"Des listen at dat!" he exclaimed, with some show of indignation. "Dat ain't nothin' in de roun' worl' but ole man Plato wid dat tin hawn er his'n, en I boun' you he's a-drivin' de six mule² waggin, en de waggin full er niggers fum de River place, en let 'lone³ dat, I boun' you deyer niggers strung out behime de waggin fer mo'n a mile, en deyer all er comin' yer fer ter eat us all out'n house en home, des 'kaze dey year folks say Chris'mus mos' yer. Hit's mighty⁴ kuse unter me dat ole man Plato ain't done toot dat hawn full er holes long 'fo' dis.

 

"Yit I ain't blamin' um," Uncle Remus went on, with a sigh, after a little pause. "Dem ar niggers bin⁵ livin' 'way off dar on de River place whar dey ain't no w'ite folks twel dey er done in about run'd wil'. I ain't a-blamin' um, dat I ain't."

 

Plato's horn—a long tin bugle—was by no means unmusical. Its range was limited, but in Plato's hands its few notes were both powerful and sweet. Presently the wagon⁷ arrived, and for a few minutes all was confusion, the negroes on the Home place running to greet the new-comers, who were mostly their relatives. A stranger hearing the shouts and outcries of these people would have been at a loss to account for the commotion⁸.

 

Even Uncle Remus went to his cabin door, and, with the little boy by his side, looked out upon the scene,—a tumult⁹ lit up by torches of resinous

分享到：