“I speck my eyes is bad,” replied Uncle Remus. “When anybody gits ter be a himbly an’ hombly-hombly year ol’ dey er liable fer ter see double.”
The child was a very serious child, but he laughed in spite of himself. “Oh, pshaw!” he exclaimed.
“I’m mighty glad you said dat,” remarked Uncle Remus, smacking his lips, “kaze ef you hadn’t ’a’ said it, I’d ’a’ been a bleeze ter say it myse’f.”
“Say what?” inquired the little boy, who was unused to the quips of the old man.
“’Bout dat tater custard. It’s de funniest tater custard dat I ever laid eyes on, dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.”
“Grandmother wanted to give me some,” said the little boy longingly, “but mother said it wasn’t good for me.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Uncle Remus in a tone of triumph. “What I tell you? Miss Sally writ on here wid dese dishes dat she want you ter eat dat tater custard. Mo’ dan dat she sont two pieces. Dar’s one, an’ dar de yuther.” There wasn’t anything wrong about this counting, except that Uncle Remus pointed twice at the same piece.
The little boy was sitting on Uncle Remus’s knee, and he turned suddenly and looked into the weather-beaten face that had harbored so many smiles. The child seemed to be searching for something in that venerable countenance, and he must have found it, for he allowed his head to fall against the old negro’s shoulder and held it there. The movement was as familiar to Uncle Remus as the walls of his cabin, for among all the children that he had known well, not one had failed to lay his head where that of the little boy now rested.
“Miss Sally is de onliest somebody in de roun’ worl’ dat know what you an’ me like ter eat,” remarked Uncle Remus, making a great pretense of chewing. “I dunner how she fin’ out, but fin’ out she did, an’ we oughter be mighty much beholden ter ’er. I done et my piece er tater custard,” he went on, “an’ you kin eat yone when you git good an’ ready.”