cat in de middle er de road, wid yaller eyeballs, dar’s yo’ witch fresh fum de Ole Boy.  En, fuddermo’, I know dat ’tain’t proned inter no dogs fer ter ketch de rabbit w’at use in a berryin’-groun’.  Dey er de mos’ ongodlies’ creeturs w’at you ever laid eyes on,” continued Uncle Remus, with unction.  “Down dar in Putmon County yo’ Unk Jeems, he make like he gwineter ketch wunner dem dar graveyard rabbits.  Sho nuff, out he goes, en de dogs ain’t no mo’n got ter de place fo’ up jump de old rabbit right ’mong um, en atter runnin’’roun’ a time or two, she skip right up ter Mars Jeems, en Mars Jeems, he des put de gun-bar’l right on ’er en lammed aloose.  Hit tored up de groun’ all ‘roun’, en de dogs, dey rush up, but dey wa’n’t no rabbit dar; but bimeby Mars Jeems, he seed de dogs tuckin’ der tails ’tween der legs, en he look up, en dar wuz de rabbit caperin’ ‘roun’ on a toom stone, en wid dat Mars Jeems say he sorter feel like de time done come w’en yo’ gran’ma was ‘specktin’ un him home, en he call off de dogs en put out.  But dem wuz ha’nts.  Witches is deze yer kinder fokes w’at kin drap der body en change inter a cat en a wolf en all kinder creeturs.”

“Papa says there ain’t any witches,” the little boy interrupted.

“Mars John ain’t live long ez I is,” said Uncle Remus, by way of comment.  “He ain’t bin broozin’ roun’ all hours er de night en day.  I know’d a nigger w’ich his brer wuz a witch, kaze he up’n tole me how he tuck’n kyo’d ’im; en he kyo’d ’im good, mon.”

“How was that?” inquired the little boy.

“Hit seem like,” continued Uncle Remus, “dat witch fokes is got a slit in de back er de neck, en w’en dey wanter change derse’f, dey des pull de hide over der head same ez if ’twuz a shut, en dar dey is.”

“Do they get out of their skins?” asked the little boy, in an awed tone.

“Tooby sho, honey.  You see yo’ pa pull his shut off?  Well, dat des ‘zackly de way dey duz.  But dish yere nigger w’at I’m tellin’ you ’bout, he kyo’d his brer de ve’y fus pass he made at him.  Hit got so dat fokes in de settlement didn’t have no peace.  De chilluns ’ud wake up in de mawnins wid der ha’r tangle up, en wid scratches on um like dey bin thoo a brier-patch, twel bimeby one day de nigger he ’low dat he’d set up dat night en keep one eye on his brer; en sho’ nuff dat night, des ez de chickens wuz crowin’ fer twelve, up jump de brer and pull off his skin en sail out’n de house in de shape un a bat, en w’at duz de nigger do but grab up de hide, and turn it wrong-sudout’ards en sprinkle it wid salt.  Den he lay down en watch fer ter see w’at de news wuz gwineter be.  Des ‘fo’ day yer come a big black cat in de do’, en de nigger git up, he did, en druv her away.  Bimeby, yer come a big black dog snuffin’ roun’, en de nigger up wid a chunk en lammed ’im side er de head.  Den a squinch-owl lit on de koam er de house, en de nigger jam de shovel in de fier en make ’im flew away.  Las’, yer come a great big black wolf wid his eyes shinin’