I ain't no spishus nigger
myse'f, but I 'spizes fer ter year dogs a howlin' an' squinch-
owls havin' de agur out in de woods, an' w'en a bull goes a
bellerin' by de house den my bones git col' an' my flesh
commences fer ter creep; but w'en it comes ter deze yer sines in
de a'r an' deze yer sperrits in de woods, den I'm out--den I'm
done. I is, fer a fack. I bin livin' yer more'n seventy year, an'
I year talk er niggers seein' ghos'es all times er night an' all
times er day, but I ain't never seed none yit; an' deze yer flags
an' Jacob's lathers, I ain't seed dem, nudder."
"Dey er dar, Brer Remus."
"Hit's des like I tell you, Brer Ab. I ain't 'sputin' 'bout it,
but I ain't seed um, an' I don't take no chances deze days on dat
w'at I don't see, an' dat w'at I sees I got ter 'zamine mighty
close. Lemme tell you dis, Brer Ab: don't you let deze sines
onsettle you. W'en old man Gabrile toot his ho'n, he ain't
gwineter hang no sine out in de winder-panes, an when ole Fadder
Jacob lets down dat lather er his'n you'll be mighty ap' fer ter
hear de racket. An' don't you bodder wid jedgment-day. Jedgment-
day is lierbul fer ter take keer un itse'f."
"Dat's so, Brer Remus."
"Hit's bleedzed ter be so, Brer Ab.
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