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“Papa says there ain’t any witches,” the little boy interrupted.

“Mars John ain’t live long ez I is,” said Uncle Remus, by way of comment. “He ain’t bin broozin’ roun’ all hours er de night en day. I know’d a nigger w’ich his brer wuz a witch, kaze he up’n tole me how he tuck’n kyo’d ‘im; en he kyo’d ‘im good, mon.”

“How was that?” inquired the little boy.

“Hit seem like,” continued Uncle Remus, “dat witch fokes is got a slit in de back er de neck, en w’en dey wanter change derse’f, dey des pull de hide over der head same ez if ‘twuz a shut, en dar dey is.”

“Do they get out of their skins?” asked the little boy, in an awed tone.

“Tooby sho, honey. You see yo’ pa pull his shut off? Well, dat des ‘zackly de way dey duz. But dish yere nigger w’at I’m tellin’ you ’bout, he kyo’d his brer de ve’y fus pass he made at him. Hit got so dat fokes in de settlement didn’t have no peace. De chilluns ‘ud wake up in de mawnins wid der ha’r tangle up, en wid scratches on um like dey bin thoo a brier-patch, twel bimeby one day de nigger he ‘low dat he’d set up dat night en keep one eye on his brer; en sho’ nuff dat night, des ez de chickens wuz crowin’ fer twelve, up jump de brer and pull off his skin en sail out’n de house in de shape un a bat, en w’at duz de nigger do but grab up de hide, and turn it wrong-sudout’ards en sprinkle it wid salt. Den he lay down en watch fer ter see w’at de news wuz gwineter be. Des ‘fo’ day yer come a big black cat in de do’, en de nigger git up, he did, en druv her away. Bimeby, yer come a big black dog snuffin’ roun’, en de nigger up wid a chunk en lammed ‘im side er de head. Den a squinch-owl lit on de koam er de house, en de nigger jam de shovel in de fier en make ‘im flew away. Las’, yer come a great big black wolf wid his eyes shinin’ like fier coals, en he grab de hide and rush out. ‘Twa’n’t long ‘fo’ de nigger year his brer holler’n en squallin’, en he tuck a light, he did, en went out, en dar wuz his brer des a waller’n on de groun’ en squirmin’ ‘roun’, kaze de salt on de skin wuz stingin’ wuss’n ef he had his britches lineded wid yallerjackets. By nex’ mawnin’ he got so he could sorter shuffle long, but he gun up cunjun, en ef dere wuz enny mo’ witches in dat settlement dey kep’ mighty close, en dat nigger he ain’t skunt hisse’f no mo’ not endurin’ er my ‘membunce.”

The result of this was that Uncle Remus had to take the little boy by the hand and go with him to the “big house,” which the old man was not loath to do; and, when the child went to bed, he lay awake a long time expecting an unseemly visitation from some mysterious source. It soothed him, however, to hear the strong, musical voice of his sable patron, not very far away, tenderly contending with a lusty tune; and to this accompaniment the little boy dropped asleep:

“Hit’s eighteen hunder’d, forty-en-eight,
Christ done made dat crooked way straight–
En I don’t wanter stay here no longer;
Hit’s eighteen hunder’d, forty-en-nine,
Christ done turn dat water inter wine–
En I don’t wanter stay here no longer.”