" The matter, however, is hardly
worth referring to.
XIX. THE FATE OF MR. JACK SPARROW
"You'll tromple on dat bark twel hit won't be fitten fer ter
fling 'way, let 'lone make hoss-collars out'n," said Uncle Remus,
as the little boy came running into his cabin out of the rain.
All over the floor long strips of "wahoo" bark were spread, and
these the old man was weaving into horse-collars.
"I'll sit down, Uncle Remus," said the little boy.
"Well, den, you better, honey," responded the old man, "kaze I
'spizes fer ter have my wahoo trompled on. Ef 'twuz shucks, now,
hit mout be diffunt, but I'm a gittin' too ole fer ter be
projickin' 'longer shuck collars."
For a few minutes the old man went on with his work, but with a
solemn air altogether unusual. Once or twice he sighed deeply,
and the sighs ended in a prolonged groan, that seemed to the
little boy to be the result of the most unspeakable mental agony.
He knew by experience that he had done something which failed to
meet the approval of Uncle Remus, and he tried to remember what
it was, so as to frame an excuse; but his memory failed him. He
could think of nothing he had done calculated to stir Uncle
Remus's grief.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95