Told by Uncle Remus: New Stories of the Old Plantation

by Joel Chandler Harris

Uncle Remus, as has been said, observed all these symptoms, and while he had been the first to deplore the system that seemed to take all the individuality out of the little fellow, he soon became painfully aware that something would have to be done to renew the discipline that had been so efficacious when the mother was where she felt free to exercise her whole influence.

“You ain’t sick, is you, honey?” the old man inquired one day in an insinuating tone. “Kaze ef you is, you better run back ter de house an’ let de white folks dose you up. Yo’ mammy knows des ’zackly de kinder physic you need, an’ how much, an’ ef I ain’t mighty much mistooken, ’twon’t be so mighty long ’fo’ she’ll take you in han’.” The child looked up quickly to see whether Uncle Remus was in earnest, but he could find nothing in that solemn countenance that at all resembled playfulness. “You may be well,” the old man went on, “but dey’s one thing certain an’ sho’—you don’t look like you did when you come ter we-all’s house, an’ you don’t do like you done. You may look at me ef you wanter, but I’m a-tellin’ you de fatal trufe, kaze you ain’t no mo’ de same chil’ what useter ’ten’ ter his own business all day an’ night—you ain’t no mo’ de same chil’ dan I’m dat ol’ hen out dar. I ’low’d I mought be mistooken, but I hear yo’ granny an’ yo’ mammy talkin’ t’er night atter you done gone ter bed, an’ de talk dat dey talked sho’ did open my eyes, kaze I never spected fer ter hear talk like dat.”

For a long time the little boy said nothing, but finally he inquired what Uncle Remus had heard. “I ain’t no eavesdrapper,” the old man replied, “but I hear ’nough fer ter last me whiles you stay wid us. I dunner how long dat’ll be, but I don’t speck it’ll be long. Now des look at you! Dar you is fumblin’ wid my shoe knife, an’ mos’ ’fo’ you know it one een’ er yo’ finger will be down dar on de flo’, an’ you’ll be a-squallin’ like somebody done killt you. Put it right back whar you got it fum. Why n’t you put it down when I ax you?—an’ don’t scatter my pegs! Put down dat awl! You’ll stob yo’se’f right in de vitals, an’ den Miss Sally will blame me. Laws-a-massy! take yo’ han’ outer dat peg box! You’ll git um all over de flo’, an’ dey’ll drap thoo de cracks. I be boun’ ef I take my foot in my han’, an’ go up yan’ an’ tell yo’ mammy how good you is, she’ll make you take off yo’ cloze an’ go ter bed—dat’s des ’zackly what she’ll do. An’ dar you is foolin’ wid my fillin’s!—an’, bless gracious, ef you ain’t settin’ right flat-footed on my shoemaker’s wax, an’ it right saft! I’ll hatter ax yo’ mammy ter please’m not let you come down here no mo’ twel de day you start home!”

“I think you are very cross,” complained the child. “I never heard you talk that way before. And grandmother is getting so she isn’t as nice as she used to be.”

“Ah-yi!” exclaimed Uncle Remus in a triumphant tone. “I know’d it! you done got so dat you won’t do a blessed thing dat anybody ax you ter do. You done got a new name, an’ ’tain’t so new but what I can put bofe han’s behime one, an’ shet my eyes an’ call it out. Eve’ybody on de place know what ’tis, an’ I hear de ol’ red rooster callin’ it out de yuther day when you wuz chunkin’ at ’im.” At once the little boy manifested interest in what the old negro was saying, and when he looked up, curiosity shone in his eyes. “What did the rooster say my name is, Uncle Remus?”

“Why, when you wuz atter him, he flew’d up on de lot fence, an’ he ’low, ‘Mr. Hardhead! Mr. Hardhead!’ an’ dat sho’ is yo’ name. You kin squirm, an’ frown, an’ twis’, but dat rooster is sho’ got yo’ name down fine. Ef he’d ’a’ des named you once, maybe folks would ’a’ fergot it off’n der min’, but he call de name twice des ez plain ez he kin speak, an’ dar you sets wid Mr. Hardhead writ on you des ez plain ez ef de rooster had a put it on you wid a paint-brush. You can’t rub it off an’ you can’t walk roun’ it.”

“But what must I do, Uncle Remus?”

“Des set still a minnit, an’ try ter be good. It may th’ow you in a high fever fer ter keep yo’ han’s outer my things, er it may gi’ you a agur fer ter be like you useter be, but it’ll pay you in de long run; it mos’ sholy will.”

“Well, if you want me to be quiet,” said the child, “you’ll have to tell me a tale.”

“Ef you sit still too long, honey, I’m afeard de creeturs on de plantation will git de idee dat sump’n done happen. Dar’s de ol’ sow—you ain’t run her roun’ de place in de last ten minnits er sech a matter; an’ dar’s de calf, an’ de chickens, an’ de Guinny hens, an’ de ol’ gray gooses—dey’ll git de idee dat you done broke yo’ leg er yo’ arm; an’ dey’ll be fixin’ up fer ter have a frolic if dey miss you fer longer dan fifteen minnits an’ a half. How you gwineter have any fun ef you set an’ lissen ter a tale stidder chunkin’ an’ runnin’ de creeturs? I mos’ know you er ailin’ an’ by good rights de doctor oughter come an’ look at you.”