Told by Uncle Remus: New Stories of the Old Plantation

by Joel Chandler Harris

The little boy laughed uneasily. He was not the first that had been sobered by the irony of Uncle Remus, which, crude though it was, was much more effective than downright quarreling. “Yasser!” Uncle Remus repeated, “de doctor oughter come an’ look at you—an’ when I say doctor, I mean doctor, an’ not one er deze yer kin’ what goes roun’ wid a whole passel er pills what ain’t bigger dan a gnat’s heart. What you want is a great big double-j’inted doctor wid a big black beard an’ specks on, what’ll fill you full er de rankest kin’ er physic. Ez you look now, you put me in min’ er de ’oman an’ de dinner-pot; dey ain’t no two ways ’bout dat.”

“If it is a tale, please tell it, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy.

“Oh, it sho is a tale all right!” exclaimed the old man, “but you ain’t no mo’ got time fer ter hear it dan de birds in de tree. You’d hatter set still an’ lissen, an’ dat ’ud put you out a whole lot, kaze dar’s de chickens ter be chunked, an’ de pigs ter be crippled an’ a whole lot er yuther things fer ter be did, an’ dey ain’t nobody else in de roun’ worl’ dat kin do it ez good ez you kin. Well, you kin git up an’ mosey long ef you wanter, but I’m gwineter tell dish yer tale ef I hatter r’ar my head back an’ shet my eyeballs an’ tell it ter myse’f fer ter see ef I done fergit it off’n my min’.

“Well, once ’pon a time—it mought ’a’ been in de year One fer all I know—dey wuz a ’oman dat live in a little cabin in de woods not so mighty fur fum water. Now, dis ’oman an’ dis cabin mought ’a’ been in de Nunited State er Georgy, er dey mought ’a’ been in de Nunited State er Yallerbammer—you kin put um whar you please des like I does. But at one place er de yuther, an’ at one time er nuther, dis ’oman live dar des like I’m a-tellin’ you. She live dar, she did, an’ fus’ an’ las’ dey wuz a mighty heap er talk about her. Some say she wuz black, some say she wuz mighty nigh white, an’ some say she wa’n’t ez black ez she mought be; but dem what know’d, dey say she wuz nine parts Injun an’ one part human, an’ I speck dat’s des ez close ter trufe ez we kin git in dis kinder wedder ef we gwineter keep cool.

“Fum all I kin hear—an’ I been keepin’ bofe years wide open, she wuz a monstus busy ’oman, kaze it wuz de talk ’mongst de neighbors dat she done a heap er things what she ain’t got no business ter do. She had a mighty bad temper, an’ her tongue wuz a-runnin’ fum mornin’ twel night. Folks say dat ’twuz long an’ loud an’ mighty well hung. Dey lissen an’ shake der head, an’ atter while word went roun’ dat de ’oman done killt her daughter. Ez ter dat, I ain’t never is hear de rights un it; she mought, an’ den ag’in she moughtn’t—dey ain’t no tellin’—but dey wuz one thing certain an’ sho’ she done so quare, dat folks say she cut up des like a Friday-born fool.

“Her ol’ man, he done de best dat he could. He went ’long an’ ten’ ter his own business, an’ when her tongue ’gun ter clack, he sot down an’ made fish-baskets, an’ ax-helves. But dat ain’t make no diffunce ter de ’oman, kaze she wuz one deze yer kin’ what could quoil all day whedder dey wuz anybody fer ter quoil at er not. She quoiled an’ she quoiled. De man, he ain’t say nothin’ but dis des make her quoil de mo’. He split up kin’lin’ an’ chopped up wood, an’ still she quoil’; he fotch home meal an’ he fotch home meat, but still she quoil’. An’ she ’fuse fer ter cook what he want her to cook; she wuz hard-headed des like you, an’ she’d have her own way ef she died fer it.

“Ef de man, he say, ‘Please ’m cook me some grits,’ she’d whirl in an’ bile greens; ef he ax fer fried meat, she’d bake him a hoe-cake er corn bread. Ef he want roas’ tater she’d bile him a mess er beans, an’ all de time, she’d be givin’ ’im de wuss kinder sass. Oh, she wuz a honey! An’ when it come ter low-down meanness, she wuz rank an’ ripe. She’d take de sparrer-grass what he fotch, an’ kindle de fire wid it. She’d burn de spar’-ribs an’ scorch de tripe, an’ she’d do eve’y kinder way but de right way, an’ dat she wouldn’t do, not ter save yo’ life.

“Den he shuck a gourd-vine flower over de pot”

“Well, dis went on an’ went on, an’ de man ain’t make no complaints; he des watch an’ wait an’ pray. But atter so long a time, he see dat dat ain’t gwine ter do no good, an’ he tuck an’ change his plans. He spit in de ashes, he did, an’ he make a cross-mark, an’ turn roun’ twice so he kin face de sunrise. Den he shuck a gourd-vine flower over de pot, an’ sump’n tol’ ’im fer ter take his res’ an’ wait twel de moon come up. All dis time de ’oman, she wuz a quoilin’, but bimeby, she went on ’bout her business, an’ de man had some peace; but not fer long. He ain’t no more dan had time fer ter put some thunderwood buds an’ some calamus-root in de pot, dan here she come, an’ she come a-quoilin’. She come in she did, an’ she slam things roun’ des like you slams de gate.