By Joel Chandler Harris
Uncle Remus was not a “field hand”; that is to say, he was not required to plow and hoe and engage in the rough work on the plantation.
It was his business to keep matters and things straight about the house, and to drive the carriage when necessary. He was the confidential family servant, his attitude and his actions showing that he considered himself a partner in the various interests of the plantation. He did no great amount of work, but he was never wholly idle. He tanned leather, he made shoes, he manufactured horse-collars, fish-baskets, foot-mats, scouring-mops, and ax-handles for sale; he had his own watermelon- and cotton-patches; he fed the hogs, looked after the cows and sheep, and, in short, was the busiest person on the plantation.
He was reasonably vain of his importance, and the other negroes treated him with great consideration. They found it to their advantage to do so, for Uncle Remus was not without influence with his master and mistress. It would be difficult to describe, to the satisfaction of those not familiar with some of the developments of slavery in the South, the peculiar relations existing between Uncle Remus and his mistress, whom he called “Miss Sally.” He had taken care of her when she was a child, and he still regarded her as a child.
He was dictatorial, overbearing and quarrelsome. These words do not describe Uncle Remus’s attitude, but no other words will do. Though he was dictatorial, overbearing and quarrelsome, he was not even grim. Beneath everything he said there was a current of respect and affection that was thoroughly understood and appreciated. All his quarrels with his mistress were about trifles, and his dictatorial bearing was inconsequential. The old man’s disputes with his “Miss Sally” were thoroughly amusing to his master, and the latter, when appealed to, generally gave a decision favorable to Uncle Remus.
Perhaps an illustration of one of Uncle Remus’s quarrels will give a better idea than any attempt at description. Sometimes, after tea, Uncle Remus’s master would send the house-girl for him, under pretense of giving him orders for the next day, but really for the purpose of hearing him quarrel. The old man would usually enter the house by way of the dining-room, leaving his hat and his cane outside. He would then go to the sitting-room and announce his arrival, whereupon his master would tell him what particular work he wanted done, and then Uncle Remus would say, very humbly:
“Miss Sally, you ain’t got no cold vittles, nor no piece er pie, nor nuthin’, layin’ ’roun’ yer, is you? Dat ar Tildy gal say you all have a mighty nice dinner ter-day.”
“No, there’s nothing left. I gave the last to Rachel.”
“Well, I dunner w’at business dat ar nigger got comin’ up yer eatin’ Mars John out er house en home. I year tell she l’arnin’ how to cook, en goodness knows, ef eatin’ gwine ter make anybody cook good, she de bes’ cook on dis hill.”
“Well, she earns what she eats, and that’s more than I can say for some of the others.”
“I lay ef ole miss’ wuz ’live, she ’d sen’ dat ar nigger ter de cotton-patch. She would, mon; she’d sen’ er dar a-whirlin’. Nigger w’at wrop up ’er ha’r wid a string ain’t never seed de day w’en dey kin go on de inside er ole miss’ kitchen, let ’lone mommuck up de vittles. Now, I boun’ you dat!”
“Well, there’s nothing here for you, and if there was you wouldn’t get it.”
“No, ’m, dat’s so. I done know dat long time ago. All day long, en half de night, hit ’s ‘Remus, come yer,’ en ‘Remus, go dar,’ ’ceppin’ w’en it ’s eatin’-time, en w’en dat time come, dey ain’t nobody dast ter name de name er Remus. Dat Rachel nigger new ter de business, yet she mighty quick fer ter l’arn how ter tote off de vittles, en how ter make all de chillun on de place do ’er er’ns.”
“John,” to her husband, “I put some cold potatoes for the children on the sideboard in the dining-room. Please see if they are still there.”
“Nummine ’bout gittin’ up, Mars John. All de taters is dar. Old Remus ain’t never ’grudge w’at dem po’ little chillun gits. Let ’lone dat; dey comes down ter my house, en dey looks so puny en lonesome dat I ’vides my own vittles wid um. Goodness knows, I don’t ’grudge de po’ creeturs de little dey gits. Good-night, Mars John! Good-night, Miss Sally!”
“Take the potatoes, Remus,” said Mars John.
“I’m mighty much erbleege ter you,” said Uncle Remus, putting the potatoes in his pocket, “en thanky too; but I ain’t gwine ter have folks sayin’ dat ole Remus tuck ’n sneaked up yer en tuck de vittles out er deze yer chillun’s mouf, dat I ain’t.”
The tone in which Uncle Remus would carry on his quarrels was inimitable, and he generally succeeded in having his way. He would sometimes quarrel with the little boy to whom he told the stories, but either by dint of coaxing, or by means of complete silence, the youngster usually managed to restore the old man’s equanimity.
“Uncle Remus,” said the boy, “it ’s mighty funny that the birds and the animals don’t talk like they used to.”
“Who say dey don’t?” the old man cried, with some show of indignation. “Who say dey don’t? Now, dat ’s des w’at I’d like ter know.”
Uncle Remus’s manner implied that he was only waiting for the name of the malicious person to go out and brain him on the spot.
“Well,” replied the child, “I often listened at them, but I never hear them say a word.”
“Ah-yi!” exclaimed Uncle Remus, in a tone of exultation; “dat’s diffunt. Now, dat’s diffunt. De creeturs talk des ’bout like dey allus did, but folks ain’t smart ez dey used ter wuz. You kin year de creeturs talkin’, but you dunner w’at dey say. Yit I boun’ you ef I wuz ter pick you up, en set you down in de middle er de Two-Mile Swamp, you’d year talkin’ all night long.”
The little boy shivered at the suggestion.
“Uncle Remus, who talks out there in the swamp?”
“All de creeturs, honey, all de creeturs. Mo’ speshually ole man Owl, en all he famberly connexion.”
“Have you ever heard them, Uncle Remus?”
“Many’s en many’s de time, honey. W’en I gits lonesome wid folks, I des up en takes down my walkin’ cane, I does, en I goes off dar whar I kin year um, en I sets dar en feels dez es familious ez w’en I’m a-settin’ yer jawin’ ’long er you.”
“What do they say, Uncle Remus?”
“It seems like ter me,” said the old man, frowning, as if attempting to recall familiar names, “dat one er um name Billy Big-Eye, en t’er one name Tommy Long-Wing. One er um sets in a poplar-tree on one side er de swamp, en t’er one sets in a pine on t’er side,” Uncle Remus went on, as the child went a little closer to him. “W’en night come, good en dark, Billy Big-Eye sorter cle’r up he th’oat en ’low:
“‘Tom! Tommy Long-Wing! Tom! Tommy Long-Wing!’”
Uncle Remus allowed his voice to rise and fall, giving it a far-away but portentous sound, the intonation being a weirdly-exact imitation of the hooting of a large swamp-owl. The italicized words will give a faint idea of this intonation.
“Den,” Uncle Remus went on, “ole Tommy Long-Wing he’d wake up en holler back:
“‘Who—who dat a-callin’? Who—who dat a-callin’?’
“‘Bill—Billy Big-Eye! Bill—Billy Big-Eye!’
“‘Whyn’t you come down—come down ter my house?’
“‘I coodn’t—I coodn’t come down to yo’ house!’
“‘Tom—Tommy Long-Wing! Why coodn’t you?’
“‘Had coompenny, Bill—Billy Big-Eye! Had coompenny!’
“‘Who—who wuz de coompenny?’
“‘Heel Tap ’n his wife, Deel Tap ’n his wife, en I don’t know who-all, who-all, who-all!’
“Ez ter Heel Tap en Deel Tap,” Uncle Remus continued, noticing a puzzled expression on the child’s face, “I dunno ez I ever bin know anybody edzackly wid dat name. Some say dat’s de name er de Peckerwoods en de Yallerhammers, but I speck w’en we git at de straight un it, dey er all in de Owl famberly.”
“Who heard them talking that way, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy.
