Part 27 (1/2)

died, an' his chilluns is growed up an' dey kin count dere gran'chilluns, an' yit dar's dat jug des ez lively an' ez lierbul fer ter kick up devilment ez w'at she wuz w'en she come fum de foundry.”

”That's the trouble,” said one of the young men. ”That's the reason we'd like to know what's in it now.

”Now you er gittin' on ma'shy groun',” replied Uncle Remus.

”Dat's de p'int. Dat's w'at make me say w'at I duz. I bin knowin'

dat jug now gwine on sixty-fi' year, an' de jug w'at's more seetful dan dat jug ain't on de topside er de worrul. Dar she sets,” continued the old man, gazing at it reflectively, ”dar she sets dez ez natchul ez er ambertype, an' yit whar's de man w'at kin tell w'at kinder confab she's a gwineter carry on w'en dat corn-cob is s.n.a.t.c.hed outen 'er mouf? Dat jug is mighty seetful, mon.”

”Well, it don't deceive any of us up here,” remarked the agricultural editor, dryly. ”We've seen jugs before.”

”I boun' you is, boss; I boun' you is. But you ain't seed no seetful jug like dat. Dar she sets a bellyin' out an' lookin'

mighty fat an' full, an' yit she'd set dar a bellyin' out ef dere wuzzent nuthin' but win' under dat stopper. You knows dat she ain't got no aigs in her, ner no bacon, ner no grits, ner no termartusses, ner no sh.e.l.lotes, an' dat's 'bout all you duz know.

Dog my cats ef de seetfulness er dat jug don't git away wid me,”

continued Uncle Remus, with a chuckle. ”I wuz comm' 'cross de bridge des now, an' Brer John Henry seed me wid de bag slung onter my back, an' de jug in it, an' he ups an' sez, sezee:

”'Heyo, Brer Remus, ain't it gittin' late for watermillions?'

”Hit wuz de seetfulness er dat jug. If Brer John Henry know'd de color er dat watermillion, I speck he'd s.n.a.t.c.h me up 'fo' de confunce. I 'clar' ter grashus ef dat jug ain't a caution!”

”I suppose it's full of mola.s.ses now,” remarked one of the young men, sarcastically.

”Hear dat!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, triumphantly ”hear dat! W'at I tell you? I sed dat jug wuz seetful, an' I sticks to it. I bin knowin' dat--”

”What has it got in it?” broke in some one; ”mola.s.ses, kerosene, or train-oil?”

”Well, I lay she's loaded, boss. I ain't shuk her up sence I drapt in, but I lay she's loaded.”

”Yes,” said the agricultural editor, ”and it's the meanest bug- juice in town--regular sorghum skimmings.”

”Dat's needer yer ner dar,” responded Uncle Remus. ”Po' fokes better be fixin' up for Chris'mus now w'ile rashuns is cheap.

Dat's me. W'en I year Miss Sally gwine 'bout de house w'isslin'

'W'en I k'n read my t.i.tles cle'r--an' w'en I see de martins swawmin' atter sundown--an' w'en I year de p.e.c.k.e.rwoods confabbin'

togedder dese moons.h.i.+ny nights in my een er town--en I knows de hot wedder's a breakin' up, an' I know it's 'bout time fer po'

fokes fer ter be rastlin' 'roun' and huntin' up dere rashuns.

Dat's me, up an down.”

”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 p.e.c.k.e.rwoods a chatterin', I ain't seein' none er deze yer loafin'

n.i.g.g.e.rs 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 n.i.g.g.e.rs. 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 n.i.g.g.e.r 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.