Mr. Huntingdon was reading
a newspaper; his wife was crooning softly as she rocked the baby to
sleep; and the little boy was endeavoring to show his Aunt Dosia
the outlines of Kennesaw Mountain through the purple haze that
hung like a wonderfully fashioned curtain in the sky and almost
obliterated the horizon. While they were thus engaged, Uncle Remus
came around the corner of the house, talking to himself.
"Dey er too lazy ter wuk," he was saying, "en dey specks hones'
fokes fer ter stan' up en s'port um. I'm gwine down ter Putmon
County whar Mars Jeems is--dat's w'at I'm agwine ter do."
"What's the matter now, Uncle Remus?" inquired Mr. Huntingdon,
folding up his newspaper.
"Nuthin' 'tall, Mars John, 'ceppin deze yer sunshine niggers. Dey
begs my terbacker, en borrys my tools, en steals my vittles, en
hit's done come ter dat pass dat I gotter pack up en go. I'm
agwine down ter Putmon, dat's w'at."
Uncle Remus was accustomed to make this threat several times a
day, but upon this occasion it seemed to remind Mr. Huntingdon of
something.
"Very well," he said, "I'll come around and help you pack up, but
before you go I want you to tell Sister here how you went to war
and fought for the Union.
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