"Dey er sorter comin'
'roun'. Dey er gittin' so dey bleeve dat dey ain't no better dan
de w'ite fokes. W'en freedom come out de niggers sorter got dere
humps up, an' dey staid dat way, twel bimeby dey begun fer ter
git hongry, an' den dey begun fer ter drap inter line right
smartually; an' now," continued the old man, emphatically, "dey
er des ez palaverous ez dey wuz befo' de war. Dey er gittin' on
solid groun', mon."
"You think they are improving, then?"
"You er chawin' guv'nment now, boss. You slap de law onter a
nigger a time er two, an' larn 'im dat he's got fer to look after
his own rashuns an' keep out'n udder fokes's chick'n-coops, an'
sorter coax 'im inter de idee dat he's got ter feed 'is own
chilluns, an' I be blessed ef you ain't got 'im on risin' groun'.
An', mo'n dat, w'en he gits holt er de fack dat a nigger k'n have
yaller fever same ez w'ite folks, you done got 'im on de mo'ners'
bench, an' den ef you come down strong on de p'int dat he oughter
stan' fas' by de fokes w'at hope him w'en he wuz in trouble de
job's done. W'en you does dat, ef you ain't got yo' han's on a
new-made nigger, den my name ain't Remus, an' ef dat name's bin
changed I ain't seen her abbertized.
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