Joel Chandler Harris

“ I done smelt de watermillion on de a’r, an’ I ain’t got no better sense dan fer ter go w’en I years w’ite fokes a-hollerin’—I larnt dat w’en I wa’n’t so high. Leas’ways I galloped up ter de back po’ch, an’ dar sot de watermillions dez ez natchul ez ef dey’d er bin raised on de ole Spivey place in Putmon County. Den Miss Sally, she cut me off er slishe—wunner deze yer ongodly slishes, big ez yo’ hat, an’ I sot down on de steps an’ wrop myse’f roun’ de whole blessid chunk, ’cep’in’ de rime.” Uncle Remus paused and laid his hand upon his stomach as if feeling for something. ”

“ You k’n play yo’ pranks on deze yer w’ite fokes, but w’en you come a cuttin’ up yo’ capers roun me you’ll lan’ right in de middle uv er spell er sickness—now you mine w’at I tell you. An’ I ain’t gwine fer ter put up wid none er yo’ sassness nudder—let ’lone flingin’ watermillion rimes whar I kin git mixt up wid um. ”

“ Hit wuz sorter like dis, boss. Las’ Chuseday, Mars John he fotch home two er deze yer Flurridy watermillions, an him an’ Miss Sally sot down fer ter eat um. Mars John an’ Miss Sally ain’t got nuthin’ dat’s too good fer me, an’ de fus news I know’d Miss Sally wuz a hollerin’ fer Remus. ”