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That Deceitful Jug
by
“Well, we are satisfied. Better go and hire a hall,” remarked the sporting editor, with a yawn. “If you are engaged in a talking match you have won the money. Blanket him somebody, and take him to the stable.”
“An’ w’at’s mo’,” continued the old man, scorning to notice the insinuation, “dough I year Miss Sally w’isslin’, an’ de peckerwoods a chatterin’, I ain’t seein’ none er deze yer loafin’ niggers fixin’ up fer ter ‘migrate. Dey kin holler Kansas all ‘roun’ de naberhood, but ceppin’ a man come ‘long an’ spell it wid greenbacks, he don’t ketch none er deze yer town niggers. You year me, dey ain’t gwine.”
“Stand him up on the table,” said the Sporting editor; “give him room.”
“Better go down yer ter de calaboose, an’ git some news fer ter print,” said Uncle Remus, with a touch of irony in his tone. “Some new nigger mighter broke inter jail.”
“You say the darkeys are not going to emigrate this year?” inquired the agricultural editor, who is interested in these things.
“Shoo! dat dey ain’t! I done seed an’ I knows.”
“Well, how do you know?”
“How you tell w’en crow gwineter light? Niggers bin prom’nadin’ by my house all dis summer, holdin’ dere heads high up an’ de w’ites er dere eyeballs shinin’ in de sun. Dey wuz too bigitty fer ter look over de gyardin’ palm’s. ‘Long ’bout den de wedder wuz fetchin’ de nat’al sperrits er turkentime outen de pine-trees an’ de groun’ wuz fa’rly smokin’ wid de hotness. Now that it’s gittin’ sorter airish in de mornin’s, dey don’t ‘pear like de same niggers. Dey done got so dey’ll look over in de yard, an’ nex’ news you know dey’ll be tryin’ fer ter scrape up ‘quaintence wid de dog. W’en dey passes now dey looks at de chicken-coop an’ at der tater-patch. W’en you see niggers gittin’ dat familious, you kin ‘pen’ on dere campin’ wid you de ballunce er de season. Day ‘fo’ yistiddy I kotch one un um lookin’ over de fence at my shoats, an’ I sez, sez I:
“‘Duz you wanter purchis dem hogs?’
“‘Oh, no,’ sezee, ‘I wuz des lookin’ at dere p’ints.’
“‘Well, dey ain’t p’intin’ yo’ way, sez I, ‘an’, fuddermo’, ef you don’t bodder longer dem hogs dey ain’t gwineter clime outer dat pen an’ ‘tack you, nudder,'” sez I.
“An’ I boun’,” continued Uncle Remus, driving the corn-cob stopper a little tighter in his deceitful jug and gathering up his bag–“an’ I boun’ dat my ole muskit ‘ll go off ‘tween me an’ dat same nigger yit, an’ he’ll be at de bad een’, an’ dis seetful jug’ll ‘fuse ter go ter de funer’l.”