“Uncle Bob,” asked Dumps, “what was that you was singin’ ’bout the jay bird?”

“Lor’, honey, hit wuz jes ’boutn ‘im dyin’ wid de hookin’-coff; but yer better lef’ dem jay birds erlone; yer needn’ be er wantin’ ter hyear boutn ’em.”

“Why, Uncle Bob?”

“Caze, honey, dem jay birds dey cyars news ter de deb’l, dey do an’ yer better not fool ’long ’em.”

“Do they tell him everything?” asked Diddie, in some solicitude.

“Dat dey do!  Dey tells ’im eb’ything dey see you do wat ain’t right; dey cyars hit right erlong ter de deb’l.”

“Uncle Bob,” said Dumps, thoughtfully, “s’posin’ they wuz some little girls l-o-n-g time ergo what stole ernuther little girl outn the winder, an’ then run’d erway, an’ waded in er ditch, what they Mammy never would let ’em; efn er jay bird would see ’em, would he tell the deb’l nuthin erbout it?”

“Lor’, honey, dat ’ud be jes nuts fur ’im; he’d light right out wid it; an’ he wouldn’t was’e no time, nuther, he’d be so fyeard he’d furgit part’n it.”

“I don’t see none ’bout hyear,” said Dumps, looking anxiously up at the trees.  “They don’t stay ’bout hyear much does they, Uncle Bob?”

“I seed one er sittin’ on dat sweet-gum dar ez I come up de ditch,” said Uncle Bob.  “He had his head turnt one side, he did, er lookin’ mighty hard at you chil’en, an’ I ’lowed ter myse’f now I won’er wat is he er watchin’ dem chil’en fur? but, den, I knowed you chil’en wouldn’t do nuffin wrong, an’ I knowed he wouldn’t have nuffin fur ter tell.”

“Don’t he never make up things an’ tell ’em?” asked Dumps.

“I ain’t neber hyeard boutn dat,” said the old man.  “Efn he do, or efn he don’t, I can’t say, caze I ain’t neber hyeard; but de bes’ way is fur ter keep ’way fum ’em.”

“Well, I bet he do,” said Dumps.  “I jes bet he tells M-O-O-O-R-E S-T-O-R-I-E-S than anybody.  An’, Uncle Bob, efn he tells the deb’l sump’n ‘boutn three little white girls an’ three little niggers runnin’ erway fum they teacher an’ wadin’ in er ditch, then I jes b’lieve he made it up!  Now that’s jes what I’ b’lieve; an’ can’t you tell the deb’l so, Uncle Bob?”

“Who?  Me?  Umph, umph! yer talkin’ ter de wrong nigger now, chile!  I don’t hab nuffin te do wid ’im mysef!  I’se er God-fyearn nigger, I is; an’, let erlone dat, I keeps erway fum dem jay birds.  Didn’ yer neber hyear wat er trick he played de woodpecker?”

“No, Uncle Bob,” answered Diddie; “what did he do to him?”

“Ain’t yer neber hyeard how come de wood-pecker’s head ter be red, an’ wat makes de robin hab er red bres’?”

“Oh, I know ’bout the robin’s breast,” said Diddie.  “When the Saviour was on the cross, an’ the wicked men had put er crown of thorns on him, an’ his forehead was all scratched up an’ bleedin’, er little robin was sittin’ on er tree lookin’ at him; an’ he felt so sorry ‘bout it till he flew down, an’ tried to pick the thorns out of the crown; an’ while he was pullin’ at ’em, one of ’em run in his breast, an’ made the blood come, an’ ever since that the robin’s breast has been red.”