“‘I’m sorter toler’ble, Brer Rabbit; how you come on?’ sez Miss Cow, sez she.

“‘Oh, I’m des toler’ble myse’f, Sis Cow; sorter linger’n’ twix’ a bauk en a break-down,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

“‘How yo’ fokes, Brer Rabbit?’ sez Miss Cow, sez she.

“‘Dey er des middlin’, Sis Cow; how Brer Bull gittin’ on?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

“‘Sorter so-so,’ sez Miss Cow, sez she.

“’Dey er some mighty nice ‘simmons up dis tree, Sis Cow,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ’en I’d like mighty well fer ter have some un um,’ sezee.

“‘How you gwineter git um, Brer Rabbit?’ sez she.

“’I ’lowed maybe dat I might ax you fer ter butt ’gin de tree, en shake some down, Sis Cow,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

“C’ose Miss Cow don’t wanter diskommerdate Brer Rabbit, en she march up ter de ’simmon tree, she did, en hit it a rap wid ’er horns—­blam!  Now, den,” continued Uncle Remus, tearing off the comer of a plug of tobacco and cramming it into his mouth—­“now, den, dem ’simmons wuz green ez grass, en na’er one never drap.  Den Miss Cow butt de tree—­blim!  Na’er ’simmon drap.  Den Miss Cow sorter back off little, en run agin de tree—­blip!  No ’simmons never drap.  Den Miss Cow back off little fudder, she did, en hi’st her tail on ’er back, en come agin de tree, kerblam! en she come so fas’, en she come so hard, twel one ’er her horns went spang thoo de tree, en dar she wuz.  She can’t go forerds, en she can’t go backerds.  Dis zackly w’at Brer Rabbit waitin’ fer, en he no sooner seed ole Miss Cow all fas’en’d up dan he jump up, he did, en cut de pidjin-wing.

“‘Come he’p me out, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Miss Cow, sez she.

“‘I can’t clime, Sis Cow,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ’but I’ll run’n tell Brer Bull,’ sezee; en wid dat Brer Rabbit put out fer home, en ’twan’t long ’fo here he come wid his ole ’oman en all his chilluns, en de las’ one er de fambly wuz totin’ a pail.  De big uns had big pails, en de little uns had little pails.  En dey all s’roundid ole Miss Cow, dey did, en you hear me, honey, dey milk’t ’er dry.  De ole uns milk’t en de young uns milk’t, en den w’en dey done got nuff, Brer Rabbit, he up’n say, sezee: 

“’I wish you mighty well, Sis Cow.  I ’low’d, bein’s how dat you’d hatter sorter camp out all night dat I’d better come en swaje yo’ bag,’ sezee.”

“Do which, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.

“Go long, honey!  Swaje ’er bag.  W’en cows don’t git milk’t, der bag swells, en you k’n hear um a moanin’ en a beller’n des like dey wuz gittin’ hurtid.  Dat’s w’at Brer Rabbit done.  He ’sembled his fambly, he did, en he swaje ole Miss Cow’s bag.