"
"De ole man's holler'n now sho'," said one of the listeners,
gazing with admiration on the venerable old darkey.
"I ain't takin' no chances 'bout vittles. Hit's proned inter me
fum de fus dat I got ter eat, en I knows dat I got fer ter grub
for w'at I gits. Hit's agin de mor'l law fer niggers fer ter eat
w'en dey don't wuk, an' w'en you see um 'pariently fattenin' on
a'r, you k'n des bet dat ruinashun's gwine on some'rs. I got
mustard, en poke salid, en lam's quarter in dat baskit, en me en
my ole 'oman gwineter sample it. Ef enny you boys git a invite
you come, but ef you don't you better stay 'way. I gotter muskit
out dar w'at's used ter persidin' 'roun' whar dey's a cripple
nigger. Don't you fergit dat off'n yo' mine."
V. A CONFESSION
"W'AT'S dis yer I see, great big niggers gwine 'lopin' 'roun'
town wid cakes 'n pies fer ter sell?" asked Uncle Remus recently,
in his most scornful tone.
"That's what they are doing," responded a young man; "that's the
way they make a living."
"Dat w'at make I say w'at I duz--dat w'at keep me grum'lin' w'en
I goes in cullud fokes s'ciety. Some niggers ain't gwine ter wuk
nohow, an' hit's flingin' way time fer ter set enny chain-gang
traps fer ter ketch um.
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