“I saw only one piece,” remarked the child, without raising his head, “and if you have eaten that there is none left for me.” Uncle Remus closed his eyes, and allowed his head to fall back. This was his favorite attitude when confronted by something that he could not comprehend. This was his predicament now, for there was something in this child that was quite beyond him. Small as the lad was he was old-fashioned; he thought and spoke like a grown person; and this the old negro knew was not according to nature. The trouble with the boy was that he had had no childhood; he had been subdued and weakened by the abnormal training he had received.
“Tooby sho you ain’t seed um,” Uncle Remus declared, returning to the matter of the potato custard. “Ef yo’ pa had ’a’ been in yo’ place he’d ’a’ seed um, kaze when he wuz long ’bout yo’ age, he had mo’ eyes in his stomach dan what he had his head. But de ol’ nigger wuz a little too quick fer you. I seed de two pieces time de gal snatch de towel off, an’ I ’low ter myse’f dat ef I didn’t snatch one, I’d not git none. Yasser! I wuz a little too quick fer you.”
The child turned his head, and saw that the slice of potato custard was still on the plate. “I’m so sorry that mother thinks it will hurt me,” he said with a sigh.
“Well, whatsomever she say ’bout de yuther piece er custard, I boun’ she ain’t say dat dat piece ’ud hurt you, kaze she ain’t never lay eyes on it. An’ mo’ dan dat,” Uncle Remus went on with a very serious face: “Miss Sally writ wid de dishes dat one er de pieces er tater custard wuz fer you.”
“I don’t see any writing,” the child declared, with a longing look at the potato custard.
“Miss Sally ain’t aim fer you ter see it, kaze ef you could see it, eve’ybody could see it. An’ dat ain’t all de reason why you can’t see it. You been hemmed up dar in a big town, an’ yo’ eyes ain’t good. But dar’s de writin’ des ez plain ez pig-tracks.” Uncle Remus made believe to spell out the writing, pointing at a separate dish every time he pronounced a word. “Le’ me see: she put dis dish fust—‘One piece is fer de chil’.’”
The little boy reflected a moment. “There are only five dishes,” he said very gravely, “and you pointed at one of them twice.”
“Tooby sho I did,” Uncle Remus replied, with well affected solemnity. “Ain’t dat de way you does in books?”
The little lad was too young to be well-grounded in books, but he had his ideas, nevertheless. “I don’t see how it can be done,” he suggested. “A is always A.”
“Ah-yi!” exclaimed Uncle Remus triumphantly. “It’s allers big A er little a. But I wa’n’t callin’ out no letters; I wuz callin’ out de words what yo’ granmammy writ wid de dishes.” The little boy still looked doubtful, and Uncle Remus went on. “Now, spozin’ yo’ pa wuz ter come ’long an’ say, ‘Unk Remus, I wanter gi’ you a cuff.’ An’ den, spozin’ I wuz ter ’low, ‘Yasser, an’ thanky, too, but you better gi’ me a pa’r un um while you ’bout it.’ An’ spozin’ he’d be talkin’ ’bout maulin’ me, whiles I wuz talkin’ ’bout dem contraptions what you got on yo’ shirt-sleeves, an’ you ain’t got no mo’ business wid um dan a rooster is wid britches. Spozin’ all dat wuz ter happen, how you speck I’d feel?”