“W’at dat long rigmarole you bin tellin’ Miss Sally ‘bout yo’ little brer dis mawnin?”

“Which, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, blushing guiltily.

“Dat des w’at I’m a axin’ un you now.  I hear Miss Sally say she’s a gwineter stripe his jacket, en den I knowed you bin tellin’ on ’im.”

“Well, Uncle Remus, he was pulling up your onions, and then he went and flung a rock at me, said the child, plaintively.

“Lemme tell you dis,” said the old man, laying down the section of horse-collar he had been plaiting, and looking hard at the little boy—­“lemme tell you dis der ain’t no way fer ter make tattlers en tailb’arers turn out good.  No, dey ain’t.  I bin mixin’ up wid fokes now gwine on eighty year, en I ain’t seed no tattler come ter no good een’.  Dat I ain’t.  En ef ole man M’thoozlum wuz livin’ clean twel yit, he’d up’n tell you de same.  Sho ez you er settin’ dar.  You ’member w’at ’come er de bird w’at went tattlin’ ‘roun’ ’bout Brer Rabbit?”

The little boy didn’t remember, but he was very anxious to know, and he also wanted to know what kind of a bird it was that so disgraced itself.

“Hit wuz wunner dese yer uppity little Jack Sparrers, I speck,” said the old man; “dey wuz allers bodder’n’ longer udder fokes’s bizness, en dey keeps at it down ter dis day—­peckin’ yer, en pickin’ dar, en scratchin’ out yander.  One day, atter he bin fool by ole Brer Tarrypin, Brer Rabbit wuz settin’ down in de woods studyin’ how he wuz gwineter git even.  He feel mighty lonesome, en he feel mighty mad, Brer Rabbit did.  Tain’t put down in de tale, but I speck he cusst en r’ar’d ‘roun’ considerbul.  Leas’ways, he wuz settin’ out dar by hisse’f, en dar he sot, en study en study, twel bimeby he jump up en holler out: 

“’Well, dog-gone my cats ef I can’t gallop ‘roun’ ole Brer Fox, en I’m gwineter do it.  I’ll show Miss Meadows en de gals dat I’m de boss er Brer Fox,’ sezee.

“Jack Sparrer up in de tree, he hear Brer Rabbit, he did, en he sing out: 

“’I’m gwine tell Brer Fox!  I’m gwine tell Brer Fox!  Chick-a-biddy-win’-a-blowin’-acuns-fallin’!  I’m gwine tell Brer Fox!"’

Uncle Remus accompanied the speech of the bird with a peculiar whistling sound in his throat, that was a marvelous imitation of a sparrow’s chirp, and the little boy clapped his hands with delight, and insisted on a repetition.

“Dis kinder tarrify Brer Rabbit, en he skasely know w’at he gwine do; but bimeby he study ter hisse’f dat de man w’at see Brer Fox fus wuz boun’ ter have de inturn, en den he go hoppin’ off to’rds home.  He didn’t got fur w’en who should he meet but Brer Fox, en den Brer Rabbit, he open up: 

“‘W’at dis twix’ you en me, Brer Fox?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.  ’I hear tell you gwine ter sen’ me ter ’struckshun, en nab my fambly, en ‘stroy my shanty,’ sezee.

“’Den Brer Fox he git mighty mad.  ‘Who bin tellin’ you all dis?’ sezee.