Joel Chandler Harris

“ Dat’s me, up an down.”
“Well, we are satisfied. Better go and hire a hall,” remarked the sporting editor, with a yawn. “If you are engaged in a talking match you have won the money. Blanket him somebody, and take him to the stable.” ”

“ Dey kin holler Kansas all ’roun’ de naberhood, but ceppin’ a man come ’long an’ spell it wid greenbacks, he don’t ketch none er deze yer town niggers. You year me, dey ain’t gwine.”
“Stand him up on the table,” said the sporting editor; “give him room.”
“Better go down yer ter de calaboose, an’ git some news fer ter print,” said Uncle Remus, with a touch of irony in his tone. “Some new nigger mighter broke inter jail.”
“You say the darkeys are not going to emigrate this year?” inquired the agricultural editor, who is interested in these things.
“Shoo! dat dey ain’t! I done seed an’ I knows.” ”

“ I got dat jug down dar in Putmon County w’en Mars ’Lisha Perryman wuz a young man, an’ now he’s done growed up, an’ got ole an’ died, an’ his chilluns is growed up an’ dey kin count dere gran’chilluns, an’ yit dar’s dat jug des ez lively an’ ez lierbul fer ter kick up devilment ez w’at she wuz w’en she come fum de foundry. ”