"
"Well, we are satisfied. Better go and hire a hall," remarked the
sporting editor, with a yawn. "If you are engaged in a talking
match you have won the money. Blanket him somebody, and take
him to the stable."
"An' w'at's mo'," continued the old man, scorning to notice the
insinuation, "dough I year Miss Sally w'isslin', an' de
peckerwoods a chatterin', I ain't seein' none er deze yer loafin'
niggers fixin' up fer ter 'migrate. Dey kin holler Kansas all
'roun' de naberhood, but ceppin' a man come 'long an' spell it
wid greenbacks, he don't ketch none er deze yer town niggers. You
year me, dey ain't gwine."
"Stand him up on the table," said the Sporting editor; "give him
room."
"Better go down yer ter de calaboose, an' git some news fer ter
print," said Uncle Remus, with a touch of irony in his tone.
"Some new nigger mighter broke inter jail."
"You say the darkeys are not going to emigrate this year?"
inquired the agricultural editor, who is interested in these
things.
"Shoo! dat dey ain't! I done seed an' I knows."
"Well, how do you know?"
"How you tell w'en crow gwineter light? Niggers bin prom'nadin'
by my house all dis summer, holdin' dere heads high up an' de
w'ites er dere eyeballs shinin' in de sun.
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