“W’at doin’s is dat, Brer Ab?”
“Deze yer signs an’ wunders whar dat cullud lady died day ’fo’ yistiddy. Mighty quare goin’s on out dar, Brer Remus, sho’s you bawn.”
“Sperrits?” inquired Uncle Remus, sententiously.
“Wuss’n dat, Brer Remus. Some say dat jedgmentday ain’t fur off, an’ de folks is flockin’ ’roun’ de house a hollerin’ an’ a shoutin’ des like dey wuz in er revival. In de winder glass dar you kin see de flags a flyin’, an’ Jacob’s lather is dar, an’ dar’s writin’ on de pane w’at no man can’t read-leas’wise dey ain’t none read it yit.”
“W’at kinder racket is dis youer givin’ un me now, Brer Ab?”
“I done bin dar, Brer Remus; I done seed urn wid bofe my eyes. Cullud lady what wuz intranced done woke up an’ say dey ain’t much time fer ter tarry.
She say she meet er angel in de road, an’ he p’inted straight fer de mornin’ star, an’ tell her fer ter prepar’. Hit look mighty cu’us, Brer Remus.”
“Cum down ter dat, Brer Ab,” said Uncle Remus, wiping his spectacles carefully, and readjusting them—“ dey ain’t nuthin’ dat ain’t cu’us. I ain’t no spishus nigger myse’f, but I ’spizes fer ter year dogs a howlin’ an’ squinch-owls havin’ de ager out in de woods, an’ w’en a bull goes a bellerin’ by de house den my bones git cole an’ my flesh cornmences fer ter creep; but w’en it comes ter deze yer sines in de a’r an’ deze yer sperrits in de woods, den I’m out—den I’m done. I is, fer a fack. I bin livin’ yer more’n seventy year, an’ I year talk er niggers seein’ ghos’es all times er night an’ all times er day, but I ain’t never seed none yit; an’ deze yer flags an’ Jacob’s lathers, I ain’t seed dem, nudder.”
“Dey er dar, Brer Remus.”
“Hit’s des like I tell you, Brer Ab. I ain’t ’sputin’ ’bout it, but I ain’t seed um, an’ I don’t take no chances deze days on dat w’at I don’t see, an’ dat w’at I sees I got ter ’zamine mighty close. Lemme tell you dis, Brer Ab: don’t you let deze sines onsettle you. W’en old man Gabrile toot his ho’n, he ain’t gwinter hang no sine out in de winder-panes, an when ole Fadder Jacob lets down dat lather er his’n you’ll be mighty ap’ fer ter hear de racket. An’ don’t you bodder wid jedgment-day. Jedgment-day is lierbul fer ter take keer un itse’f.”
“Dat’s so, Brer Remus.”
“Hit’s bleedzed ter be so, Brer Ab. Hit don’t bodder me. Hit’s done got so now dat w’en I gotter pone er bread, an’ a rasher er bacon, an’ nuff grease fer ter make gravy, I ain’t keerin’ much w’edder fokes sees ghos’es er no.”