Joel Chandler Harris

“ Dey wuz dat flirtashus,” continued the old man, closing one eye at his image in the glass, “dat Miss Meadows en de gals don’t se no peace fum one week een’ ter de udder. Chuseday wuz same as Sunday, en Friday wuz same as Chuseday, en hit come down ter dat pass dat w’en Miss Meadows ’ud have chicken-fixin’s fer dinner, in ’ud drap Brer Fox en Brer Possum, en w’en she’d have fried greens in ’ud pop ole Brer Rabbit, twel las’ Miss Meadows, she tuck’n tell de gals dat she be dad-blame ef she gwineter keep no tavvun. ”

“ De gents, dey wuz a co’tin, but Miss Meadows, she don’t wanter marry none un um, en needer duz de gals, en likewise dey don’t wanter have um pester’n ’roun.’ Las’, one Chuseday, Miss Meadows, she tole um dat ef dey come down ter her house de nex’ Sat’day evenin’, de whole caboodle on um ’ud go down de road a piece, whar der wuz a big flint rock, en de man w’at could take a sludge-hammer en knock de dus’ out’n dat rock, he wuz de man w’at ’ud git de pick er de gals. ”

“ Den he spit in his han’s, en give ’er a big swing en down she come—ker-blap! En yit no dus’ ain’t flew’d. Den Brer Possum he make triul, en Brer Coon, en all de balance un um ’cep’ Brer Tarrypin, en he ’low dat he got a crick in his neck. ”