“‘You do de clim’in’, Brer B’ar, en I’ll do de rushin’ ‘roun’; you clim’ up ter de hole, en I’ll take dis yer pine pole en shove de honey up whar you kin git ‘er,’ sezee.

“Ole Brer B’ar, he spit on his han’s en skint up de tree, en jam his head in de hole, en sho nuff, Brer Rabbit, he grab de pine pole, en de way he stir up dem bees wuz sinful—­dat’s w’at it wuz.  Hit wuz sinful.  En de bees dey swawm’d on Brer B’ar’s head, twel ‘fo’ he could take it out’n de hole hit wuz done swell up bigger dan dat dinner-pot, en dar he swung, en ole Brer Rabbit, he dance ‘roun’ en sing: 

“Tree stan’ high, but honey mighty sweet—­ Watch dem bees wid stingers on der feet.’

“But dar ole Brer B’ar hung, en ef his head ain’t swunk, I speck he hangin’ dar yit—­dat w’at I speck.”

XXIX.  MR. FOX GETS INTO SERIOUS BUSINESS

“Hit turn out one time,” said Uncle Remus, grinding some crumbs of tobacco between the palms of his hands, preparatory to enjoying his usual smoke after supper—­“hit turn out one time dat Brer Rabbit make so free wid de man’s collard-patch dat de man he tuck’n sot a trap fer ole Brer Rabbit.”

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

“Des a man, honey.  Dat’s all.  Dat’s all I knows—­des wunner dese yer mans w’at you see trollopin ‘roun’ eve’y day.  Nobody ain’t never year w’at his name is, en ef dey did dey kep’ de news mighty close fum me.  Ef dish yer man is bleedzd fer ter have a name, den I’m done, kaze you’ll hatter go fudder dan me.  Ef you bleedzd ter know mo’ dan w’at I duz, den you’ll hatter hunt up some er deze yer niggers w’at’s sprung up sence I commence fer ter shed my ha’r.”

“Well, I just thought, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, in a tone remarkable for self-depreciation, “that the man had a name.”

“Tooby sho,” replied the old man, with unction, puffing away at his pipe.  “Co’se.  Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz.  Dish yer man mout a had a name, en den ag’in he moutn’t.  He mont er bin name Slip-shot Sam, en he mouter bin name ole One-eye Riley, w’ich ef ‘twuz hit ain’t bin handed roun’ ter me.  But dish yer man, he in de tale, en w’at we gwine do wid ’im?  Dat’s de p’int, kase w’en I git ter huntin’ ‘roun’ ’mong my ’membunce atter dish yer Mister W’atyoumaycollum’s name, she ain’t dar.  Now den, le’s des call ’im Mr. Man en let ’im go at dat.”

The silence of the little boy gave consent.

“One time,” said Uncle Remus, carefully taking up the thread of the story where it had been dropped, “hit turn out dat Brer Rabbit bin makin’ so free wid Mr. Man’s greens en truck dat Mr. Man, he tuck’n sot a trap for Brer Rabbit, en Brer Rabbit he so greedy dat he tuck’n walk right spang in it, ‘fo’ he know hisse’f.  Well, ’twa’n’t long ‘fo’ yer come Mr. Man, broozin’ ‘roun’, en he ain’t no sooner see ole Brer Rabbit dan he smack his han’s tergedder en holler out: