Bypaths in Dixie: Folk Tales of the South

by Sarah Johnson Cocke

“But, Mammy—”

“Lawd, boy, I wush you cud heah de scand’lous bettin’ gwine on in dat pastur’—ev’ybody puttin’ money on Mist’r Race Hoss, ’caze dey see Brer Bar’s too slow an’ sleepy mind’d ter keep up wid Mist’r Race Hoss. An’ den, too, nobody doan trus’ Mist’r Wile Cat fur nuthin’. Mist’r Wile Cat all time projeckin’ wid some sorter big sumpin’ nuth’r dat nuv’r do tu’n out ter be er thing. So yer see nobody ain’ gwine vote fur Brer Bar, ’caze dey skeer’d er Mist’r Wile Cat’s dealin’s. Dey talks all dis out in de pastur’, an’ Mist’r Tom Cat he set an’ lis’n ter de confab. Sometime he buse Brer Bar, an’ sometime he make out he ’sleep an’ doan heah.

“One day Mist’r Jack Donkey wint up ter de fod’r rack ter git er chaw er fod’r, an’ whin he come thu de cow shed he come ’cross Mist’r Tom Cat stretchin’ his claws. Atter dey passes howdy wid one nuth’r, Mist’r Tom Cat, he say, ‘Jack, I heah some fokes say, dey wush ter de Lawd you wus in Brer Bar’s place.’

“Jack, he tu’n his ye’rs ’roun’, he do, an’ say, ‘Who say dat, Tom?’

“Tom Cat say, ‘Ev’ybody jes’ wushin’ fur er big sho’ nuf man like you ter come in an’ whoop out dat ole stuck up Race Hoss.’

“Whin Jack Donkey heah dat, he sorter switch his tail, an’ stomp fus’ one foot an’ den de uth’rs uv his foots, an’ he keep his ye’rs tu’nin’ ’roun’ an’ ’roun’.”

“What’s the reason he does that, Mammy Phyllis; were the flies bothering him?” asked the little girl.

“He studyin’, honey, dat sort’r confab’ll wurk on men fokes, let lone er donkey. Jack sort’r tu’n matt’rs ov’r in his mine, an’ he say ter hisse’f, ‘I sho’ is er sho’ nuf big man, an’ I sho’ is got er heap er sense, ’caze I kin outdo Mist’r Man up yond’r enny day. Nobody can’t make me do nuthin’ my mine ain’ sot on doin’, an’ enybody kin hitch up dat high steppin’ Race Hoss, an’ make ’im plow er do enny sort’r thing whut dey pleases. Yas,’ he says, ‘I got mo’ sense dan Race Hoss, an’ bless de Lawd, ef I doan b’leef I’m bett’r lookin’, too!’

“Mist’r Tom Cat ain’ say er thing, he jes’ keep er stretchin’ his claws, waitin’ fur Jack Donkey ter git plum full er hisse’f. Bimeby, he git full ernuf ter bile ov’r, an’ he say, ‘Brer Tom, I ain’ much on pol’ticks, you knows dat,—but ef de plantation is jes’ brow beat by dat ripsnortin’ Race Hoss, an’ can’t git shed er him no uth’r way, ’cep’n fur some uth’r bigg’r man ’n him ter run ’ginst ’im, den I’m yer man.’

“Tom, he light out fum dar, an’ make tracks all ov’r de pastur’ tell he come ter Mist’r Billy Goat’s house.”