"Harris, Joel Chandler - Brother Rabbit's Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harris Joel Chandler)

couldn't put yo' han's on 'im widout havin' ter go an' wash um? Yo' gran'mammy
useter call 'im a pig, an' clean ez he may be now, I take notice dat he makes
mo' complaint er headache an' de heartburn dan what he done when he wuz runnin'
roun' here half-naked an' full er mud. I hear tell dat some nights he can't git
no sleep, but when he wuz little like you— no, suh, I'll not say dat, bekaze he
wuz bigger dan what you is fum de time he kin toddle roun' widout nobody he'pin'
him; but when he wuz ol' ez you an' twice ez big, dey ain't narry night dat he
can't sleep— an' not only all night, but half de day ef dey'd 'a' let 'im. Ef
dey'd let you run roun' here like he done, an' git dirty, you'd git big an'
strong 'fo' you know it. Dey ain't nothin' mo' wholesomer dan a peck er two er
clean dirt on a little chap like you."
There is no telling what comment the child would have made on this sincere
tribute to clean dirt, for his attention was suddenly attracted to something
that was gradually taking shape in the hands of Uncle Remus. At first it seemed
to be hardly worthy of notice, for it had been only a thin piece of board. But
now the one piece had become four pieces, two long and two short, and under the
deft manipulations of Uncle Remus it soon assumed a boxlike shape.
The old man had reached the point in his work where silence was necessary to
enable him to do it full justice. As he fitted the thin boards together, a
whistling sound issued from his lips, as though he were letting off steam; but
the singular noise was due to the fact that he was completely absorbed in his
work. He continued to fit and trim, and trim and fit, until finally the little
boy could no longer restrain his curiosity. "Uncle Remus, what are you making?"
he asked plaintively.
"Larroes fer ter kech meddlers," was the prompt and blunt reply.
"Well, what are larroes to catch meddlers?" the child insisted.
"Nothin' much an' sump'n mo'. Dicky, Dicky, killt a chicky, an' fried it quicky,
in de oven, like a sloven. Den ter his daddy's Sunday hat, he tuck 'n' hitched
de ol' black cat. Now what you reckon make him do dat? Ef you can't tell me word
fer word an' spe11in' fer spellin' we'll go out an' come in an' take a walk."
He rose, grunting as he did so, thus paying an unintentional tribute to the
efficacy of age as the partner of rheumatic aches and stiff joints. "You hear me
gruntin'," he remarked— "well, dat's bekaze I ain't de chicky fried by Dicky,
which he e't 'nuff fer ter make 'im sicky." As he went out the child took his
hand, and went trotting along by his side, thus affording an interesting study
for those who concern themselves with the extremes of life. Hand in hand the two
went out into the fields, and thence into the great woods, where Uncle Remus,
after searching about for some time, carefully deposited his oblong box,
remarking: "Ef I don't make no mistakes, dis ain't so mighty fur fum de place
whar de creeturs has der playgroun', an' dey ain't no tellin' but what one un
um'll creep in dar when deyer playin' hidin', an' ef he do, he'll sho be our
meat."
"Oh, it's a trap!" exclaimed the little boy, his face lighting up with
enthusiasm.
"An' dey wa'n't nobody here ter ter tell you," Uncle Remus declared,
astonishment in his tone. "Well, ef dat don't bang my time, I ain't no free
nigger. Now, ef dat had 'a' been yo' pa at de same age, I'd 'a' had ter tell 'im
forty-lev'm times, an' den he wouldn't 'a' b'lieved me twel he see sump'n in dar
tryin' fer ter git out. Den he'd say it wuz a trap, but not befo'. I ain't
blamin' 'im," Uncle Remus went on, "kaze 'tain't eve'y chap dat kin tell a trap