“Dat ar jug’s bin ter wah, mon.  Hit’s wunner deze yer ole timers.  I got dat jug down dar in Putmon County w’en Mars ’Lisha Ferryman wuz a young man, an’ now he’s done growed up, an’ got ole an’ died, an’ his chilluns is growed up an’ dey kin count dere gran’chilluns, an’ yit dar’s dat jug des ez lively an’ ez lierbul fer ter kick up devilment ez w’at she wuz w’en she come fum de foundry.”

“That’s the trouble,” said one of the young men.  “That’s the reason we’d like to know what’s in it now.

“Now you er gittin’ on ma’shy groun’,” replied Uncle Remus.  “Dat’s de p’int.  Dat’s w’at make me say w’at I duz.  I bin knowin’ dat jug now gwine on sixty-fi’ year, an’ de jug w’at’s more seetful dan dat jug ain’t on de topside er de worrul.  Dar she sets,” continued the old man, gazing at it reflectively, “dar she sets dez ez natchul ez er ambertype, an’ yit whar’s de man w’at kin tell w’at kinder confab she’s a gwineter carry on w’en dat corn-cob is snatched outen ’er mouf?  Dat jug is mighty seetful, mon.”

“Well, it don’t deceive any of us up here,” remarked the agricultural editor, dryly.  “We’ve seen jugs before.”

“I boun’ you is, boss; I boun’ you is.  But you ain’t seed no seetful jug like dat.  Dar she sets a bellyin’ out an’ lookin’ mighty fat an’ full, an’ yit she’d set dar a bellyin’ out ef dere wuzzent nuthin’ but win’ under dat stopper.  You knows dat she ain’t got no aigs in her, ner no bacon, ner no grits, ner no termartusses, ner no shellotes, an’ dat’s ’bout all you duz know.  Dog my cats ef de seetfulness er dat jug don’t git away wid me,” continued Uncle Remus, with a chuckle.  “I wuz comm’ ’cross de bridge des now, an’ Brer John Henry seed me wid de bag slung onter my back, an’ de jug in it, an’ he ups an’ sez, sezee: 

“‘Heyo, Brer Remus, ain’t it gittin’ late for watermillions?’

“Hit wuz de seetfulness er dat jug.  If Brer John Henry know’d de color er dat watermillion, I speck he’d snatch me up ‘fo’ de confunce.  I ‘clar’ ter grashus ef dat jug ain’t a caution!”

“I suppose it’s full of molasses now,” remarked one of the young men, sarcastically.

“Hear dat!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, triumphantly “hear dat!  W’at I tell you?  I sed dat jug wuz seetful, an’ I sticks to it.  I bin knowin’ dat—­”

“What has it got in it?” broke in some one; “molasses, kerosene, or train-oil?”

“Well, I lay she’s loaded, boss.  I ain’t shuk her up sence I drapt in, but I lay she’s loaded.”

“Yes,” said the agricultural editor, “and it’s the meanest bug-juice in town—­regular sorghum skimmings.”

“Dat’s needer yer ner dar,” responded Uncle Remus.  “Po’ fokes better be fixin’ up for Chris’mus now w’ile rashuns is cheap.  Dat’s me.  W’en I year Miss Sally gwine ‘bout de house w’isslin’ ‘W’en I k’n read my titles cle’r—­an’ w’en I see de martins swawmin’ atter sundown—­an’ w’en I year de peckerwoods confabbin’ togedder dese moonshiny nights in my een er town—­en I knows de hot wedder’s a breakin’ up, an’ I know it’s ‘bout time fer po’ fokes fer ter be rastlin’ ‘roun’ and huntin’ up dere rashuns.  Dat’s me, up an down.”