“‘I’m oblije ter you, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘but I’m fear’d she’s done gone by, now,’ en dat sorter make Brer Fox en Brer Possum feel in moanin’ wid Brer Rabbit.
“Bimeby, w’en dinner-time come, dey all got out der vittles, but Brer Rabbit keep on lookin’ lonesome, en Brer Fox and Brer Possum, dey sorter rustle ’roun’ for ter see ef dey can’t make Brer Rabbit feel sorter splimmy.”
“What is that, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.
“Sorter splannny, honey—sorter like he’s in a crowd—sorter like his ole ’oman ain’t dead ez she mout be. You know how fokes duz w’en dey gits whar people’s a moanin’.”
The little boy didn’t know, fortunately for him, and Uncle Remus went on,—
“Brer Fox and Brer Possum rustle roun’, dey did, gittin’ out de vittles, en bimeby Brer Fox say, sezee,—
“‘Brer Possum, you run down to de spring en fetch de butter, en I’ll sail ’roun’ yer en set de table,’ sezee.
“Brer Possum he lope off arter de butter, en dreckly here he comes lopin’ back, wid his years a trimblin’, en his tongue a hangin’ out. Brer Fox, he holler out,—
“‘W’at de matter now, Brer Possum?’ sezee.
“‘You all better run yer, fokes,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee. ‘De las’ drap er dat butter done gone.’