This body-
servant was a very fine specimen of the average coast negro--
sleek, well-conditioned, and consequential--disposed to regard
with undisguised contempt everything and everybody not indigenous
to the rice-growing region--and he paraded around the streets
with quite a curious and critical air. Espying Uncle Remus
languidly sunning himself on a corner, the Savannah darkey
approached.
"Mornin', sah."
"I'm sorter up an' about," responded Uncle Remus, carelessly and
calmly. "How is you stannin' it?"
"Tanky you, my helt' mos' so-so. He mo' hot dun in de mountain.
Seem so lak man mus' git need*1 de shade. I enty fer see no
rice-bud in dis pa'ts."
"In dis w'ich?" inquired Uncle with a sudden affectation of
interest.
"In dis pa'ts. In dis country. Da plenty in Sawanny."
"Plenty whar?"
"Da plenty in Sawanny. I enty fer see no crab an' no oscher; en
swimp, he no stay 'roun'. I lak some rice-bud now."
"You er talkin' 'bout deze yer sparrers, w'ich dey er all head,
en 'lev'm un makes one mouffle,*2 I speck," suggested Uncle
Remus. "Well, dey er yer," he continued, "but dis ain't no
climate whar de rice-birds flies inter yo' pockets en gits out de
money an' makes de change derse'f; an' de isters don't shuck off
der shells en run over you on de street, an' no mo' duz de s'imp
hull derse'f an' drap in yo' mouf.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191