“Den you des played ‘roun’ de aidges.  You ain’t had de kine w’at kotch me on de underjaw.  You mout a had a gum-bile, but you ain’t bin boddered wid de toofache.  I wuz settin’ up talkin’ wid my ole ‘oman, kinder puzzlin’ ‘roun’ fer ter see whar de nex’ meal’s vittles wuz a gwineter cum fum, an’ I feel a little ache sorter crawlin’ ‘long on my jaw-bone, kinder feelin’ his way.  But de ache don’t stay long.  He sorter hankered ‘roun’ like, en den crope back whar he come fum.  Bimeby I feel ‘im comin’ agin, an’ dis time hit look like he come up closer—­kinder skummishin’ ‘roun’ fer ter see how de lan’ lay.  Den he went off.  Present’y I feel ‘im comin’, an’ dis time hit look like he kyar’d de news unto Mary, fer hit feel like der wuz anudder wun wid ’im.  Dey crep’ up an’ crep’ ‘roun’, an, den dey crope off.  Bimeby dey come back, an’ dis time dey come like dey wuzzent ’fear’d er de s’roundin’s, fer dey trot right up unto de toof, sorter ’zamine it like, an’ den trot all roun’ it, like deze yer circuous hosses.  I sot dar mighty ca’m, but I ‘spected dat sump’n’ wuz gwine ter happ’n.”

“And it happened, did it?” asked some one in the group surrounding the old man.

“Boss, don’t you fergit it,” responded Uncle Remus, fervidly.  “W’en dem aches gallop back dey galloped fer ter stay, an’ dey wuz so mixed up dat I couldn’t tell one fum de udder.  All night long dey racked an’ dey galloped, an’ w’en dey got tired er rackin’ an’ gallopin’, dey all close in on de ole toof an’ thumped it an’ gouged at it twel it ’peared unto me dat dey had got de jaw-bone loosened up, an’ wuz tryin’ fer ter fetch it up thoo de top er my head an’ out at der back er my neck.  An’ dey got wuss nex’ day.  Mars John, he seed I wuz ‘stracted, an’ he tole me fer ter go roun’ yere an’ git sump’n’ put on it, an’ de drug man he ’lowed dat I better have ‘er draw’d, an’ his wuds wuzzent more’n col’ ‘fo’ wunner deze yer watchyoumaycollums—­ wunner deze dentis’ mens—­had retched fer it wid a pa’r er tongs w’at don’t tu’n loose w’en dey ketches a holt.  Leas’ways dey didn’t wid me.  You oughter seed dat toof, boss.  Hit wuz wunner deze yer fo’-prong fellers.  Ef she’d a grow’d wrong eend out’ard, I’d a bin a bad nigger long arter I jin’d de chu’ch.  You year’d my ho’n!”

VII.  THE PHONOGRAPH

“UNC REMUS,” asked a tall, awkward-looking negro, who was one of a crowd surrounding the old man, “w’at’s dish ’ere w’at dey calls de fonygraf—­dish yer inst’ument w’at kin holler ‘roun’ like little chillun in de back yard?”

“I ain’t seed um,” said Uncle Remus, feeling in his pocket for a fresh chew of tobacco.  “I ain’t seed um, but I year talk un um.  Miss Sally wuz a readin’ in de papers las’ Chuseday, an’ she say dat’s it’s a mighty big watchyoumaycollum.”

“A mighty big w’ich?” asked one of the crowd.