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“You’ll tromple on dat bark twel hit won’t be fitten fer ter fling ‘way, let ‘lone make hoss-collars out’n,” said Uncle Remus, as the little boy came running into his cabin out of the rain. All over the floor long strips of “wahoo” bark were spread, and these the old man was weaving into horse-collars.

“I’ll sit down, Uncle Remus,” said the little boy.

“Well, den, you better, honey,” responded the old man, “kaze I ‘spizes fer ter have my wahoo trompled on. Ef ‘twuz shucks, now, hit mout be diffunt, but I’m a gittin’ too ole fer ter be projickin’ ‘longer shuck collars.”

For a few minutes the old man went on with his work, but with a solemn air altogether unusual. Once or twice he sighed deeply, and the sighs ended in a prolonged groan, that seemed to the little boy to be the result of the most unspeakable mental agony. He knew by experience that he had done something which failed to meet the approval of Uncle Remus, and he tried to remember what it was, so as to frame an excuse; but his memory failed him. He could think of nothing he had done calculated to stir Uncle Remus’s grief. He was not exactly seized with remorse, but he was very uneasy. Presently Uncle Remus looked at him in a sad and hopeless way and asked:

“W’at dat long rigmarole you bin tellin’ Miss Sally ’bout yo’ little brer dis mawnin?”

“Which, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy, blushing guiltily.

“Dat des w’at I’m a axin’ un you now. I hear Miss Sally say she’s a gwineter stripe his jacket, en den I knowed you bin tellin’ on ‘im.”

“Well, Uncle Remus, he was pulling up your onions, and then he went and flung a rock at me, said the child, plaintively.

“Lemme tell you dis,” said the old man, laying down the section of horse-collar he had been plaiting, and looking hard at the little boy–“lemme tell you dis der ain’t no way fer ter make tattlers en tailb’arers turn out good. No, dey ain’t. I bin mixin’ up wid fokes now gwine on eighty year, en I ain’t seed no tattler come ter no good een’. Dat I ain’t. En ef ole man M’thoozlum wuz livin’ clean twel yit, he’d up’n tell you de same. Sho ez you er settin’ dar. You ‘member w’at ‘come er de bird w’at went tattlin’ ‘roun’ ’bout Brer Rabbit?”

The little boy didn’t remember, but he was very anxious to know, and he also wanted to know what kind of a bird it was that so disgraced itself.

“Hit wuz wunner dese yer uppity little Jack Sparrers, I speck,” said the old man; “dey wuz allers bodder’n’ longer udder fokes’s bizness, en dey keeps at it down ter dis day–peckin’ yer, en pickin’ dar, en scratchin’ out yander. One day, atter he bin fool by ole Brer Tarrypin, Brer Rabbit wuz settin’ down in de woods studyin’ how he wuz gwineter git even. He feel mighty lonesome, en he feel mighty mad, Brer Rabbit did. Tain’t put down in de tale, but I speck he cusst en r’ar’d ‘roun’ considerbul. Leas’ways, he wuz settin’ out dar by hisse’f, en dar he sot, en study en study, twel bimeby he jump up en holler out:

“‘Well, dog-gone my cats ef I can’t gallop ‘roun’ ole Brer Fox, en I’m gwineter do it. I’ll show Miss Meadows en de gals dat I’m de boss er Brer Fox,’ sezee.

“Jack Sparrer up in de tree, he hear Brer Rabbit, he did, en he sing out:

“‘I’m gwine tell Brer Fox! I’m gwine tell Brer Fox! Chick-a-biddy-win’-a-blowin’-acuns-fallin’! I’m gwine tell Brer Fox!”‘

Uncle Remus accompanied the speech of the bird with a peculiar whistling sound in his throat, that was a marvelous imitation of a sparrow’s chirp, and the little boy clapped his hands with delight, and insisted on a repetition.