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“De nex’ year hit pass same like t’er one. At de ‘p’inted time yer come de Ole Boy atter de blacksmif, but still de blacksmif had some jobs dat he bleedzd ter finish up, en he ax de Bad Man fer ter take holt er de sludge en he he’p ‘im out; en de Bad Man, he ‘low dat r’er’n be disperlite, he don’t keer ef he do hit ‘er a biff er two; en wid dat he grab up de sludge, en dar he wuz ‘gin, kase he done conju’d de sludge so dat whosomedever tuck ‘er up can’t put ‘er down less’n de blacksmif say de wud. Dey perlaver’d dar, dey did, twel bimeby de Bad Man he up’n let ‘im off n’er year.

“Well, den, dat year pass same ez t’er one. Mont’ in en mont’ out dat man wuz rollin’ in dram, en bimeby yer come de Bad Man. De blacksmif cry en he holler, en he rip ‘roun’ en t’ar his ha’r, but hit des like he didn’t, kase de Bad Man grab ‘im up en cram ‘im in a bag en tote ‘im off. W’iles dey wuz gwine ‘long dey come up wid a passel er fokes w’at wuz havin’ wanner deze yer fote er July bobbycues, en de Ole Boy, he ‘low dat maybe he kin git some mo’ game, en w’at do he do but jine in wid um. He lines in en he talk politics same like t’er fokes, twel bimeby dinnertime come ‘roun’, en dey ax ‘im up, w’ich ‘greed wid his stummuck, en he pozzit his bag underneed de table ‘longside de udder bags w’at de hongry fokes’d brung.

“No sooner did de blacksmif git back on de groun’ dan he ‘gun ter wuk his way outer de bag. He crope out, he did, en den he tuck’n change de bag. He tuck’n tuck a n’er bag en lay it down whar dish yer bag wuz, en den he crope outer de crowd en lay low in de underbresh.

“Las’, w’en de time come fer ter go, de Ole Boy up wid his bag en slung her on his shoulder, en off he put fer de Bad Place. W’en he got dar he tuck’n drap de bag off’n his back en call up de imps, en dey des come a squallin’ en a caperin’, w’ich I speck dey mus’ a bin hongry. Leas’ways dey des swawm’d ‘roun’, hollerin’ out:

“‘Daddy, w’at you brung–daddy, w’at you brung?’

“So den dey open de bag, en lo en behol’s, out jump a big bull- dog, en de way he shuck dem little imps wuz a caution, en he kep’ on gnyawin’ un um twel de Ole Boy open de gate en t’un ‘im out.”

“And what became of the blacksmith?” the little boy asked, as Uncle Remus paused to snuff the candle with his fingers.

“I’m drivin’ on ‘roun’, honey. Atter ‘long time, de blacksmif he tuck’n die, en w’en he go ter de Good Place de man at de gate dunner who he is, en he can’t squeeze in. Den he go down ter de Bad Place, en knock. De Ole Boy, he look out, he did, en he know’d de blacksmif de minnit he laid eyes on ‘im; but he shake his head en say, sezee:

“‘You’ll hatter skuze me, Brer Blacksmif, kase I dun had ‘speunce ‘longer you. You’ll hatter go some’rs else ef you wanter raise enny racket,’ sezee, en wid dat he shet do do’.

“En dey do say,” continued Uncle Remus, with unction, “dat sense dat day de blacksmif bin sorter huv’rin’ ‘roun’ ‘twix’ de heavens en de ye’th, en dark nights he shine out so fokes call ‘im Jacky-my-lantern. Dat’s w’at dey tells me. Hit may be wrong er’t maybe right, but dat’s w’at I years.”

[FOOTNOTE A: This story is popular on the coast and among the rice- plantations, and, since the publication of some of the animal-myths in the newspapers, I have received a version of it from a planter in southwest Georgia; but it seems to me to be an intruder among the genuine myth-stories of the negroes. It is a trifle too elaborate. Nevertheless, it is told upon the plantations with great gusto, and there are several versions in circulation.]