A Confession
by
“W’AT’S dis yer I see, great big niggers gwine ‘lopin’ ‘roun’ town wid cakes ‘n pies fer ter sell?” asked Uncle Remus recently, in his most scornful tone.
“That’s what they are doing,” responded a young man; “that’s the way they make a living.”
“Dat w’at make I say w’at I duz–dat w’at keep me grum’lin’ w’en I goes in cullud fokes s’ciety. Some niggers ain’t gwine ter wuk nohow, an’ hit’s flingin’ way time fer ter set enny chain-gang traps fer ter ketch um.”
“Well, now, here!” exclaimed the young man, in a dramatic tone, “what are you giving us now? Isn’t it just as honest and just as regular to sell pies as it is to do any other kind of work?”
“‘Tain’t dat, boss:’ said the old man, seeing that he was about to be cornered; ’tain’t dat. Hit’s de nas’ness un it w’at gits me.”
“Oh, get out!”
“Dat’s me, boss, up an’ down. Ef dere’s ruinashun ennywhar in de known wurril, she goes in de comp’ny uv a hongry nigger w’at’s a totin’ pies ‘roun.’ Sometimes w’en I git kotch wid emptiness in de pit er de stummuck, an’ git ter fairly honin’ arter sumpin’ w’at got substance in it, den hit look like unto me dat I kin stan’ flat-footed an’ make more cle’r money eatin’ pies dan I could if I wuz ter sell de las’ one ‘twixt dis an’ Chris’mus. An’ de nigger w’at k’n trapes ’round wid pies and not git in no alley-way an’ sample um, den I’m bleedzd ter say dat nigger out- niggers me an’ my fambly. So dar now!”