(‡ decoration)JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.(“UNCLE REMUS.”)JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS has called himself “an accidental author,” for while living on a plantation as a typesetter on a country newspaper he became familiar with the curious myths and animal stories of the negroes, and some time in the seventies he printed a magazine article on these folk-lore stories, giving at the same time some of the stories as illustration.This article attracted attention and revealed to the writer the fact that the stories had a decided literary value, and his main literary work has been the elaboration of these myths.The stories of “Uncle Remus” are, as almost everyone knows, not creations of the author’s fancy, but they are genuine folk-lore tales of the negroes, and strangely enough many of these stories are found in varying forms among the American Indians, among the Indians along the Amazon and in Brazil, and they are even found in India and Siam, which fact has called out learned discussions of the origin and antiquity of the stories and the possible connection of the races.Our author was born in Eatonton, a little village in Georgia, December 9, 1848, in very humble circumstances. He was remarkably impressed, while still very young, with the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and he straightway began to compose little tales of his own.In 1862 he went to the office of the “Countryman,” a rural weekly paper in Georgia, to learn typesetting. It was edited and published on a large plantation, and the negroes of this and the adjoining plantations furnished him with the material out of which the “Uncle Remus” stories came.While learning to set type the young apprentice occasionally tried his hand at composing, and not infrequently he slipped into the “Countryman” a little article, composed and printed, without ever having been put in manuscript form.The publication of an article on the folk-lore of the negroes in “Lippincott’s Magazine” was the beginning of his literary career, and the interest this awakened stimulated him to develop these curious animal stories.Many of the stories were first printed as articles in the Atlanta “Constitution,” and it was soon seen by students of myth-literature that these stories were very significant and important in their bearing on general mythology.For the child they have a charm and an interest as “good stories,” and they are told with rare skill and power, but for the student of ethnology they have specialvalue as throwing some light on the probable relation of the negroes with other races which tell similar folk-tales.Mr.Harris has studied and pursued the profession of law, though he has now for many years been one of the editors of the Atlanta “Constitution,” for which many of his contributions have been originally written.He is also a frequent contributor both of prose and poetry to current literature, and he is the author of the following books: “Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings; the Folk-lore of the Old Plantation” (New York, 1880), “Nights With Uncle Remus” (Boston, 1883), “Mingo and Other Sketches” (1883).MR.RABBIT,MR.FOX, ANDMR.BUZZARD.¹(FROM “UNCLE REMUS.”)¹Copyright, George Routledge & Sons.ONE evening when the little boy whose nights with Uncle Remus are as entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, had finished supper and hurried out to sit with his venerable patron, he found the old man in great glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laughing to himself at such a rate that the little boy was afraid he had company. The truth is, Uncle Remus had heard the child coming, and when the rosy-cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was engaged in a monologue, the burden of which seemed to be—“Ole Molly Har’,W’at you doin’ dar,Settin’ in de cornderSmokin’ yo’ seegyar?”As a matter of course this vague allusion reminded the little boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and he immediately put his curiosity in the shape of a question.“Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when he got loose from the Tar-Baby?”“Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn’t. Who? Him? You dunno nuthin’ ’tall ’bout Brer Rabbit ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. Wat he gwine ’way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close twel the pitch rub off’n his ha’r, but twern’t menny days ’fo’ he wuz loping up en down de naberhood same as ever, en I dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier dan befo’.“Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got mixt up wid de Tar-Baby got ’roun’ mongst de nabers. Leas’ways, Miss Meadows en de girls got win’ un’ it, en de nex’ time Brer Rabbit paid um a visit, Miss Meadows tackled ’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a monstus gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run on.”“Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” inquired the little boy.“Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, Miss Meadows en de gals wuz, en de tale I give you like hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he did, sorter lam’ like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, and wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee:“‘Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’-hoss for thirty year; maybe mo’, but thirty year dat I knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid um his specks, en tip his beaver, en march off, he did, dez ez stiff en ez stuck up ez a fire-stick.“Nex’ day, Brer Fox cum a callin’, and w’en he gun fer to laff ’bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups and tells im ’bout w’at Brer Rabbit say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho’ nuff, he did, en he look mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go he up en say, sezee;“‘Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but I’ll make Brer Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out right yer whar you kin see ’im,’ sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht.“En w’en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off’n his tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit’s house. W’en he got dar, Brer Rabbit wuz spectin’ un him, en de do’ wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ain’t ans’er. Brer Fox knock. Nobodyans’er. Den he knock agin—blam! blam! Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak:“‘Is dat you, Brer Fox? I want you ter run en fetch de doctor. Dat bit er parsley w’at I e’t dis mawnin’ is gittin’ ’way wid me. Do, please, Brer Fox, run quick,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.“‘I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Dere’s gwinter be a party up at Miss Meadow’s,’ sezee. ‘All de gals’ll be dere, en I promus’ dat I’d fetch you. De gals, dey ’lowed dat hit wouldn’t be no party ’ceppin I fotch you,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.“Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en Brer Fox say he wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down sputin’ en contendin’. Brer Rabbit say he can’t walk. Brer Fox say he tote ’im. Brer Rabbit say how? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Rabbit say he drap ’im. Brer Fox ’low he won’t. Bimeby Brer Rabbit say he go ef Brer Fox tote ’im on his back. Brer Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout a saddle. Brer Fox say he git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t set in saddle less he have a bridle for to hol’ by. Brer Fox say he git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shyin’ at stumps ’long de road, en fling ’im off. Brer Fox say he git bline bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den Brer Fox say he ride Brer Rabbit mos’ up to Miss Meadows’s, en den he could git down en walk de balance ob de way. Brer Rabbit ’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out atter de saddle en de bridle.“Co’se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin’ fer ter play, en he ’termin’ fer ter out-do ’im; en by de time he koam his h’ar en twis’ his mustarsh, en sorter rig up, yer come Brer Fox, saddle and bridle on, en lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. He trot up ter de do’ en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground en chompin’ de bit same like sho’ nuff hos, en Brer Rabbit he mount, he did, en day amble off. Brer Fox can’t see behime wid de bline bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit raise one er his foots.“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.“‘Short ain’ de lef stir’p, Brer Fox,’ sezee.“Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot.“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.“‘Pullin’ down my pants, Brer Fox,’ sezee.“All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit was puttin’ on his spurrers, en w’en dey got close to Miss Meadows’s, whar Brer Rabbit wuz to git off en Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan’ still, Brer Rabbit slap the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en you better b’lieve he got over groun’. W’en dey got ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de girls wuz settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder stoppin’ at de gate Brer Rabbit rid on by, he did, en den come gallopin’ down de road en up ter de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, he did, en shake han’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ his seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in long puff, en den let hit out in a cloud, en squar hisse’f back, en holler out, he did:“‘Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin hoss fer our fambly? He sorter losin’ his gait now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im all right in a mont’ or so,’ sezee.“En den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, en de gals giggle, en Miss Meadows, she praise up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ ter de rack, en couldn’t he’p hisse’f.”“Is that all, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, as the old man paused.“Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to give out too much cloff for ter cut one pa’r pants,” replied the old man sententiously.When “Miss Sally’s” little boy went to Uncle Remus the next night, he found the old man in a bad humor.“I ain’t tellin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” said Uncle Remus curtly.“But, Uncle Remus, I ain’t bad,” said the little boy plaintively.“Who dat chunkin’ dem chickens dis mawnin’? Who dat knockin’ out fokes’s eyes wid dat Yaller-bammer sling des ’fo’ dinner? Who dat sickin’ dat pinter puppy atter my pig? Who dat scatterin’ my ingun sets? Who dat flingin’ rocks on top er my house, w’ich a little mo’ en one un em would er drap spang on my head!”“Well, now, Uncle Remus, I didn’t go to do it. I won’t do so any more. Please, Uncle Remus, if you will tell me, I’ll run to the house, and bring you some tea-cakes.”“Seein’ um’s better’n hearin’ tell un em,” replied the old man, the severity of his countenance relaxingsomewhat; but the little boy darted out, and in a few minutes came running back with his pockets full and his hands full.“I lay yo’ mammy’ll ’spishun dat de rats’ stummucks is widenin’ in dis naberhood w’en she come fer ter count up ’er cakes,” said Uncle Remus, with a chuckle.“Lemme see. I mos’ dis’member wharbouts Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.”“The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows’s and hitched him to the horse-rack,” said the little boy.“Why co’se he did,” said Uncle Remus. “Co’se he did. Well, Brer Rabbit rid Brer Fox up, he did, en tied ’im to de rack, en den sot out in the peazzer wid de gals a smokin’ er his seegyar wid mo’ proudness dan w’at you mos’ ever see. Dey talk, en dey sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals did, twel bimeby hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, en he tell um all good-by, en strut out to de hoss-rack same’s ef he was de king er der patter-rollers, en den he mount Brer Fox en ride off.“Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ ’tall. He des rack off, he did, en keep his mouf shet, en Brer Rabbit know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ up fer him, en he feel monstous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de long lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en den he tu’n loose, he did. He rip en he r’ar, en he cuss en he swar; he snort en he cavort.”“What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired.“He wuz tryin’ fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off’n his back, bless yo’ soul! But he des might ez well er rastle wid his own shadder. Every time he hump hisse’f Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in ’im, en dar dey had it up en down. Brer Fox fa’rly to’ up de groun’, he did, en he jump so high en he jump so quick, dat he mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. Dey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby Brer Fox lay down en roll over, he did, en dis sorter unsettle Brer Rabbit, but by de time Brer Fox got en his footses agin, Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de underbresh mo’ samer dan a race hoss. Brer Fox, he lit out atter ’im, he did, en he push Brer Rabbit so close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could do fer ter git in a holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer to git in, en he hatter lay down en res’ en gadder his mine tergedder.“While he wuz layin’ dar,Mr.Buzzard come floppin long, en seein’ Brer Fox stretch out on the groun’, he lit en view the premusses. DenMr.Buzzard sorter shake his wing, en put his head on one side, en say to hisse’f like, sezee:“‘Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry,’ sezee.“‘No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘I got ole man Rabbit pent up in yer,’ sezee, ’en I’m gwineter git ’im dis time, ef it take twel Chris’mus,’ sezee.“Den, atter some mo’ palaver, Brer Fox make a bargain datMr.Buzzard wuz ter watch de hole, en keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles Brer Fox went atter his axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, enMr.Buzzard, he tuck up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, w’en all get still, Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down close ter de hole, he did, en holler out:“‘Brer Fox! Oh! Brer Fox!’“Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say nuthin.’ Den Brer Rabbit squall out like he wuz mad:“‘You needn’t talk less you wanter,’ sezee; ‘I knows youer dar, an I ain’t keerin’, sezee. ‘I dez wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here,’ sezee.“DenMr.Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox:“‘Wat you want widMr.Buzzard?’ sezee.“‘Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de fattes’ gray squir’l in yer dat ever I see,’ sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he’d be mighty glad fer ter git ’im,’ sezee.“‘HowMr.Buzzard gwine ter git him?’ sez de Buzzard, sezee.“‘Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de udder side er de tree,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here so he could take up his stan’ dar’, sezee, ‘I’d drive dat squir’l out,’ sezee.“‘Drive ’im out, den,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee, ‘en I’ll see dat Brer Tukkey Buzzard gits’ ’im,’ sezee.“Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer’ drivin’ sumpin’ out, enMr.Buzzard he rush ’roun’ fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer Rabbit, he dash out, he did, en he des fly fer home.“Well,Mr.Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he did, but he done prommust Brer♦Fox dat he’d stay, en he termin’ fer ter sorter hang ’roun’ en jine in de joke. En he ain’t hatter wait long, nudder, kasebimeby yer come Brer Fox gallopin’ thoo de woods wid his axe on his shoulder.♦‘Eox’ replaced with ‘Fox’“‘How you speck Brer Rabbit gittin’ on, Brer Buzzard?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.“‘Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. ‘He mighty still, dough. I speck he takin’ a nap,’ sezee.“‘Den I’m des in time fer te wake ’im up,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. En wid dat he fling off his coat, en spit in his han’s, en grab de axe. Den he draw back en come down on de tree—pow! En eve’y time he come down wid de axe—pow!—Mr.Buzzard, he step high, he did, en hollar out:“‘Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’“En eve’y time a chip ud fly off,Mr.Buzzard, he’d jump, en dodge, en hole his head sideways, he would, en holler:“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd ’im. He in dar, sho.’“En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler tree, he did, like a man mauling’ rails, twel bimeby atter he done got de tree most’ cut thoo, he stop fer ter ketch his bref, en he seedMr.Buzzard laffin’ behind his back, he did, en right den en dar, widout gwine enny fudder, Brer Fox he smelt a rat. ButMr.Buzzard, he keep on holler’n:“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. I done seed ’im.’“Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin’ up de holler, en he say, sezee:“‘Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain’t Brer Rabbit’s foot hanging down yer.’“EnMr.Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he did, same ez ef he were treddin’ on kurkle-burrs, en he stick his head in de hole; en no sooner did he done dat dan Brer Fox grab ’im.Mr.Buzzard flap his wings, en scramble roun’ right smartually, he did, but ’twan no use. Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de grip, he did, en he hilt ’im right down ter de groun’. DenMr.Buzzard squall out, sezee:“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox. Tu’n me loose,’ sezee; ‘Brer Rabbit’ll git out. Youer gittin’ close at ’im,’ sezee, ‘en leb’m mo’ licks’ll fetch ’im,’ sezee.“‘I’m nigher ter you, Brer Buzzard,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dan I’ll be ter Brer Rabbit dis day,’ sezee. ‘Wat you fool me fer?’ sezee.“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee; ‘my ole ’oman waitin’ for me. Brer Rabbit in dar,’ sezee.“‘Dar’s a bunch er his fur on dat black-be’y bush,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en dat ain’t de way he come,’ sezee.“DenMr.Buzzard up’n tell Brer Fox how ’twuz, en he low’d,Mr.Buzzard did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz de low-downest w’atsizname w’at he ever run up wid. Den Brer Fox say, sezee:“‘Dat’s needer here ner dar, Brer Buzzard,’ sezee. ‘I lef’ you yer fer ter watch dish yer hole en I lef’ Brer Rabbit in dar. I comes back en I fines you at de hole, en Brer Rabbit ain’t in dar,’ sezee. ‘I’m gwinter make you pay fer’t. I done bin tampered wid twel plum down ter de sap sucker’ll set on a log en sassy me. I’m gwinter fling you in a bresh-heap en burn you up,’ sezee.“‘Ef you fling me on der fier, Brer Fox, I’ll fly ’way,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee.“‘Well, den, I’ll settle yo’ hash right now,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, en wid dat he grabMr.Buzzard by de tail, he did, en make fer ter dash ’im ’gin de groun’, but des ’bout dat time de tail fedders come out, enMr.Buzzard sail off like wunner dese yer berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back:“‘You gimme good start, Brer Fox,’ sezee, en Brer Fox sot dar en watch ’im fly outer sight.”(‡ decoration)
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(“UNCLE REMUS.”)
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS has called himself “an accidental author,” for while living on a plantation as a typesetter on a country newspaper he became familiar with the curious myths and animal stories of the negroes, and some time in the seventies he printed a magazine article on these folk-lore stories, giving at the same time some of the stories as illustration.
This article attracted attention and revealed to the writer the fact that the stories had a decided literary value, and his main literary work has been the elaboration of these myths.
The stories of “Uncle Remus” are, as almost everyone knows, not creations of the author’s fancy, but they are genuine folk-lore tales of the negroes, and strangely enough many of these stories are found in varying forms among the American Indians, among the Indians along the Amazon and in Brazil, and they are even found in India and Siam, which fact has called out learned discussions of the origin and antiquity of the stories and the possible connection of the races.
Our author was born in Eatonton, a little village in Georgia, December 9, 1848, in very humble circumstances. He was remarkably impressed, while still very young, with the “Vicar of Wakefield,” and he straightway began to compose little tales of his own.
In 1862 he went to the office of the “Countryman,” a rural weekly paper in Georgia, to learn typesetting. It was edited and published on a large plantation, and the negroes of this and the adjoining plantations furnished him with the material out of which the “Uncle Remus” stories came.
While learning to set type the young apprentice occasionally tried his hand at composing, and not infrequently he slipped into the “Countryman” a little article, composed and printed, without ever having been put in manuscript form.
The publication of an article on the folk-lore of the negroes in “Lippincott’s Magazine” was the beginning of his literary career, and the interest this awakened stimulated him to develop these curious animal stories.
Many of the stories were first printed as articles in the Atlanta “Constitution,” and it was soon seen by students of myth-literature that these stories were very significant and important in their bearing on general mythology.
For the child they have a charm and an interest as “good stories,” and they are told with rare skill and power, but for the student of ethnology they have specialvalue as throwing some light on the probable relation of the negroes with other races which tell similar folk-tales.
Mr.Harris has studied and pursued the profession of law, though he has now for many years been one of the editors of the Atlanta “Constitution,” for which many of his contributions have been originally written.
He is also a frequent contributor both of prose and poetry to current literature, and he is the author of the following books: “Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings; the Folk-lore of the Old Plantation” (New York, 1880), “Nights With Uncle Remus” (Boston, 1883), “Mingo and Other Sketches” (1883).
MR.RABBIT,MR.FOX, ANDMR.BUZZARD.¹
(FROM “UNCLE REMUS.”)
¹Copyright, George Routledge & Sons.
ONE evening when the little boy whose nights with Uncle Remus are as entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, had finished supper and hurried out to sit with his venerable patron, he found the old man in great glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laughing to himself at such a rate that the little boy was afraid he had company. The truth is, Uncle Remus had heard the child coming, and when the rosy-cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was engaged in a monologue, the burden of which seemed to be—“Ole Molly Har’,W’at you doin’ dar,Settin’ in de cornderSmokin’ yo’ seegyar?”As a matter of course this vague allusion reminded the little boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and he immediately put his curiosity in the shape of a question.“Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when he got loose from the Tar-Baby?”“Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn’t. Who? Him? You dunno nuthin’ ’tall ’bout Brer Rabbit ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. Wat he gwine ’way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close twel the pitch rub off’n his ha’r, but twern’t menny days ’fo’ he wuz loping up en down de naberhood same as ever, en I dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier dan befo’.“Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got mixt up wid de Tar-Baby got ’roun’ mongst de nabers. Leas’ways, Miss Meadows en de girls got win’ un’ it, en de nex’ time Brer Rabbit paid um a visit, Miss Meadows tackled ’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a monstus gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run on.”“Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” inquired the little boy.“Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, Miss Meadows en de gals wuz, en de tale I give you like hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he did, sorter lam’ like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, and wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee:“‘Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’-hoss for thirty year; maybe mo’, but thirty year dat I knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid um his specks, en tip his beaver, en march off, he did, dez ez stiff en ez stuck up ez a fire-stick.“Nex’ day, Brer Fox cum a callin’, and w’en he gun fer to laff ’bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups and tells im ’bout w’at Brer Rabbit say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho’ nuff, he did, en he look mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go he up en say, sezee;“‘Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but I’ll make Brer Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out right yer whar you kin see ’im,’ sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht.“En w’en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off’n his tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit’s house. W’en he got dar, Brer Rabbit wuz spectin’ un him, en de do’ wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ain’t ans’er. Brer Fox knock. Nobodyans’er. Den he knock agin—blam! blam! Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak:“‘Is dat you, Brer Fox? I want you ter run en fetch de doctor. Dat bit er parsley w’at I e’t dis mawnin’ is gittin’ ’way wid me. Do, please, Brer Fox, run quick,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.“‘I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Dere’s gwinter be a party up at Miss Meadow’s,’ sezee. ‘All de gals’ll be dere, en I promus’ dat I’d fetch you. De gals, dey ’lowed dat hit wouldn’t be no party ’ceppin I fotch you,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.“Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en Brer Fox say he wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down sputin’ en contendin’. Brer Rabbit say he can’t walk. Brer Fox say he tote ’im. Brer Rabbit say how? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Rabbit say he drap ’im. Brer Fox ’low he won’t. Bimeby Brer Rabbit say he go ef Brer Fox tote ’im on his back. Brer Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout a saddle. Brer Fox say he git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t set in saddle less he have a bridle for to hol’ by. Brer Fox say he git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shyin’ at stumps ’long de road, en fling ’im off. Brer Fox say he git bline bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den Brer Fox say he ride Brer Rabbit mos’ up to Miss Meadows’s, en den he could git down en walk de balance ob de way. Brer Rabbit ’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out atter de saddle en de bridle.“Co’se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin’ fer ter play, en he ’termin’ fer ter out-do ’im; en by de time he koam his h’ar en twis’ his mustarsh, en sorter rig up, yer come Brer Fox, saddle and bridle on, en lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. He trot up ter de do’ en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground en chompin’ de bit same like sho’ nuff hos, en Brer Rabbit he mount, he did, en day amble off. Brer Fox can’t see behime wid de bline bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit raise one er his foots.“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.“‘Short ain’ de lef stir’p, Brer Fox,’ sezee.“Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot.“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.“‘Pullin’ down my pants, Brer Fox,’ sezee.“All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit was puttin’ on his spurrers, en w’en dey got close to Miss Meadows’s, whar Brer Rabbit wuz to git off en Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan’ still, Brer Rabbit slap the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en you better b’lieve he got over groun’. W’en dey got ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de girls wuz settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder stoppin’ at de gate Brer Rabbit rid on by, he did, en den come gallopin’ down de road en up ter de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, he did, en shake han’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ his seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in long puff, en den let hit out in a cloud, en squar hisse’f back, en holler out, he did:“‘Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin hoss fer our fambly? He sorter losin’ his gait now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im all right in a mont’ or so,’ sezee.“En den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, en de gals giggle, en Miss Meadows, she praise up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ ter de rack, en couldn’t he’p hisse’f.”“Is that all, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, as the old man paused.“Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to give out too much cloff for ter cut one pa’r pants,” replied the old man sententiously.When “Miss Sally’s” little boy went to Uncle Remus the next night, he found the old man in a bad humor.“I ain’t tellin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” said Uncle Remus curtly.“But, Uncle Remus, I ain’t bad,” said the little boy plaintively.“Who dat chunkin’ dem chickens dis mawnin’? Who dat knockin’ out fokes’s eyes wid dat Yaller-bammer sling des ’fo’ dinner? Who dat sickin’ dat pinter puppy atter my pig? Who dat scatterin’ my ingun sets? Who dat flingin’ rocks on top er my house, w’ich a little mo’ en one un em would er drap spang on my head!”“Well, now, Uncle Remus, I didn’t go to do it. I won’t do so any more. Please, Uncle Remus, if you will tell me, I’ll run to the house, and bring you some tea-cakes.”“Seein’ um’s better’n hearin’ tell un em,” replied the old man, the severity of his countenance relaxingsomewhat; but the little boy darted out, and in a few minutes came running back with his pockets full and his hands full.“I lay yo’ mammy’ll ’spishun dat de rats’ stummucks is widenin’ in dis naberhood w’en she come fer ter count up ’er cakes,” said Uncle Remus, with a chuckle.“Lemme see. I mos’ dis’member wharbouts Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.”“The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows’s and hitched him to the horse-rack,” said the little boy.“Why co’se he did,” said Uncle Remus. “Co’se he did. Well, Brer Rabbit rid Brer Fox up, he did, en tied ’im to de rack, en den sot out in the peazzer wid de gals a smokin’ er his seegyar wid mo’ proudness dan w’at you mos’ ever see. Dey talk, en dey sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals did, twel bimeby hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, en he tell um all good-by, en strut out to de hoss-rack same’s ef he was de king er der patter-rollers, en den he mount Brer Fox en ride off.“Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ ’tall. He des rack off, he did, en keep his mouf shet, en Brer Rabbit know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ up fer him, en he feel monstous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de long lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en den he tu’n loose, he did. He rip en he r’ar, en he cuss en he swar; he snort en he cavort.”“What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired.“He wuz tryin’ fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off’n his back, bless yo’ soul! But he des might ez well er rastle wid his own shadder. Every time he hump hisse’f Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in ’im, en dar dey had it up en down. Brer Fox fa’rly to’ up de groun’, he did, en he jump so high en he jump so quick, dat he mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. Dey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby Brer Fox lay down en roll over, he did, en dis sorter unsettle Brer Rabbit, but by de time Brer Fox got en his footses agin, Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de underbresh mo’ samer dan a race hoss. Brer Fox, he lit out atter ’im, he did, en he push Brer Rabbit so close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could do fer ter git in a holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer to git in, en he hatter lay down en res’ en gadder his mine tergedder.“While he wuz layin’ dar,Mr.Buzzard come floppin long, en seein’ Brer Fox stretch out on the groun’, he lit en view the premusses. DenMr.Buzzard sorter shake his wing, en put his head on one side, en say to hisse’f like, sezee:“‘Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry,’ sezee.“‘No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘I got ole man Rabbit pent up in yer,’ sezee, ’en I’m gwineter git ’im dis time, ef it take twel Chris’mus,’ sezee.“Den, atter some mo’ palaver, Brer Fox make a bargain datMr.Buzzard wuz ter watch de hole, en keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles Brer Fox went atter his axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, enMr.Buzzard, he tuck up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, w’en all get still, Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down close ter de hole, he did, en holler out:“‘Brer Fox! Oh! Brer Fox!’“Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say nuthin.’ Den Brer Rabbit squall out like he wuz mad:“‘You needn’t talk less you wanter,’ sezee; ‘I knows youer dar, an I ain’t keerin’, sezee. ‘I dez wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here,’ sezee.“DenMr.Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox:“‘Wat you want widMr.Buzzard?’ sezee.“‘Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de fattes’ gray squir’l in yer dat ever I see,’ sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he’d be mighty glad fer ter git ’im,’ sezee.“‘HowMr.Buzzard gwine ter git him?’ sez de Buzzard, sezee.“‘Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de udder side er de tree,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here so he could take up his stan’ dar’, sezee, ‘I’d drive dat squir’l out,’ sezee.“‘Drive ’im out, den,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee, ‘en I’ll see dat Brer Tukkey Buzzard gits’ ’im,’ sezee.“Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer’ drivin’ sumpin’ out, enMr.Buzzard he rush ’roun’ fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer Rabbit, he dash out, he did, en he des fly fer home.“Well,Mr.Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he did, but he done prommust Brer♦Fox dat he’d stay, en he termin’ fer ter sorter hang ’roun’ en jine in de joke. En he ain’t hatter wait long, nudder, kasebimeby yer come Brer Fox gallopin’ thoo de woods wid his axe on his shoulder.♦‘Eox’ replaced with ‘Fox’“‘How you speck Brer Rabbit gittin’ on, Brer Buzzard?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.“‘Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. ‘He mighty still, dough. I speck he takin’ a nap,’ sezee.“‘Den I’m des in time fer te wake ’im up,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. En wid dat he fling off his coat, en spit in his han’s, en grab de axe. Den he draw back en come down on de tree—pow! En eve’y time he come down wid de axe—pow!—Mr.Buzzard, he step high, he did, en hollar out:“‘Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’“En eve’y time a chip ud fly off,Mr.Buzzard, he’d jump, en dodge, en hole his head sideways, he would, en holler:“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd ’im. He in dar, sho.’“En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler tree, he did, like a man mauling’ rails, twel bimeby atter he done got de tree most’ cut thoo, he stop fer ter ketch his bref, en he seedMr.Buzzard laffin’ behind his back, he did, en right den en dar, widout gwine enny fudder, Brer Fox he smelt a rat. ButMr.Buzzard, he keep on holler’n:“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. I done seed ’im.’“Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin’ up de holler, en he say, sezee:“‘Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain’t Brer Rabbit’s foot hanging down yer.’“EnMr.Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he did, same ez ef he were treddin’ on kurkle-burrs, en he stick his head in de hole; en no sooner did he done dat dan Brer Fox grab ’im.Mr.Buzzard flap his wings, en scramble roun’ right smartually, he did, but ’twan no use. Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de grip, he did, en he hilt ’im right down ter de groun’. DenMr.Buzzard squall out, sezee:“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox. Tu’n me loose,’ sezee; ‘Brer Rabbit’ll git out. Youer gittin’ close at ’im,’ sezee, ‘en leb’m mo’ licks’ll fetch ’im,’ sezee.“‘I’m nigher ter you, Brer Buzzard,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dan I’ll be ter Brer Rabbit dis day,’ sezee. ‘Wat you fool me fer?’ sezee.“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee; ‘my ole ’oman waitin’ for me. Brer Rabbit in dar,’ sezee.“‘Dar’s a bunch er his fur on dat black-be’y bush,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en dat ain’t de way he come,’ sezee.“DenMr.Buzzard up’n tell Brer Fox how ’twuz, en he low’d,Mr.Buzzard did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz de low-downest w’atsizname w’at he ever run up wid. Den Brer Fox say, sezee:“‘Dat’s needer here ner dar, Brer Buzzard,’ sezee. ‘I lef’ you yer fer ter watch dish yer hole en I lef’ Brer Rabbit in dar. I comes back en I fines you at de hole, en Brer Rabbit ain’t in dar,’ sezee. ‘I’m gwinter make you pay fer’t. I done bin tampered wid twel plum down ter de sap sucker’ll set on a log en sassy me. I’m gwinter fling you in a bresh-heap en burn you up,’ sezee.“‘Ef you fling me on der fier, Brer Fox, I’ll fly ’way,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee.“‘Well, den, I’ll settle yo’ hash right now,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, en wid dat he grabMr.Buzzard by de tail, he did, en make fer ter dash ’im ’gin de groun’, but des ’bout dat time de tail fedders come out, enMr.Buzzard sail off like wunner dese yer berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back:“‘You gimme good start, Brer Fox,’ sezee, en Brer Fox sot dar en watch ’im fly outer sight.”
ONE evening when the little boy whose nights with Uncle Remus are as entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, had finished supper and hurried out to sit with his venerable patron, he found the old man in great glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laughing to himself at such a rate that the little boy was afraid he had company. The truth is, Uncle Remus had heard the child coming, and when the rosy-cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was engaged in a monologue, the burden of which seemed to be—
“Ole Molly Har’,W’at you doin’ dar,Settin’ in de cornderSmokin’ yo’ seegyar?”
“Ole Molly Har’,W’at you doin’ dar,Settin’ in de cornderSmokin’ yo’ seegyar?”
“Ole Molly Har’,
W’at you doin’ dar,
Settin’ in de cornder
Smokin’ yo’ seegyar?”
As a matter of course this vague allusion reminded the little boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and he immediately put his curiosity in the shape of a question.
“Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when he got loose from the Tar-Baby?”
“Bless grashus, honey, dat he didn’t. Who? Him? You dunno nuthin’ ’tall ’bout Brer Rabbit ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. Wat he gwine ’way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close twel the pitch rub off’n his ha’r, but twern’t menny days ’fo’ he wuz loping up en down de naberhood same as ever, en I dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier dan befo’.
“Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got mixt up wid de Tar-Baby got ’roun’ mongst de nabers. Leas’ways, Miss Meadows en de girls got win’ un’ it, en de nex’ time Brer Rabbit paid um a visit, Miss Meadows tackled ’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a monstus gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run on.”
“Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” inquired the little boy.
“Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale, Miss Meadows en de gals wuz, en de tale I give you like hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he did, sorter lam’ like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, and wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee:
“‘Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’-hoss for thirty year; maybe mo’, but thirty year dat I knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid um his specks, en tip his beaver, en march off, he did, dez ez stiff en ez stuck up ez a fire-stick.
“Nex’ day, Brer Fox cum a callin’, and w’en he gun fer to laff ’bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups and tells im ’bout w’at Brer Rabbit say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho’ nuff, he did, en he look mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go he up en say, sezee;
“‘Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but I’ll make Brer Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out right yer whar you kin see ’im,’ sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht.
“En w’en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off’n his tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit’s house. W’en he got dar, Brer Rabbit wuz spectin’ un him, en de do’ wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox knock. Nobody ain’t ans’er. Brer Fox knock. Nobodyans’er. Den he knock agin—blam! blam! Den Brer Rabbit holler out, mighty weak:
“‘Is dat you, Brer Fox? I want you ter run en fetch de doctor. Dat bit er parsley w’at I e’t dis mawnin’ is gittin’ ’way wid me. Do, please, Brer Fox, run quick,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“‘I come atter you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘Dere’s gwinter be a party up at Miss Meadow’s,’ sezee. ‘All de gals’ll be dere, en I promus’ dat I’d fetch you. De gals, dey ’lowed dat hit wouldn’t be no party ’ceppin I fotch you,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit say he wuz too sick, en Brer Fox say he wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down sputin’ en contendin’. Brer Rabbit say he can’t walk. Brer Fox say he tote ’im. Brer Rabbit say how? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Rabbit say he drap ’im. Brer Fox ’low he won’t. Bimeby Brer Rabbit say he go ef Brer Fox tote ’im on his back. Brer Fox say he would. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout a saddle. Brer Fox say he git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t set in saddle less he have a bridle for to hol’ by. Brer Fox say he git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he can’t ride widout bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shyin’ at stumps ’long de road, en fling ’im off. Brer Fox say he git bline bridle. Den Brer Rabbit say he go. Den Brer Fox say he ride Brer Rabbit mos’ up to Miss Meadows’s, en den he could git down en walk de balance ob de way. Brer Rabbit ’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out atter de saddle en de bridle.
“Co’se Brer Rabbit know de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin’ fer ter play, en he ’termin’ fer ter out-do ’im; en by de time he koam his h’ar en twis’ his mustarsh, en sorter rig up, yer come Brer Fox, saddle and bridle on, en lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. He trot up ter de do’ en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground en chompin’ de bit same like sho’ nuff hos, en Brer Rabbit he mount, he did, en day amble off. Brer Fox can’t see behime wid de bline bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit raise one er his foots.
“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.
“‘Short ain’ de lef stir’p, Brer Fox,’ sezee.
“Bimeby Brer Rabbit raise de udder foot.
“‘W’at you doin’ now, Brer Rabbit?’ sezee.
“‘Pullin’ down my pants, Brer Fox,’ sezee.
“All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit was puttin’ on his spurrers, en w’en dey got close to Miss Meadows’s, whar Brer Rabbit wuz to git off en Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan’ still, Brer Rabbit slap the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en you better b’lieve he got over groun’. W’en dey got ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de girls wuz settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder stoppin’ at de gate Brer Rabbit rid on by, he did, en den come gallopin’ down de road en up ter de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, he did, en shake han’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ his seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in long puff, en den let hit out in a cloud, en squar hisse’f back, en holler out, he did:
“‘Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin hoss fer our fambly? He sorter losin’ his gait now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im all right in a mont’ or so,’ sezee.
“En den Brer Rabbit sorter grin, he did, en de gals giggle, en Miss Meadows, she praise up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ ter de rack, en couldn’t he’p hisse’f.”
“Is that all, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, as the old man paused.
“Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to give out too much cloff for ter cut one pa’r pants,” replied the old man sententiously.
When “Miss Sally’s” little boy went to Uncle Remus the next night, he found the old man in a bad humor.
“I ain’t tellin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” said Uncle Remus curtly.
“But, Uncle Remus, I ain’t bad,” said the little boy plaintively.
“Who dat chunkin’ dem chickens dis mawnin’? Who dat knockin’ out fokes’s eyes wid dat Yaller-bammer sling des ’fo’ dinner? Who dat sickin’ dat pinter puppy atter my pig? Who dat scatterin’ my ingun sets? Who dat flingin’ rocks on top er my house, w’ich a little mo’ en one un em would er drap spang on my head!”
“Well, now, Uncle Remus, I didn’t go to do it. I won’t do so any more. Please, Uncle Remus, if you will tell me, I’ll run to the house, and bring you some tea-cakes.”
“Seein’ um’s better’n hearin’ tell un em,” replied the old man, the severity of his countenance relaxingsomewhat; but the little boy darted out, and in a few minutes came running back with his pockets full and his hands full.
“I lay yo’ mammy’ll ’spishun dat de rats’ stummucks is widenin’ in dis naberhood w’en she come fer ter count up ’er cakes,” said Uncle Remus, with a chuckle.
“Lemme see. I mos’ dis’member wharbouts Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.”
“The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows’s and hitched him to the horse-rack,” said the little boy.
“Why co’se he did,” said Uncle Remus. “Co’se he did. Well, Brer Rabbit rid Brer Fox up, he did, en tied ’im to de rack, en den sot out in the peazzer wid de gals a smokin’ er his seegyar wid mo’ proudness dan w’at you mos’ ever see. Dey talk, en dey sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals did, twel bimeby hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, en he tell um all good-by, en strut out to de hoss-rack same’s ef he was de king er der patter-rollers, en den he mount Brer Fox en ride off.
“Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ ’tall. He des rack off, he did, en keep his mouf shet, en Brer Rabbit know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ up fer him, en he feel monstous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de long lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en den he tu’n loose, he did. He rip en he r’ar, en he cuss en he swar; he snort en he cavort.”
“What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus?” the little boy inquired.
“He wuz tryin’ fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off’n his back, bless yo’ soul! But he des might ez well er rastle wid his own shadder. Every time he hump hisse’f Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in ’im, en dar dey had it up en down. Brer Fox fa’rly to’ up de groun’, he did, en he jump so high en he jump so quick, dat he mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. Dey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby Brer Fox lay down en roll over, he did, en dis sorter unsettle Brer Rabbit, but by de time Brer Fox got en his footses agin, Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de underbresh mo’ samer dan a race hoss. Brer Fox, he lit out atter ’im, he did, en he push Brer Rabbit so close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could do fer ter git in a holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer to git in, en he hatter lay down en res’ en gadder his mine tergedder.
“While he wuz layin’ dar,Mr.Buzzard come floppin long, en seein’ Brer Fox stretch out on the groun’, he lit en view the premusses. DenMr.Buzzard sorter shake his wing, en put his head on one side, en say to hisse’f like, sezee:
“‘Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry,’ sezee.
“‘No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘I got ole man Rabbit pent up in yer,’ sezee, ’en I’m gwineter git ’im dis time, ef it take twel Chris’mus,’ sezee.
“Den, atter some mo’ palaver, Brer Fox make a bargain datMr.Buzzard wuz ter watch de hole, en keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles Brer Fox went atter his axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, enMr.Buzzard, he tuck up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, w’en all get still, Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down close ter de hole, he did, en holler out:
“‘Brer Fox! Oh! Brer Fox!’
“Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say nuthin.’ Den Brer Rabbit squall out like he wuz mad:
“‘You needn’t talk less you wanter,’ sezee; ‘I knows youer dar, an I ain’t keerin’, sezee. ‘I dez wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here,’ sezee.
“DenMr.Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox:
“‘Wat you want widMr.Buzzard?’ sezee.
“‘Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de fattes’ gray squir’l in yer dat ever I see,’ sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he’d be mighty glad fer ter git ’im,’ sezee.
“‘HowMr.Buzzard gwine ter git him?’ sez de Buzzard, sezee.
“‘Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de udder side er de tree,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en ef Brer Tukkey Buzzard was here so he could take up his stan’ dar’, sezee, ‘I’d drive dat squir’l out,’ sezee.
“‘Drive ’im out, den,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee, ‘en I’ll see dat Brer Tukkey Buzzard gits’ ’im,’ sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer’ drivin’ sumpin’ out, enMr.Buzzard he rush ’roun’ fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer Rabbit, he dash out, he did, en he des fly fer home.
“Well,Mr.Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he did, but he done prommust Brer♦Fox dat he’d stay, en he termin’ fer ter sorter hang ’roun’ en jine in de joke. En he ain’t hatter wait long, nudder, kasebimeby yer come Brer Fox gallopin’ thoo de woods wid his axe on his shoulder.
♦‘Eox’ replaced with ‘Fox’
“‘How you speck Brer Rabbit gittin’ on, Brer Buzzard?’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. ‘He mighty still, dough. I speck he takin’ a nap,’ sezee.
“‘Den I’m des in time fer te wake ’im up,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. En wid dat he fling off his coat, en spit in his han’s, en grab de axe. Den he draw back en come down on de tree—pow! En eve’y time he come down wid de axe—pow!—Mr.Buzzard, he step high, he did, en hollar out:
“‘Oh, he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’
“En eve’y time a chip ud fly off,Mr.Buzzard, he’d jump, en dodge, en hole his head sideways, he would, en holler:
“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. I done heerd ’im. He in dar, sho.’
“En Brer Fox, he lammed away at dat holler tree, he did, like a man mauling’ rails, twel bimeby atter he done got de tree most’ cut thoo, he stop fer ter ketch his bref, en he seedMr.Buzzard laffin’ behind his back, he did, en right den en dar, widout gwine enny fudder, Brer Fox he smelt a rat. ButMr.Buzzard, he keep on holler’n:
“‘He in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho. I done seed ’im.’
“Den Brer Fox, he make like he peepin’ up de holler, en he say, sezee:
“‘Run yer, Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain’t Brer Rabbit’s foot hanging down yer.’
“EnMr.Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he did, same ez ef he were treddin’ on kurkle-burrs, en he stick his head in de hole; en no sooner did he done dat dan Brer Fox grab ’im.Mr.Buzzard flap his wings, en scramble roun’ right smartually, he did, but ’twan no use. Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de grip, he did, en he hilt ’im right down ter de groun’. DenMr.Buzzard squall out, sezee:
“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox. Tu’n me loose,’ sezee; ‘Brer Rabbit’ll git out. Youer gittin’ close at ’im,’ sezee, ‘en leb’m mo’ licks’ll fetch ’im,’ sezee.
“‘I’m nigher ter you, Brer Buzzard,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘dan I’ll be ter Brer Rabbit dis day,’ sezee. ‘Wat you fool me fer?’ sezee.
“‘Lemme ’lone, Brer Fox,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee; ‘my ole ’oman waitin’ for me. Brer Rabbit in dar,’ sezee.
“‘Dar’s a bunch er his fur on dat black-be’y bush,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en dat ain’t de way he come,’ sezee.
“DenMr.Buzzard up’n tell Brer Fox how ’twuz, en he low’d,Mr.Buzzard did, dat Brer Rabbit wuz de low-downest w’atsizname w’at he ever run up wid. Den Brer Fox say, sezee:
“‘Dat’s needer here ner dar, Brer Buzzard,’ sezee. ‘I lef’ you yer fer ter watch dish yer hole en I lef’ Brer Rabbit in dar. I comes back en I fines you at de hole, en Brer Rabbit ain’t in dar,’ sezee. ‘I’m gwinter make you pay fer’t. I done bin tampered wid twel plum down ter de sap sucker’ll set on a log en sassy me. I’m gwinter fling you in a bresh-heap en burn you up,’ sezee.
“‘Ef you fling me on der fier, Brer Fox, I’ll fly ’way,’ sezMr.Buzzard, sezee.
“‘Well, den, I’ll settle yo’ hash right now,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, en wid dat he grabMr.Buzzard by de tail, he did, en make fer ter dash ’im ’gin de groun’, but des ’bout dat time de tail fedders come out, enMr.Buzzard sail off like wunner dese yer berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back:
“‘You gimme good start, Brer Fox,’ sezee, en Brer Fox sot dar en watch ’im fly outer sight.”
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(‡ decoration)ROBERT J. BURDETTE.THE American people have a kindly feeling for the men who make them laugh, and in no other country does a humorist have a more appreciative public. The result has been, that in a country in which the average native has a clearly marked vein of humor, the genuine “funny man” is always sure of a hearty welcome. We have a long list of writers and lecturers who have gained a wide popularity through their mirth-provoking powers, and “Bob Burdette” holds an honorable place in this guild of “funny men.”He was born in Greensborough, Pennsylvania, July 30, 1844, though he removed early in life to Peoria,Ill., where he received his education in the public schools.He enlisted in the Civil War and served as a private from 1862 to the end of the war.He began his journalistic career on the Peoria “Transcript,” and, after periods of editorial connection with other local newspapers, he became associate editor of the Burlington “Hawkeye,” Iowa. His humorous contributions to this journal were widely copied and they gave him a general reputation. His reputation as a writer had prepared the way for his success as a lecturer, and in 1877 he entered the lecture field, in which he has been eminently successful. He has lectured in nearly all the cities of the United States, and he never fails to amuse his listeners.He is a lay preacher of the Baptist Church, and it is often a surprise to those who have heard only his humorous sayings to hear him speak with earnestness and serious persuasiveness of the deeper things of life, for he is a man of deep experiences and of pure ideals.His most popular lectures have been those on “The Rise and Fall of the Mustache,” “Home,” and “The Pilgrimage of the Funny Man.” He has published in book-form, “The Rise and Fall of the Mustache and Other Hawkeyetems” (Burlington, 1877), “Hawkeyes” (1880), “Life of William Penn” (New York, 1882), a volume in the series of “Comic Biographies;” and “Innach Garden and other Comic Sketches” (1886).He has been a frequent contributor to theLadies’ Home Journaland other current literature, and he has recently written a convulsive description of “How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle,” which appeared in theWheelmen.He has for some years made his home at Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and he enjoys a large circle of friends.THE MOVEMENT CURE FORRHEUMATISM.¹¹Copyright, R. J. Burdette.ONE day, not a great while ago,Mr.Middlerib read in his favorite paper a paragraph copied from thePræger Landwirthschaftliches Wochenblatt, a German paper, which is an accepted authority on such points, stating that the sting of a bee was a sure cure for rheumatism, and citing several remarkable instances in which♦people had been perfectly cured by this abrupt remedy.Mr.Middlerib did not stop to reflect that a paper with such a name as that would be very apt to say anything; he only thought of the rheumatic twinges that grappled his knees once in a while, and made life a burden to him.♦‘peo-’ replaced with ‘people’He read the article several times, and pondered over it. He understood that the stinging must be done scientifically and thoroughly. The bee, as he understood the article, was to be gripped by the ears and set down upon the rheumatic joint, and held there until it stung itself stingless. He had some misgivings about the matter. He knew it would hurt. He hardly thought it could hurt any worse than the rheumatism, and it had been so many years since he was stung by a bee that he had almost forgotten what it felt like. He had, however, a general feeling that it would hurt some. But desperate diseases required desperate remedies, andMr.Middlerib was willing to undergo any amount of suffering if it would cure his rheumatism.He contracted with Master Middlerib for a limited supply of bees. There were bees and bees, humming and buzzing about in the summer air, butMr.Middlerib did not know how to get them. He felt, however, that he could depend upon the instincts and methods of boyhood. He knew that if there was any way in heaven or earth whereby the shyest bee that ever lifted a 200-pound man off the clover, could be induced to enter a wide-mouthed glass bottle, his son knew that way.For the small sum of one dime Master Middlerib agreed to procure several, to-wit: six bees, age not specified; but asMr.Middlerib was left in uncertainty as to the race, it was made obligatory upon the contractor to have three of them honey, and three humble, or in the generally accepted vernacular, bumble bees.Mr.Middlerib did not tell his son what he wanted those bees for, and the boy went off on his mission, with his head so full of astonishment that it fairly whirled. Evening brings all home, and the last rays of the declining sun fell upon Master Middlerib with a short, wide-mouthed bottle comfortably populated with hot, ill-natured bees, andMr.Middlerib and a dime. The dime and the bottle changed hands and the boy was happy.Mr.Middlerib put the bottle in his coat pocket and went into the house, eyeing everybody he met very suspiciously, as though he had made up his mind to sting to death the first person that said “bee” to him. He confided his guilty secret to none of his family. He hid his bees in his bedroom, and as he looked at them just before putting them away, he half wished the experiment was safely over. He wished the imprisoned bees didn’t look so hot and cross. With exquisite care he submerged the bottle in a basin of water, and let a few drops in on the heated inmates, to cool them off.At the tea-table he had a great fight. Miss Middlerib, in the artless simplicity of her romantic nature said: “I smell bees. How the odor brings up——”But her father glared at her, and said, with superfluous harshness and execrable grammar:“Hush up! You don’t smell nothing.”“WhereuponMrs.Middlerib asked him if he had eaten anything that disagreed with him, and Miss Middlerib said: “Why, pa!” and Master Middlerib smiled as he wondered.Bedtime came at last, and the night was warm and sultry. Under various false pretences,Mr.Middlerib strolled about the house until everybody else was in bed, and then he sought his room. He turned the night-lamp down until its feeble rays shone dimly as a death-light.Mr.Middlerib disrobed slowly—very slowly. When at last he was ready to go lumbering into his peaceful couch, he heaved a profound sigh, so full of apprehension and grief thatMrs.Middlerib, who was awakened by it, said if it gave him so much pain to come to bed, perhaps he had better sit up all night.Mr.Middlerib checked another sigh, but said nothing and crept into bed. After lying still a few moments he reached out and got his bottle of bees.It is not an easy thing to do, to pick one bee out of a bottle full, with his fingers, and not get intotrouble. The first beeMr.Middlerib got was a little brown honey-bee that wouldn’t weigh half an ounce if you picked him up by the ears, but if you lifted him by the hind leg asMr.Middlerib did, would weigh as much as the last end of a bay mule.Mr.Middlerib could not repress a groan.“What’s the matter with you?” sleepily asked his wife.It was very hard forMr.Middlerib to say; he only knew his temperature had risen to 86 all over, and to 197 on the end of his thumb. He reversed the bee and pressed the warlike terminus of it firmly against his rheumatic knee.It didn’t hurt so badly as he thought it would.It didn’t hurt at all!ThenMr.Middlerib remembered that when the honey-bee stabs a human foe it generally leaves its harpoon in the wound, and the invalid knew then the only thing the bee had to sting with was doing its work at the end of his thumb.He reached his arm out from under the sheet, and dropped this disabled atom of rheumatism liniment on the carpet. Then, after a second of blank wonder, he began to feel around for the bottle, and wished he knew what he had done with it.In the meantime, strange things had been going on. When he caught hold of the first bee,Mr.Middlerib, for reasons, drew it out in such haste that for the time he forgot all about the bottle and its remedial contents, and left it lying uncorked in the bed. In the darkness there had been a quiet but general emigration from that bottle. The bees, their wings clogged with the waterMr.Middlerib had poured upon them to cool and tranquilize them, were crawling aimlessly about over the sheet. WhileMr.Middlerib was feeling around for it, his ears were suddenly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wild, piercing scream from his wife.“Murder!” she screamed, “murder! Oh, help me! Help! help!”Mr.Middlerib sat bold upright in bed. His hair stood on end. The night was very warm, but he turned to ice in a minute.“Where, oh, where,” he said, with pallid lips, as he felt all over the bed in frenzied haste—“where in the world are those infernal bees?”And a large “bumble,” with a sting as pitiless as the finger of scorn, just then lighted betweenMr.Middlerib’s shoulders, and went for his marrow, and said calmly: “Here is one of them.”AndMrs.Middlerib felt ashamed of her feeble screams whenMr.Middlerib threw up both arms, and, with a howl that made the windows rattle, roared:“Take him off! Oh, land of Scott, somebody take him off!”And when a little honey-bee began tickling the sole ofMrs.Middlerib’s foot, she shrieked that the house was bewitched, and immediately went into spasms.The household was aroused by this time. Miss Middlerib, and Master Middlerib and the servants were pouring into the room, adding to the general confusion, by howling at random and asking irrelevant questions, while they gazed at the figure of a man, a little on in years, pawing fiercely at the unattainable spot in the middle of his back, while he danced an unnatural, weird, wicked-looking jig by the dim religious light of the night lamp.And while he danced and howled, and while they gazed and shouted, a navy-blue wasp, that Master Middlerib had put in the bottle for good measure and variety, and to keep the menagerie stirred up, had dried his legs and wings with a corner of the sheet, after a preliminary circle or two around the bed, to get up his motion and settle down to a working gait, fired himself across the room, and to his dying dayMr.Middlerib will always believe that one of the servants mistook him for a burglar, and shot him.No one, not evenMr.Middlerib himself, could doubt that he was, at least for the time, most thoroughly cured of rheumatism. His own boy could not have carried himself more lightly or with greater agility. But the cure was not permanent, andMr.Middlerib does not like to talk about it.
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THE American people have a kindly feeling for the men who make them laugh, and in no other country does a humorist have a more appreciative public. The result has been, that in a country in which the average native has a clearly marked vein of humor, the genuine “funny man” is always sure of a hearty welcome. We have a long list of writers and lecturers who have gained a wide popularity through their mirth-provoking powers, and “Bob Burdette” holds an honorable place in this guild of “funny men.”
He was born in Greensborough, Pennsylvania, July 30, 1844, though he removed early in life to Peoria,Ill., where he received his education in the public schools.
He enlisted in the Civil War and served as a private from 1862 to the end of the war.
He began his journalistic career on the Peoria “Transcript,” and, after periods of editorial connection with other local newspapers, he became associate editor of the Burlington “Hawkeye,” Iowa. His humorous contributions to this journal were widely copied and they gave him a general reputation. His reputation as a writer had prepared the way for his success as a lecturer, and in 1877 he entered the lecture field, in which he has been eminently successful. He has lectured in nearly all the cities of the United States, and he never fails to amuse his listeners.
He is a lay preacher of the Baptist Church, and it is often a surprise to those who have heard only his humorous sayings to hear him speak with earnestness and serious persuasiveness of the deeper things of life, for he is a man of deep experiences and of pure ideals.
His most popular lectures have been those on “The Rise and Fall of the Mustache,” “Home,” and “The Pilgrimage of the Funny Man.” He has published in book-form, “The Rise and Fall of the Mustache and Other Hawkeyetems” (Burlington, 1877), “Hawkeyes” (1880), “Life of William Penn” (New York, 1882), a volume in the series of “Comic Biographies;” and “Innach Garden and other Comic Sketches” (1886).
He has been a frequent contributor to theLadies’ Home Journaland other current literature, and he has recently written a convulsive description of “How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle,” which appeared in theWheelmen.
He has for some years made his home at Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and he enjoys a large circle of friends.
THE MOVEMENT CURE FORRHEUMATISM.¹
¹Copyright, R. J. Burdette.
ONE day, not a great while ago,Mr.Middlerib read in his favorite paper a paragraph copied from thePræger Landwirthschaftliches Wochenblatt, a German paper, which is an accepted authority on such points, stating that the sting of a bee was a sure cure for rheumatism, and citing several remarkable instances in which♦people had been perfectly cured by this abrupt remedy.Mr.Middlerib did not stop to reflect that a paper with such a name as that would be very apt to say anything; he only thought of the rheumatic twinges that grappled his knees once in a while, and made life a burden to him.♦‘peo-’ replaced with ‘people’He read the article several times, and pondered over it. He understood that the stinging must be done scientifically and thoroughly. The bee, as he understood the article, was to be gripped by the ears and set down upon the rheumatic joint, and held there until it stung itself stingless. He had some misgivings about the matter. He knew it would hurt. He hardly thought it could hurt any worse than the rheumatism, and it had been so many years since he was stung by a bee that he had almost forgotten what it felt like. He had, however, a general feeling that it would hurt some. But desperate diseases required desperate remedies, andMr.Middlerib was willing to undergo any amount of suffering if it would cure his rheumatism.He contracted with Master Middlerib for a limited supply of bees. There were bees and bees, humming and buzzing about in the summer air, butMr.Middlerib did not know how to get them. He felt, however, that he could depend upon the instincts and methods of boyhood. He knew that if there was any way in heaven or earth whereby the shyest bee that ever lifted a 200-pound man off the clover, could be induced to enter a wide-mouthed glass bottle, his son knew that way.For the small sum of one dime Master Middlerib agreed to procure several, to-wit: six bees, age not specified; but asMr.Middlerib was left in uncertainty as to the race, it was made obligatory upon the contractor to have three of them honey, and three humble, or in the generally accepted vernacular, bumble bees.Mr.Middlerib did not tell his son what he wanted those bees for, and the boy went off on his mission, with his head so full of astonishment that it fairly whirled. Evening brings all home, and the last rays of the declining sun fell upon Master Middlerib with a short, wide-mouthed bottle comfortably populated with hot, ill-natured bees, andMr.Middlerib and a dime. The dime and the bottle changed hands and the boy was happy.Mr.Middlerib put the bottle in his coat pocket and went into the house, eyeing everybody he met very suspiciously, as though he had made up his mind to sting to death the first person that said “bee” to him. He confided his guilty secret to none of his family. He hid his bees in his bedroom, and as he looked at them just before putting them away, he half wished the experiment was safely over. He wished the imprisoned bees didn’t look so hot and cross. With exquisite care he submerged the bottle in a basin of water, and let a few drops in on the heated inmates, to cool them off.At the tea-table he had a great fight. Miss Middlerib, in the artless simplicity of her romantic nature said: “I smell bees. How the odor brings up——”But her father glared at her, and said, with superfluous harshness and execrable grammar:“Hush up! You don’t smell nothing.”“WhereuponMrs.Middlerib asked him if he had eaten anything that disagreed with him, and Miss Middlerib said: “Why, pa!” and Master Middlerib smiled as he wondered.Bedtime came at last, and the night was warm and sultry. Under various false pretences,Mr.Middlerib strolled about the house until everybody else was in bed, and then he sought his room. He turned the night-lamp down until its feeble rays shone dimly as a death-light.Mr.Middlerib disrobed slowly—very slowly. When at last he was ready to go lumbering into his peaceful couch, he heaved a profound sigh, so full of apprehension and grief thatMrs.Middlerib, who was awakened by it, said if it gave him so much pain to come to bed, perhaps he had better sit up all night.Mr.Middlerib checked another sigh, but said nothing and crept into bed. After lying still a few moments he reached out and got his bottle of bees.It is not an easy thing to do, to pick one bee out of a bottle full, with his fingers, and not get intotrouble. The first beeMr.Middlerib got was a little brown honey-bee that wouldn’t weigh half an ounce if you picked him up by the ears, but if you lifted him by the hind leg asMr.Middlerib did, would weigh as much as the last end of a bay mule.Mr.Middlerib could not repress a groan.“What’s the matter with you?” sleepily asked his wife.It was very hard forMr.Middlerib to say; he only knew his temperature had risen to 86 all over, and to 197 on the end of his thumb. He reversed the bee and pressed the warlike terminus of it firmly against his rheumatic knee.It didn’t hurt so badly as he thought it would.It didn’t hurt at all!ThenMr.Middlerib remembered that when the honey-bee stabs a human foe it generally leaves its harpoon in the wound, and the invalid knew then the only thing the bee had to sting with was doing its work at the end of his thumb.He reached his arm out from under the sheet, and dropped this disabled atom of rheumatism liniment on the carpet. Then, after a second of blank wonder, he began to feel around for the bottle, and wished he knew what he had done with it.In the meantime, strange things had been going on. When he caught hold of the first bee,Mr.Middlerib, for reasons, drew it out in such haste that for the time he forgot all about the bottle and its remedial contents, and left it lying uncorked in the bed. In the darkness there had been a quiet but general emigration from that bottle. The bees, their wings clogged with the waterMr.Middlerib had poured upon them to cool and tranquilize them, were crawling aimlessly about over the sheet. WhileMr.Middlerib was feeling around for it, his ears were suddenly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wild, piercing scream from his wife.“Murder!” she screamed, “murder! Oh, help me! Help! help!”Mr.Middlerib sat bold upright in bed. His hair stood on end. The night was very warm, but he turned to ice in a minute.“Where, oh, where,” he said, with pallid lips, as he felt all over the bed in frenzied haste—“where in the world are those infernal bees?”And a large “bumble,” with a sting as pitiless as the finger of scorn, just then lighted betweenMr.Middlerib’s shoulders, and went for his marrow, and said calmly: “Here is one of them.”AndMrs.Middlerib felt ashamed of her feeble screams whenMr.Middlerib threw up both arms, and, with a howl that made the windows rattle, roared:“Take him off! Oh, land of Scott, somebody take him off!”And when a little honey-bee began tickling the sole ofMrs.Middlerib’s foot, she shrieked that the house was bewitched, and immediately went into spasms.The household was aroused by this time. Miss Middlerib, and Master Middlerib and the servants were pouring into the room, adding to the general confusion, by howling at random and asking irrelevant questions, while they gazed at the figure of a man, a little on in years, pawing fiercely at the unattainable spot in the middle of his back, while he danced an unnatural, weird, wicked-looking jig by the dim religious light of the night lamp.And while he danced and howled, and while they gazed and shouted, a navy-blue wasp, that Master Middlerib had put in the bottle for good measure and variety, and to keep the menagerie stirred up, had dried his legs and wings with a corner of the sheet, after a preliminary circle or two around the bed, to get up his motion and settle down to a working gait, fired himself across the room, and to his dying dayMr.Middlerib will always believe that one of the servants mistook him for a burglar, and shot him.No one, not evenMr.Middlerib himself, could doubt that he was, at least for the time, most thoroughly cured of rheumatism. His own boy could not have carried himself more lightly or with greater agility. But the cure was not permanent, andMr.Middlerib does not like to talk about it.
ONE day, not a great while ago,Mr.Middlerib read in his favorite paper a paragraph copied from thePræger Landwirthschaftliches Wochenblatt, a German paper, which is an accepted authority on such points, stating that the sting of a bee was a sure cure for rheumatism, and citing several remarkable instances in which♦people had been perfectly cured by this abrupt remedy.Mr.Middlerib did not stop to reflect that a paper with such a name as that would be very apt to say anything; he only thought of the rheumatic twinges that grappled his knees once in a while, and made life a burden to him.
♦‘peo-’ replaced with ‘people’
He read the article several times, and pondered over it. He understood that the stinging must be done scientifically and thoroughly. The bee, as he understood the article, was to be gripped by the ears and set down upon the rheumatic joint, and held there until it stung itself stingless. He had some misgivings about the matter. He knew it would hurt. He hardly thought it could hurt any worse than the rheumatism, and it had been so many years since he was stung by a bee that he had almost forgotten what it felt like. He had, however, a general feeling that it would hurt some. But desperate diseases required desperate remedies, andMr.Middlerib was willing to undergo any amount of suffering if it would cure his rheumatism.
He contracted with Master Middlerib for a limited supply of bees. There were bees and bees, humming and buzzing about in the summer air, butMr.Middlerib did not know how to get them. He felt, however, that he could depend upon the instincts and methods of boyhood. He knew that if there was any way in heaven or earth whereby the shyest bee that ever lifted a 200-pound man off the clover, could be induced to enter a wide-mouthed glass bottle, his son knew that way.
For the small sum of one dime Master Middlerib agreed to procure several, to-wit: six bees, age not specified; but asMr.Middlerib was left in uncertainty as to the race, it was made obligatory upon the contractor to have three of them honey, and three humble, or in the generally accepted vernacular, bumble bees.Mr.Middlerib did not tell his son what he wanted those bees for, and the boy went off on his mission, with his head so full of astonishment that it fairly whirled. Evening brings all home, and the last rays of the declining sun fell upon Master Middlerib with a short, wide-mouthed bottle comfortably populated with hot, ill-natured bees, andMr.Middlerib and a dime. The dime and the bottle changed hands and the boy was happy.
Mr.Middlerib put the bottle in his coat pocket and went into the house, eyeing everybody he met very suspiciously, as though he had made up his mind to sting to death the first person that said “bee” to him. He confided his guilty secret to none of his family. He hid his bees in his bedroom, and as he looked at them just before putting them away, he half wished the experiment was safely over. He wished the imprisoned bees didn’t look so hot and cross. With exquisite care he submerged the bottle in a basin of water, and let a few drops in on the heated inmates, to cool them off.
At the tea-table he had a great fight. Miss Middlerib, in the artless simplicity of her romantic nature said: “I smell bees. How the odor brings up——”
But her father glared at her, and said, with superfluous harshness and execrable grammar:
“Hush up! You don’t smell nothing.”
“WhereuponMrs.Middlerib asked him if he had eaten anything that disagreed with him, and Miss Middlerib said: “Why, pa!” and Master Middlerib smiled as he wondered.
Bedtime came at last, and the night was warm and sultry. Under various false pretences,Mr.Middlerib strolled about the house until everybody else was in bed, and then he sought his room. He turned the night-lamp down until its feeble rays shone dimly as a death-light.
Mr.Middlerib disrobed slowly—very slowly. When at last he was ready to go lumbering into his peaceful couch, he heaved a profound sigh, so full of apprehension and grief thatMrs.Middlerib, who was awakened by it, said if it gave him so much pain to come to bed, perhaps he had better sit up all night.Mr.Middlerib checked another sigh, but said nothing and crept into bed. After lying still a few moments he reached out and got his bottle of bees.
It is not an easy thing to do, to pick one bee out of a bottle full, with his fingers, and not get intotrouble. The first beeMr.Middlerib got was a little brown honey-bee that wouldn’t weigh half an ounce if you picked him up by the ears, but if you lifted him by the hind leg asMr.Middlerib did, would weigh as much as the last end of a bay mule.Mr.Middlerib could not repress a groan.
“What’s the matter with you?” sleepily asked his wife.
It was very hard forMr.Middlerib to say; he only knew his temperature had risen to 86 all over, and to 197 on the end of his thumb. He reversed the bee and pressed the warlike terminus of it firmly against his rheumatic knee.
It didn’t hurt so badly as he thought it would.
It didn’t hurt at all!
ThenMr.Middlerib remembered that when the honey-bee stabs a human foe it generally leaves its harpoon in the wound, and the invalid knew then the only thing the bee had to sting with was doing its work at the end of his thumb.
He reached his arm out from under the sheet, and dropped this disabled atom of rheumatism liniment on the carpet. Then, after a second of blank wonder, he began to feel around for the bottle, and wished he knew what he had done with it.
In the meantime, strange things had been going on. When he caught hold of the first bee,Mr.Middlerib, for reasons, drew it out in such haste that for the time he forgot all about the bottle and its remedial contents, and left it lying uncorked in the bed. In the darkness there had been a quiet but general emigration from that bottle. The bees, their wings clogged with the waterMr.Middlerib had poured upon them to cool and tranquilize them, were crawling aimlessly about over the sheet. WhileMr.Middlerib was feeling around for it, his ears were suddenly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wild, piercing scream from his wife.
“Murder!” she screamed, “murder! Oh, help me! Help! help!”
Mr.Middlerib sat bold upright in bed. His hair stood on end. The night was very warm, but he turned to ice in a minute.
“Where, oh, where,” he said, with pallid lips, as he felt all over the bed in frenzied haste—“where in the world are those infernal bees?”
And a large “bumble,” with a sting as pitiless as the finger of scorn, just then lighted betweenMr.Middlerib’s shoulders, and went for his marrow, and said calmly: “Here is one of them.”
AndMrs.Middlerib felt ashamed of her feeble screams whenMr.Middlerib threw up both arms, and, with a howl that made the windows rattle, roared:
“Take him off! Oh, land of Scott, somebody take him off!”
And when a little honey-bee began tickling the sole ofMrs.Middlerib’s foot, she shrieked that the house was bewitched, and immediately went into spasms.
The household was aroused by this time. Miss Middlerib, and Master Middlerib and the servants were pouring into the room, adding to the general confusion, by howling at random and asking irrelevant questions, while they gazed at the figure of a man, a little on in years, pawing fiercely at the unattainable spot in the middle of his back, while he danced an unnatural, weird, wicked-looking jig by the dim religious light of the night lamp.
And while he danced and howled, and while they gazed and shouted, a navy-blue wasp, that Master Middlerib had put in the bottle for good measure and variety, and to keep the menagerie stirred up, had dried his legs and wings with a corner of the sheet, after a preliminary circle or two around the bed, to get up his motion and settle down to a working gait, fired himself across the room, and to his dying dayMr.Middlerib will always believe that one of the servants mistook him for a burglar, and shot him.
No one, not evenMr.Middlerib himself, could doubt that he was, at least for the time, most thoroughly cured of rheumatism. His own boy could not have carried himself more lightly or with greater agility. But the cure was not permanent, andMr.Middlerib does not like to talk about it.