Southern Literature From 1579-1895 Part 51

"Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'How duz yo' sym'tums seem ter segashuate?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

"Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'.

"'How you come on, den? Is you deaf?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Kaze if you is, I kin holler louder,' sezee.

"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'en I'm gwineter kyore you, dat's w'at I'm a gwineter do,' sezee.

"Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin'.

"'I'm gwineter larn you howter talk ter 'specttubble fokes ef hit's de las' ack,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Ef you don't take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I'm gwineter bus' you wide open,' sezee.

"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"Brer Rabbit keep on axin' 'im, en de Tar-Baby, she keep on sayin'

nuthin', twel present'y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis', he did, en blip he tuck 'er side er de head. Right dar's where he broke his merla.s.ses jug. His fis' stuck, en he can't pull loose. De tar hilt 'im. But Tar-Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'Ef you don't lemme loose, I'll knock you agin,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch 'er a wipe wid de udder han', en dat stuck.

Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'Tu'n me loose, fo' I kick de nat'al stuffin' outen you,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'. She des hilt on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don't tu'n 'im loose he b.u.t.t 'er cranksided. En den he b.u.t.ted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa'ntered fort', lookin' dez ez innercent ez wunner yo' mammy's mockin'-birds.

"'Howdy, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin',' sezee, en den he rolled on de groun', en laft en laft twel he couldn't laff no mo'. 'I speck you'll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain't gwineter take no skuse,' sez Brer Fox, sezee."

Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

"Did the fox eat the rabbit?" asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.

"Dat's all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. "He mout, en den agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B'ar come 'long en loosed 'im,--some say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally callin'. You better run 'long."

FOOTNOTE:

[42] By permission of D. Appleton & Co, N. Y.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

~1850=----.~

ROBERT BURNS WILSON was born in Was.h.i.+ngton County, Pennsylvania, but removed early to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he devoted himself to landscape painting. Some of his pictures attracted attention at the New Orleans Exposition, 1884. His poems have appeared in magazines and have been much admired for their musical flow of deep feeling and fancy.

WORKS.

Life And Love: Poems.

FAIR DAUGHTER OF THE SUN.

(_From Life and Love._[43])

Hail! daughter of the sun!

White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow, Crowned with white blooms, begun To grow a-weary of its flagrant wreath, And do thy temples long to ache beneath A gilded, iron crown?

Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car To be the gleam of some new-risen star-- Yond clamor, for renown?

Stay, lovely one, oh stay!

Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain: For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain-- He is the same alway.

This G.o.d in burnished tinsel, as of old, Cares for no music save of clinking gold-- All else to him is vain: His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead; A crown of care he bringeth for thy head, And for thy wrists a chain.

Bide thou, oh G.o.ddess, stay!

Even in the gateway turn! The orange tree Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee; The jasmine's starry spray Still waves thee back: O South! thy glory lies In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise Thy day, which fadeth not: There--patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine, There--hearts devoted, make thy name divine, Their own hard fate forgot.

DEDICATION.--SONNET.

TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER.

The green Virginian hills were blithe in May, And we were plucking violets--thou and I.

A transient gladness flooded earth and sky; Thy fading strength seemed to return that day, And I was mad with hope that G.o.d would stay Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long pa.s.sed by!

Long years! long years! and now, I well know why Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away.

First loved; first lost; my mother: time must still Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best In me and in my art is thine:--Me-seems Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill, My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams, I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.

FOOTNOTE:

[43] By permission of the author, and publishers, the Ca.s.sell Publis.h.i.+ng Co., N. Y.

"CHRISTIAN REID."

FRANCES C. TIERNAN.

MRS. TIERNAN has written many novels of Southern life. She is a daughter of Colonel Charles F. Fisher of Salisbury, North Carolina, who was killed in the battle of Mana.s.sas. Her best known book, "The Land of the Sky," describes a summer tour through the grand mountains of her native State, taken before the railroads had penetrated them.

WORKS.

Valerie Aylmer.