Ef I don't disremember," he continued, "hit wuz
Miss Molly Cottontail, en I speck we better let it go at dat."
XXXI. A PLANTATION WITCH
The next time the little boy got permission to call upon Uncle
Remus, the old man was sitting in his door, with his elbows on
his knees and his face buried in his hands, and he appeared to be
in great trouble. "What's the matter, Uncle Remus?" the youngster
asked. "Nuff de matter, honey--mo' dan dey's enny kyo' fer. Ef
dey ain't some quare gwines on 'roun' dis place I ain't name
Remus."
The serious tone of the old man caused the little boy to open
his eyes. The moon, just at its full, cast long, vague, wavering
shadows in front of the cabin. A colony of tree-frogs somewhere
in the distance were treating their neighbors to a serenade, but
to the little boy it sounded like a chorus of lost and long-
forgotten whistlers. The sound was wherever the imagination
chose to locate it--to the right, to the left, in the air, on
the ground, far away or near at hand, but always dim and always
indistinct. Something in Uncle Remus's tone exactly fitted all
these surroundings, and the child nestled closer to the old man.
"Yasser," continued Uncle Remus, with an ominous sigh and
mysterious shake of the head, "ef dey ain't some quare gwines on
in dish yer naberhood, den I'm de ball-headest creetur 'twix' dis
en nex' Jinawerry wuz a year 'go, w'ich I knows I ain't.
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