"I'm drivin' on 'roun', honey. Atter 'long time, de blacksmif he
tuck'n die, en w'en he go ter de Good Place de man at de gate
dunner who he is, en he can't squeeze in. Den he go down ter de
Bad Place, en knock. De Ole Boy, he look out, he did, en he
know'd de blacksmif de minnit he laid eyes on 'im; but he shake
his head en say, sezee:
"'You'll hatter skuze me, Brer Blacksmif, kase I dun had
'speunce 'longer you. You'll hatter go some'rs else ef you wanter
raise enny racket,' sezee, en wid dat he shet do do'.
"En dey do say," continued Uncle Remus, with unction, "dat
sense dat day de blacksmif bin sorter huv'rin' 'roun' 'twix' de
heavens en de ye'th, en dark nights he shine out so fokes call
'im Jacky-my-lantern. Dat's w'at dey tells me. Hit may be wrong
er't maybe right, but dat's w'at I years."
*1 This story is popular on the coast and among the rice-
plantations, and, since the publication of some of the
animal-myths in the newspapers, I have received a version
of it from a planter in southwest Georgia; but it seems to
me to be an intruder among the genuine myth-stories of the
negroes. It is a trifle too elaborate. Nevertheless, it is
told upon the plantations with great gusto, and there are
several versions in circulation.
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