de bes’ er de dinner w’at dey lef’ layin’ out, en den he come back en wake up Brer Fox, en show ’im de butter on Brer Possum mouf.  Den dey wake up Brer Possum, en tell ’im ’bout it, but c’ose Brer Possum ’ny it ter de las’.  Brer Fox, dough, he’s a kinder lawyer, en he argafy dis way—­dat Brer Possum wuz de fus one at de butter, en de fus one fer ter miss it, en mo’n dat, dar hang de signs on his mouf.  Brer Possum see dat dey got ’im jammed up in a cornder, en den he up en say dat de way fer ter ketch de man w’at stole de butter is ter b’il’ a big bresh-heap en set her afier, en all han’s try ter jump over, en de one w’at fall in, den he de chap w’at stole de butter.  Brer Rabbit en Brer Fox dey is bofe ’gree, dey did, en dey whirl in en b’il’ de breshheap, en dey b’il’ her high en dey b’il’ her wide, en den dey totch her off.  W’en she got ter blazin’ up good, Brer Rabbit, he tuck de fus turn.  He sorter step back, en look ‘roun’ en giggle, en over he went mo’ samer dan a bird flyin’.  Den come Brer Fox.  He got back little fudder, en spit on his han’s, en lit out en made de jump, en he come so nigh gittin’ in dat de een’ er his tail kotch afier.  Ain’t you never see no fox, honey?” inquired Uncle Remus, in a tone that implied both conciliation and information.

The little boy thought probably he had, but he wouldn’t commit himself.

“Well, den,” continued the old man, “nex’ time you see one un um, you look right close en see ef de een’ er his tail ain’t w’ite.  Hit’s des like I tell you.  Dey b’ars de skyar er dat bresh-heap down ter dis day.  Dey er marked—­dat’s w’at dey is—­dey er marked.”

“And what about Brother Possum?” asked the little boy.

“Ole Brer Possum, he tuck a runnin’ start, he did, en he come lumberin’ ’long, en he lit—­kerblam!—­right in de middle er de fier, en dat wuz de las’ er ole Brer Possum.”

“But, Uncle Remus, Brother Possum didn’t steal the butter after all,” said the little boy, who was not at all satisfied with such summary injustice.

“Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz, honey.  In dis worl’, lots er fokes is gotter suffer fer udder fokes sins.  Look like hit’s mighty wrong; but hit’s des dat away.  Tribbalashun seem like she’s a waitin’ roun’ de cornder fer ter ketch one en all un us, honey.”

XVIII.  MR. RABBIT FINDS HIS MATCH AT LAST

“Hit look like ter me dat I let on de udder night dat in dem days w’en de creeturs wuz santer’n ‘roun’ same like fokes, none un um wuz brash nuff fer ter ketch up wid Brer Rabbit,” remarked Uncle Remus, reflectively.

“Yes,” replied the little boy, “that’s what you said.”

“Well, den,” continued the old man with unction, “dar’s whar my ’membunce gin out, kaze Brer Rabbit did git kotched up wid, en hit cool ‘im off like po’in’ spring water on one er deze yer biggity fices.”

“How was that, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.