imp of Satan! If you do not, I will rap you on the eye with my other hand.”
Then he hit her—bim! The left hand stuck also. Then Brother Rabbit raised his right foot, saying:
“Mark me well, little Congo! Do you see this foot? I will kick you in the stomach if you do not turn me loose this instant.”
No sooner said than done. Brother Rabbit let fly his right foot—vip! The foot stuck, and he raised the other.
“Do you see this foot?” he exclaimed. “If I hit you with it, you will think a thunderbolt has struck you.”
Then he kicked her with the left foot, and it also stuck like the other, and Brother Rabbit held fast his Guinea negro.
“Watch out, now!” he cried. “I’ve already butted a great many people with my head. If I butt you in your ugly face I’ll knock it into a jelly. Turn me loose! Oho! you don’t answer?” Bap!
“Guinea girl!” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, “are you dead? Gracious goodness! how my head does stick!”
When the sun rose, Brother Goat went to his well to find out something about Brother Rabbit. The result was beyond his expectations.
“Hey, little rogue, big rogue!” exclaimed Brother Goat. “Hey, Brother Rabbit! what are you doing there? I thought you drank the dew from the cups of the flowers, or milk from the cows. Aha, Brother Rabbit! I will punish you for stealing my water.”
“I am your friend,” said Brother Rabbit; “don’t kill me.”
“Thief, thief!” cried Brother Goat, and then he ran quickly into the woods, gathered up a pile of dry limbs, and made a great fire. He took Brother Rabbit from the tar-doll, and prepared to burn him alive. As he was passing a thicket of brambles with Brother Rabbit on his shoulders, Brother Goat met his daughter Bélédie, who was walking about in the fields.
“Where are you going, papa, muffled up with such a burden? Come and eat the fresh grass with me, and throw wicked Brother Rabbit in the brambles.”
Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended to be very much frightened.
“Oh, no, Brother Goat!” he cried. “Don’t throw me in the brambles. They will tear my flesh, put out my eyes, and pierce my heart. Oh, I pray you, rather throw me in the fire.”
“Aha, little rogue, big rogue! Aha, Brother Rabbit!” exclaimed Brother Goat, exultingly, “you don’t like the brambles? Well, then, go and laugh in them,” and he threw Brother Rabbit in without a feeling of pity.
Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his feet, and began to laugh.
“Ha-ha-ha! Brother Goat, what a simpleton you are!—ha-ha-ha! A better bed I never had! In these brambles I was born!”
Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help himself. Brother Rabbit was safe.
A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence.
SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’
BY
Ruth McEnery Stuart
This is the story of character, in the form of dramatic monologue. There is only one speaker, but we know by his words that another is present and can infer his part in the conversation. This story has the additional values of humor and local color.
SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’[5]
Yas, sir, wife an’ me, we’ve turned ’Piscopals—all on account o’ Sonny. He seemed to prefer that religion, an’ of co’se we wouldn’t have the family divided, so we’re a-goin’ to be ez good ’Piscopals ez we can.
I reckon it’ll come a little bit awkward at first. Seem like I never will git so thet I can sass back in church ’thout feelin’ sort o’ impident—but I reckon I’ll chirp up an’ come to it, in time.
I never was much of a hand to sound the amens, even in our own Methodist meetin’s.
Sir? How old is he? Oh, Sonny’s purty nigh six—but he showed a pref’ence for the ’Piscopal Church long fo’ he could talk.
When he wasn’t no mo’ ’n three year old we commenced a-takin’ him round to church wherever they held meetin’s—‘Piscopals, Methodists or Presbyterians—so’s he could see an’ hear for hisself. I ca’yed him to a baptizin’ over to Chinquepin Crik, once-t, when he was three. I thought I’d let him see it done an’ maybe it might make a good impression; but no, sir! The Baptists didn’t suit him! Cried ever’ time one was douced, an’ I had to fetch him away. In our Methodist meetin’s he seemed to git worked up an’ pervoked, some way. An’ the Presbyterians, he didn’t take no stock in them at all. Ricollect, one Sunday the preacher, he preached a mighty powerful disco’se on the doctrine o’ lost infants not ’lected to salvation—an’ Sonny? Why, he slep’ right thoo it.
The first any way lively interest he ever seemed to take in religious services was at the ’Piscopals, Easter Sunday. When he seen the lilies an’ the candles he thess clapped his little hands, an’ time the folks commenced answerin’ back he was tickled all but to death, an’ started answerin’ hisself—on’y, of co’se he’d answer sort o’ hit an’ miss.
I see then thet Sonny was a natu’al-born ‘Piscopal, an’ we might ez well make up our minds to it—an’ I told her so, too. They say some is born so. But we thought we’d let him alone an’ let nature take its co’se for a while—not pressin’ him one way or another. He never had showed no disposition to be christened, an’ ever sence the doctor tried to vaccinate him he seemed to git the notion that christenin’ an’ vaccination was mo’ or less the same thing; an’ sence that time, he’s been mo’ opposed to it than ever.
Sir? Oh no, sir. He didn’t vaccinate him; he thess tried to do it; but Sonny, he wouldn’t begin to allow it. We all tried to indoose ’im. I offered him everything on the farm ef he’d thess roll up his little sleeve an’ let the doctor look at his arm—promised him thet he wouldn’t tech a needle to it tell he said the word. But he wouldn’t. He ’lowed thet me an’ his mamma could git vaccinated ef we wanted to, but he wouldn’t.
Then we showed him our marks where we had been vaccinated when we was little, an’ told him how it had kep’ us clair o’ havin’ the smallpock all our lives.
Well, sir, it didn’t make no diff’ence whether we’d been did befo’ or not, he ’lowed thet he wanted to see us vaccinated ag’in.
An’ so, of co’se, thinkin’ it might encour’ge him, we thess had it did over—tryin’ to coax him to consent after each one, an’ makin’ pertend like we enjoyed it.
Then, nothin’ would do but the nigger, Dicey, had to be did, an’ then he ’lowed thet he wanted the cat did, an’ I tried to strike a bargain with him thet if Kitty got vaccinated he would. But he wouldn’t comp’omise. He thess let on thet Kit had to be did whe’r or no. So I ast the doctor ef it would likely kill the cat, an’ he said he reckoned not, though it might sicken her a little. So I told him to go ahead. Well, sir, befo’ Sonny got thoo, he had had that cat an’ both dogs vaccinated—but let it tech hisself he would not.
I was mighty sorry not to have it did, ’cause they was a nigger thet had the smallpock down to Cedar Branch, fifteen mile away, an’ he didn’t die, neither. He got well. An’ they say when they git well they’re more fatal to a neighborhood ‘n when they die.
That was fo’ months ago now, but to this day ever’ time the wind blows from sou’west I feel oneasy, an’ try to entice Sonny to play on the far side o’ the house.
Well, sir, in about ten days after that we was the down-in-the-mouthest