Chapter 14 - Myths and Legends of the Old Plantation by Joel Harris

BROTHER TERRAPIN DECEIVES BRER BUZZARD

There was a pause here, which was finally broken by ’Tildy, whose remark was in the shape of a very undignified yawn. Uncle Remus regarded her for a moment with an expression of undisguised scorn, which quickly expressed itself in words:

“Ef you’d er bin outer de house dat whack, you’d er tuck us all in. Pity dey aint some place er ’n’er whar deze yer trollops kin go en l’arn manners.”

Tildy, however, ignored the old man, and, with a toss of her head, said to the little boy in a cool, exasperating tone, employing a pet name she had heard the child’s mother use:

“Well, Pinx, I ‘speck we better go. De rain done mos’ hilt up now, en bimeby de stars’ll be a-shinin’. Miss Sally lookin’ fer you right now.”

“You better go whar you gwine, you triflin’ huzzy, you!” exclaimed Uncle Remus. “You better go git yo’ Jim Crow kyard en straighten out dem wrops in yo’ ha’r. I allers year w’ite folks say you better keep yo’ eye on niggers w’at got der ha’r wrop up in strings. Now I done gun you fa’r warnin’s.”

“Uncle Remus,” said the little boy, when the old man’s wrath had somewhat subsided, “why do they call them Jim Crow cards?”

“I be bless ef I know, honey, ‘ceppin’ it’s kaze dey er de onliest machine w’at deze yer low-life niggers kin oncomb der kinks wid. Now, den,” continued the old man, straightening up and speaking with considerable animation, “dat ’min’s me ‘bout a riddle w’at been runnin’ ‘roun’ in my head. En dat riddle-it’s de outdoin’es’ riddle w’at I mos’ ever year tell un. Hit go lak dis: Ef he come, he don’t come; ef he don’t come, he come. Now, I boun’ you can’t tell w’at is dat.”

After some time spent in vain guessing, the little boy confessed that he did n’t know.

“Hit ’s crow en co’n,” said Uncle Remus sententiously.

“Crow and corn, Uncle Remus?”

“Co’se, honey. Crow come, de co’n don’t come; crow don’t come, den de co’n come.”

“Dat ’s so,” said ’Tildy. “I done see um pull up co’n, en I done see co’n grow w’at dey don’t pull up.”

If ’Tildy thought to propitiate Uncle Remus, she was mistaken. He scowled at her, and addressed himself to the little boy:

“De Crow, he mighty close kin ter de Buzzud, en dat puts me in min’ dat we aint bin a-keepin’ up wid olé Brer Buzzud close ez we might er done.

“W’at de case moût be deze days, I aint a-sayin’, but, in dem times, olé Brer Tarrypin love honey mo’ samer dan Brer B’ar, but he wuz dat flat-footed dat, w’en he fine a bee-tree, he can’t climb it, en he go so slow dat he can’t hardly fine um. Bimeby, one day, w’en he gwine ’long down de road des a-honin’ atter honey, who should he meet but olé Brer Buzzud.

“Dey shuck han’s mighty sociable en ax ’bout de news er de neighborhoods, en den, atter w’ile, Brer Tarrypin say ter olé Brer Buzzud, sezee, dat he wanter go inter cahoots wid ’im ‘longer gittin’ honey, en ’t wa’n’t long ‘fo’ dey struck a trade. Brer Buzzud wuz ter fly ‘roun’ en look fer de bee-tree, en Brer Tarrypin he wuz ter creep en crawl, en hunt on de groun’.

“Dey start out, dey did, olé Brer Buzzud sailin’ ‘roun’ in de elements, en olé Brer Tarrypin shufflin’ en shamblin’ on de groun’. ‘Mos’ de ve’y fus’ fiel’ w’at he come ter, Brer Tarrypin strak up wid a great big bumbly-bee nes’ in de groun’. He look ‘roun’, olé Brer Tarrypin did, en bimeby he stick he head in en tas’e de honey, en den he pull it out en look all ‘roun’ fer ter see ef he kin ketch a glimpse er Brer Buzzud; but Brer Buzzud don’t seem lak he nowhar. Den Brer Tarrypin say to hisse’f, sezee, dat he ’speck dat bumbly-bee honey aint de kinder honey w’at dey been talkin’ ’bout, en dey aint no great shakes er honey dar nohow. Wid dat, Brer Tarrypin crope inter de hole en gobble up de las’ drop er de bumbly-bee honey by he own-alone se’f. Atter he done make ’way wid it, he come out, he did, en he whirl in en lick it all off’n his footses, so olé Brer Buzzud can’t tell dat he done bin git a mess er honey.

“Den olé Brer Tarrypin stretch out he neck en try ter lick de honey off’n he back, but he neck too short; en he try ter scrape it off up ‘g’in’ a tree, but it don’t come off; en den he waller on de groun’, but still it don’t come off. Den old Brer Tarrypin jump up, en say ter hisse’f dat he’ll des ’bout rack off home, en w’en Brer Buzzud come he kin lie on he back en say he sick, so olé Brer Buzzud can’t see de honey.

“Brer Tarrypin start off, he did, but he happen ter look up, en, lo en beholes, dar wuz Brer Buzzud huv’rin’ right spang over de spot whar he is. Brer Tarrypin know Brer Buzzud bleedz ter see ’im ef he start off home, en mo’n dat, he know he be fine out ef he don’t stir ‘roun’ en do sump’n’ mighty quick. Wid dat, Brer Tarrypin shuffle back ter de bumbly-bee nes’ swif’ ez he kin, en buil’ ’im a fier in dar, en den he crawl out en holler:

“’Brer Buzzud! O Brer Buzzud! Run yer, fer gracious sake, Brer Buzzud, en look how much honey I done fine! I des crope in a little ways, en it des drip all down my back, same like water. Run yer, Brer Buzzud! Half yone en half mine, Brer Buzzud!’

“Brer Buzzud, he flop down, en he laugh en say he mighty glad, kaze he done git hongry up dar whar he bin. Den Brer Tarrypin tell Brer Buzzud fer ter creep in little ways en tas’e en see how he like um, w’iles he take his stan’ on de outside en watch fer somebody. But no sooner is Brer Buzzud crope in de bumbly-bee nes’ dan Brer Tarrypin take’n roll a great big rock front er de hole. Terreckly, de fier ’gun ter bu’n Brer Buzzud, en he sing out like a man in trouble:

“‘Sump’n’ bitin’ me, Brer Tarrypin-sump’n’ bitin’ me, Brer Tarrypin!’

“Den olé Brer Tarrypin, he holler back:

“‘It’s de bumbly-bees a-stingin’ you, Brer Buzzud; stan’ up en flop yo’ wings, Brer Buzzud. Stan’ up en flop yo’ wings, Brer Buzzud, en you’ll drive um off,’ sezee.

“Brer Buzzud flop en flop he wings, but de mo’ w’at he flop, de mo’ he fan de fier, en ’t wa’n’t long ‘fo’ he done bodaciously bu’n up, all ‘ceppin’ de big een er his wing-fedders, en dem olé Brer Tarrypin tuck en make inter some quills, w’ich he go ‘roun’ a-playin’ un um, en de chune w’at he play was dish yer:

“‘I foolee, I foolee, I foolee po’ Buzzud;
Po’ Buzzud I foolee, I foolee, I foolee.’”