“You er chawin’ guv’nment now, boss.  You slap de law onter a nigger a time er two, an’ larn ’im dat he’s got fer to look after his own rashuns an’ keep out’n udder fokes’s chick’n-coops, an’ sorter coax ’im inter de idee dat he’s got ter feed ’is own chilluns, an’ I be blessed ef you ain’t got ‘im on risin’ groun’.  An’, mo’n dat, w’en he gits holt er de fack dat a nigger k’n have yaller fever same ez w’ite folks, you done got ‘im on de mo’ners’ bench, an’ den ef you come down strong on de p’int dat he oughter stan’ fas’ by de fokes w’at hope him w’en he wuz in trouble de job’s done.  W’en you does dat, ef you ain’t got yo’ han’s on a new-made nigger, den my name ain’t Remus, an’ ef dat name’s bin changed I ain’t seen her abbertized.”

IX.  IN THE ROLE OF A TARTAR

A CHARLESTON negro who was in Atlanta on the Fourth of July made a mistake.  He saw Uncle Remus edging his way through the crowd, and thought he knew him.

“Howdy, Daddy Ben?” the stranger exclaimed.  “I tink I nubber see you no mo’.  Wey you gwan?  He hot fer true, ain’t he?”

“Daddy who?” asked Uncle Remus, straightening himself up with dignity.  “W’ich?”

“I know you in Char’son, an’ den in Sewanny.  I spec I dun grow away from ’membrance.”

“You knowed me in Charlstun, and den in Savanny?”

“He been long time, ain’t he, Daddy Ben?”

“Dat’s w’at’s a pesterin’ un me.  How much you reckon you know’d me?”

“He good while pas’; when I wer’ pickaninny.  He long time ago.  Wey you gwan, Daddy Ben?”

“W’at does you season your recollection wid fer ter make it hol’ on so?” inquired the old man.

“I dunno.  He stick hese’f.  I see you comin’ ’long ’n I say ’Dey Daddy Ben.’  I tink I see you no mo’, an’ I shaky you by de han’.  Wey you gwan?  Dey no place yer wey we git wine?”

Uncle Remus stared at the strange darkey curiously for a moment, and then he seized him by the arm.

“Come yer, son, whar dey ain’t no folks an’ lemme drap some Jawjy ’intment in dem years er yone.  You er mighty fur ways fum home, an’ you wanter be a lookin’ out fer yo’se’f.  Fus and fo’mus, you er thumpin’ de wrong watermillion.  You er w’isslin’ up de wrong chube.  I ain’t tromped roun’ de country much.  I ain’t bin to Charlstun an’ needer is I tuck in Savanny; but you couldn’t rig up no game on me dat I wouldn’t tumble on to it de minit I laid my eyeballs on you.  W’en hit come to dat I’m ole man Tumbler, fum Tumblersville—­I is dat.  Hit takes one er deze yer full-blooded w’ite men fur ter trap my jedgment.  But w’en a nigger comes a jabberin’ ‘roun’ like he got a mouf full er rice straw, he ain’t got no mo’ chance long side er me dan a sick sparrer wid a squinch-owl.  You gutter travel wid a circus ‘fo’ you gits away wid me.  You better go long an’ git yo’ kyarpet-sack and skip de town.  You er de freshest nigger w’at I seen yit.”