“Sperrits?” inquired Uncle Remus, sententiously.

“Wuss’n dat, Brer Remus.  Some say dat jedgment day ain’t fur off, an’ de folks is flockin’ ‘roun’ de house a hollerin’ an’ a-shoutin’ des like dey wuz in er revival.  In de winder glass dar you kin see de flags a flyin’, an’ Jacob’s lather is dar, an’ dar’s writin’ on de pane w’at no man can’t read—­leas’wise dey ain’t none read it yit.”

“W’at kinder racket is dis you er givin’ un me now, Brer Ab?”

“I done bin dar, Brer Remus; I done seed um wid bofe my eyes.  Cullud lady what wuz intranced done woke up an’ say dey ain’t much time fer ter tarry.  She say she meet er angel in de road, an’ he p’inted straight fer de mornin’ star, an’ tell her fer ter prepar’.  Hit look mighty cu’us, Brer Remus.”

“Cum down ter dat, Brer Ab,” said Uncle Remus, wiping his spectacles carefully, and readjusting them—­“cum down ter dat, an’ dey ain’t nuthin’ dat ain’t cu’us.  I ain’t no spishus nigger myse’f, but I ‘spizes fer ter year dogs a howlin’ an’ squinch-owls havin’ de agur out in de woods, an’ w’en a bull goes a bellerin’ by de house den my bones git col’ an’ my flesh commences fer ter creep; but w’en it comes ter deze yer sines in de a’r an’ deze yer sperrits in de woods, den I’m out—­den I’m done.  I is, fer a fack.  I bin livin’ yer more’n seventy year, an’ I year talk er niggers seein’ ghos’es all times er night an’ all times er day, but I ain’t never seed none yit; an’ deze yer flags an’ Jacob’s lathers, I ain’t seed dem, nudder.”

“Dey er dar, Brer Remus.”

“Hit’s des like I tell you, Brer Ab.  I ain’t ‘sputin’ ’bout it, but I ain’t seed um, an’ I don’t take no chances deze days on dat w’at I don’t see, an’ dat w’at I sees I got ter ’zamine mighty close.  Lemme tell you dis, Brer Ab:  don’t you let deze sines onsettle you.  W’en old man Gabrile toot his ho’n, he ain’t gwineter hang no sine out in de winder-panes, an when ole Fadder Jacob lets down dat lather er his’n you’ll be mighty ap’ fer ter hear de racket.  An’ don’t you bodder wid jedgment-day.  Jedgment-day is lierbul fer ter take keer un itse’f.”

“Dat’s so, Brer Remus.”

“Hit’s bleedzed ter be so, Brer Ab.  Hit don’t bodder me.  Hit’s done got so now dat w’en I gotter pone er bread, an’ a rasher er bacon, an’ nuff grease fer ter make gravy, I ain’t keerin’ much w’edder fokes sees ghos’es er no.”

XIV.  THAT DECEITFUL JUG

UNCLE REMUS was in good humor one evening recently when he dropped casually into the editorial room of “The Constitution,” as has been his custom for the past year or two.  He had a bag slung across his shoulder, and in the bag was a jug.  The presence of this humble but useful vessel in Uncle Remus’s bag was made the occasion for several suggestive jokes at his expense by the members of the staff, but the old man’s good humor was proof against all insinuations.