Uncle Remus: His Songs and His Sayings/Why Mr. Possum loves Peace

III. Why Mr. Possum loves Peace
“One night,” said Uncle Remus—taking Miss Sally’s little boy on his knee, and stroking the child’s hair thoughtfully and caressingly—“one night Brer Possum call by fer Brer Coon, ’cordin’ ter ’greement, en atter gobblin’ up a dish er fried greens en smokin’ a seegyar, dey rambled fort’ fer ter see how de ballunce er de settlement wuz gittin’ long. Brer Coon, he wuz one er deze yer natchul pacers, en he racked ’long same ez Mars John’s bay pony, en Brer Possum he went in a han’-gallup; en dey got over heap er groun, mon. Brer Possum, he got his belly full er ’simmons, en Brer Coon, he scoop up a ’bunnunce er frogs en tadpoles. Dey amble long, dey did, des ez sociable ez a basket er kittens, twel bimeby dey hear Mr. Dog talkin’ ter hisse’f way off in de woods.

“‘Spozen he runs up on us, Brer Possum, w’at you gwineter do?’ sez Brer Coon, sezee. Brer Possum sorter laugh ’round de cornders un his mouf.

“‘Oh, ef he come, Brer Coon, I’m gwineter stan’ by you,’ sez Brer Possum. ‘W’at you gwineter do?’ sezee.

“‘Who? me?’ sez Brer Coon. ‘Ef he run up onter me, I lay I give ’im one twis’,’ sezee.”

“Did the dog come?” asked the little boy.

“Go ’way, honey!” responded the old man, in an impressive tone. “Go way! Mr. Dog, he come en he come a zoonin’. En he ain’t wait fer ter say howdy, nudder. He des sail inter de two un um. De ve’y fus pas he make Brer Possum fetch a grin fum year ter year, en keel over like he wuz dead. Den Mr. Dog, he sail inter Brer Coon, en right dar’s whar he drap his money purse, kaze Brer Coon wuz cut out fer dat kinder bizness, en he fa’rly wipe up de face er de yeth wid ’im. You better b’leeve dat w’en Mr. Dog got a chance to make hisse’f skase he tuck it, en w’at der wuz lef’ un him went skaddlin’ thoo de woods like hit wuz shot outen a muskit. En Brer Coon, he sorter lick his cloze inter shape en rack off, en Brer Possum, he lay dar like he wuz dead, twel bimeby he raise up sorter keerful like, en w’en he fine de coas’ cle’r he scramble up en scamper off like sumpin’ was atter ’im.”

Here Uncle Remus paused long enough to pick up a live coal of fire in his fingers, transfer it to the palm of his hand, and thence to his clay pipe, which he had been filling—a proceeding that was viewed by the little boy with undisguised admiration. The old man then proceeded:

“Nex’ time Brer Possum met Brer Coon, Brer Coon ’fuse ter ’spon’ ter his howdy, en dis make Brer Possum feel mighty bad, seein’ ez how dey useter make so many ’scurshuns tergedder.

“‘W’at make you hol’ yo’ head so high, Brer Coon?’ sez Brer Possum, sezee.

“‘I ain’t runnin’ wid cowerds deze days,’ sez Brer Coon. ‘W’en I wants you I’ll sen’ fer you,’ sezee.

“Den Brer Possum git mighty mad.

“‘Who’s enny cowerd?’ sezee.

“‘You is,’ sez Brer Coon, ‘dat’s who. I ain’t soshatin’ wid dem w’at lays down on de groun’ en plays dead w’en dar’s a free fight gwine on,’ sezee.

“Den Brer Possum grin en laugh fit to kill hisse’f.

“‘Lor’, Brer Coon, you don’t speck I done dat kaze I wuz ’feared, duz you?’ sezee. ‘W’y I want no mo ’feared dan you is dis minnit. W’at wuz dey fer ter be skeered un?’ sezee. ‘I know’d you’d git away wid Mr. Dog ef I didn’t, en I des lay dar watchin’ you shake him, waitin’ fer ter put in w’en de time come,’ sezee.

“Brer Coon tu’n up his nose.

“‘Dat’s a mighty likely tale,’ sezee, ‘w’en Mr. Dog ain’t mo’n tech you ’fo’ you keel over, en lay dar stiff,’ sezee.

“‘Dat’s des w’at I wuz gwineter tell you ’bout,’ sez Brer Possum, sezee. ‘I want no mo’ skeer’d dan you is right now, en’ I wuz fixin’ fer ter give Mr. Dog a sample er my jaw,’ sezee, ‘but I’m de most ticklish chap w’at you ever laid eyes on, en no sooner did Mr. Dog put his nose down yer ’mong my ribs dan I got ter laughin’, en I laughed twel I ain’t had no use er my lim’s,’ sezee, ‘en it’s a mussy unto Mr. Dog dat I wuz ticklish, kaze a little mo’ en I’d e’t ’im up,’ sezee. ‘I don’t mine fightin’, Brer Coon, no mo’ dan you duz,’ sezee, ‘but I declar’ ter grashus ef I kin stan’ ticklin’. Git me in a row whar dey ain’t no ticklin’ ’lowed, en I’m your man,’ sezee.

“En down ter dis day”—continued Uncle Remus, watching the smoke from his pipe curl upward over the little boy’s head—“down ter dis day, Brer Possum’s bound ter s’render w’en you tech him in de short ribs, en he’ll laugh ef he knows he’s gwineter be smashed fer it.”