs what run on de groun’—you kin say what you please ’bout um, but dey got pride; dey don’t wanter be out’n de fashion. When it comes ter dat, deyer purty much like folks, an’ dat ’uz de way wid ol’ Craney-Crow; he don’t wanter be out er fashion. He ’shame’ fer ter go ter bed like he allers been doin’, kaze he ain’t want de yuthers fer ter laugh an’ say he ’uz fum de country deestrick, whar dey dunno much. Yit, study ez he mought, he dunner which a-way ter do fer ter git his head off. De yuthers had der heads un’ der wing. But he ain’t know dat.

“He look roun’, he did, fer ter see ef dey ain’t some un he kin ax ’bout it, an’ he ain’t hatter look long nudder, fer dar, settin’ right at ’im, wuz ol’ Brer Pop-Eye.”

“But, Uncle Remus, who was old Brother Pop-Eye?” inquired the little boy.

“Nobody in all de roun’ worl’, honey, but Brer Rabbit. He had one name fer de uplan’ an’ an’er name fer de bottom lan’—de swamps an’ de dreens. Wharsomever dar wuz any mischieviousness gwine on, right dar wuz Brer Rabbit ez big ez life an’ twice ez natchul. He wuz so close ter ol’ Craney-Crow dat he hatter jump when he seed ’im. Brer Pop-Eye say: ‘No needs fer ter be skeer’d, frien’ Craney-Crow. You may be mo’ dan sho dat I’m a well-wisher.’ Ol’ Craney-Crow ’low: ‘It do me good fer ter hear you sesso, Mr. Pop-Eye, an’ seein’ dat it’s you an’ not some un else, I don’t min’ axin’ you how all de flyin’ birds takes der heads off when dey go ter bed. It sho stumps me.’ Brer Pop-Eye say, ‘An’ no wonder, frien’ Craney-Crow, kaze youer stranger in deze parts. Dey ain’t nothin’ ter hide ’bout it. De skeeters is been so bad in dis Swamp sence de year one, an’ endurin’ er de time what’s gone by, dat dem what live here done got in de habits er takin’ off der heads an’ puttin’ um in a safe place.’

“De Craney-Crow ’low: ‘But how in de name er goodness does dey do it, Brer Pop-Eye?’ Mr. Pop-Eye laugh ter hisse’f ’way down in his gizzard. He say: ‘Dey don’t do it by deyse’f, kaze dat ’ud be axin’ too much. Oh, no! dey got some un hired fer ter do dat kin’ er work.’ ‘An’ whar kin I fin’ ’im, Brer Pop-Eye?’ sez ol’ Craney-Crow, sezee. Brer Pop-Eye ’low: ‘He’ll be roun’ terreckly; he allers hatter go roun’ fer ter see dat he ain’t miss none un um.’ Ol’ Craney-Crow sorter study, he did, an’ den he ’low: ‘How does dey git der heads back on, Brer Pop-Eye?’ Brer Pop-Eye shuck his head. He say: ‘I’d tell you ef I know’d, but I hatter stay up so much at night, dat ’long ’bout de time when dey gits der heads put on, I’m soun’ asleep an’ sno’in’ right along. Ef you sesso, I’ll hunt up de doctor what does de business, an’ I speck he’ll commerdate you—I kin prommus you dat much, sence you been so perlite.’ Ol’ Craney-Crow laugh an’ say: ‘I done fin’ out in my time dat dey don’t nothin’ pay like perliteness, speshually ef she’s ginnywine.’

“Wid dat, Brer Pop-Eye put out, he did, fer ter fin’ Brer Wolf. Knowin’ purty well whar he wuz, ’twant long ’fo’ here dey come gallopin’ back. Brer Pop-Eye say: ‘Mr. Craney-Crow, dis is Mr. Dock Wolf; Mr. Dock Wolf, dis is Mr. Craney-Crow; glad fer ter make you ’quainted, gents.’” At this point, Uncle Remus paused and glanced at the little boy, who was listening to the story with almost breathless interest. “You ain’t got yo’ hankcher wid you, is you?” the old man inquired gently.