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'
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