But this enthusiasm came by degrees as Uncle Remus wandered from one tale to another. The child never told his mother how he enjoyed the stories, and yet he came to play the part that had been played by his father long before he was born, and matters came to such a pass, that, if he was long with Uncle Remus without hearing a story, he straightway imagined that the old man was angry or out of sorts. The lad was gaining in health and strength every day he remained on the plantation, and in consideration of this fact—and as the result of wise diplomacy of Uncle Remus—the child’s mother relaxed the discipline that she had thought necessary for his welfare, so that not many weeks elapsed before his cheeks became ruddy with health. Uncle Remus hailed him as a town rowdy, and declared that the plantation would soon be too small to hold him.
“I pity yo’ gran’ma,” said Uncle Remus, “kaze ef you stay roun’ here, she’ll hatter buy all de ’j’inin’ plantations ef she gwineter keep you on her lan’.”
There was no more corn to be hauled, but there was harness to be mended, and the little boy, sitting on a high stool in the workshop, or leaning against Uncle Remus, watched the operation with great interest. He observed one day that the old man was frowning darkly. His forehead was puckered into knots and seamed with wrinkles that did not belong there, and his eyebrows were drawn together over his nose.
“What is the matter with you, Uncle Remus? Are you angry, or are you going to cry?”
“I’ll tell you de trufe, honey. I’m mighty nigh on de p’int er cryin’. You see my face puckered up, don’t you? Well, ef you had ez much on yo’ min’ ez what I got on mine, you’d be boo-hooin’ same ez a baby. I tell you dat. An’ des ter show you dat I’m in deep trouble, I’ll ax you ter tell me how many times dey is.”
“How many times? How many times what?” the child inquired.
Uncle Remus regarded him sorrowfully, and then returned to his work with a heavy sigh. “Did I ax you ’bout what? No, I ain’t; I ax’d you ’bout times. I say ez plain ez writin’: ‘How many times is dey?’ an’ you ’spon’, ‘How many times what?’ It look mighty funny ter me. Dar’s daytime an’ night-time, bedtime an’ meal-time, an’ some time an’ no time, an’ high time an’ fly time, an’ long time an’ wrong time, ’simmon time an’ plum time. Dey ain’t no use er talkin’; it’s nuff fer ter make yo’ head swim. I been tryin’ fer ter count um up, but de mo’ I count um up de mo’ dey is.”
The little boy looked at the old man with a half-smile on his face. He was plainly puzzled, but he didn’t like to admit it even to himself. “Why do you want to know how many times there are?” he asked.
“Kaze I wanter live an’ l’arn,” replied Uncle Remus. “Le’ me see,” he went on, puckering his face again. “Dars de ol’ time an’ de new time, de col’ time an’ de due time—bless yo’ soul, honey, I can’t count um up. No, suh; you’ll hatter skusen me!”
He paused and looked at the little boy to see what the child could make out of all he had said.