Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text even knowing where they were; and in a few minutes they
were attacked and completely routed by the Indians who were concealed
in the woods and ravines of the other bank, as Boone had feared.
Boone's son was killed, and he himself narrowly escaped by dashing
through one of the ravines and swimming the river lower down. The
slaughter in the river was great, and the pursuit was continued for
twenty miles. Never had Kentucky experienced so fatal a blow as that
at the Blue Licks.--L. M.]
FOOTNOTE:
[41] By permission of J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
~1848=----.~
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS was born in Eatonton, Georgia, and is a lawyer:
but he has devoted much time of late years to literature, and is now
one of the editors of the "Atlanta Constitution."
[Illustration: ~Arkansas Industrial University, Fayetteville,
Washington County, Ark.~]
His dialect stories of "Uncle Remus" are a faithful reproduction of
the popular tales of the old negroes of South Carolina, Georgia, and
Alabama; for the negro dialect varies in the different States. Mr.
Harris' books have made these tales known in England.
"On the Plantation" is said to be autobiographical; it is a story of a
boy's life during the war, well and simply told.
WORKS.
Uncle Remus: His Songs and His Sayings.
Nights with Uncle Remus.
On the Plantation.
Little Mr. Thimblefinger.
Mingo, and other Sketches.
Free Joe, and other Georgian Sketches.
Daddy Jake, the Runaway, and Short Stories Told after Dark.
THE TAR-BABY.
(_From Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings._[42])
"Didn't the fox _never_ catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" asked the
little boy the next evening.
"He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you bawn--Brer Fox did. One day
atter Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk
en got 'im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentine, en fix up a
contrapshun w'at he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuk dish yer Tar-Baby en he
sot 'er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer to see w'at
de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn't hatter wait long, nudder, kaze
bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road--lippity-clippity,
clippity-lippity--dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low.
Brer Rabbit come prancin' 'long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he
fotch up on his behine legs like he wuz 'stonished. De Tar-Baby, she
sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Mawnin'!' says Brer Rabbit, sezee--'nice wedder dis mawnin',' sezee.
"Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'How duz yo' sym'tums seem ter segashuate?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
"Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain't
sayin' nuthin'.
"'How you come on, den? Is you deaf?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Kaze if
you is, I kin holler louder,' sezee.
"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'en I'm
gwineter kyore you, dat's w'at I'm a gwineter do,' sezee.
"Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby
ain't sayin' nuthin'.
"'I'm gwineter larn you howter talk ter 'specttubble fokes ef hit's de
las' ack,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Ef you don't take off dat hat en
tell me howdy, I'm gwineter bus' you wide open,' sezee.
"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"Brer Rabbit keep on axin' 'im, en de Tar-Baby, she keep on sayin'
nuthin', twel present'y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis', he did, en
blip he tuck 'er side er de head. Right dar's where he broke his
merlasses jug. His fis' stuck, en he can't pull loose. De tar hilt
'im. But Tar-Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Ef you don't lemme loose, I'll knock you agin,' sez Brer Rabbit,
sezee, en wid dat he fotch 'er a wipe wid de udder han', en dat stuck.
Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.
"'Tu'n me loose, fo' I kick de nat'al stuffin' outen you,' sez Brer
Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'. She des hilt
on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer
Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don't
tu'n 'im loose he butt 'er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head
got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa'ntered fort', lookin' dez ez innercent
ez wunner yo' mammy's mockin'-birds.
"'Howdy, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'You look sorter stuck up
dis mawnin',' sezee, en den he rolled on de groun', en laft en laft
twel he couldn't laff no mo'. 'I speck you'll take dinner wid me dis
time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain't
gwineter take no skuse,' sez Brer Fox, sezee."
Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.
"Did the fox eat the rabbit?" asked the little boy to whom the story
had been told.
"Dat's all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. "He mout, en den
agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B'ar come 'long en loosed 'im,--some
say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally callin'. You better run 'long."
FOOTNOTE:
[42] By permission of D. Appleton & Co, N. Y.
ROBERT BURNS WILSON.
~1850=----.~
ROBERT BURNS WILSON was born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, but
removed early to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he devoted himself to
landscape painting. Some of his pictures attracted attention at the
New Orleans Exposition, 1884. His poems have appeared in magazines and
have been much admired for their musical flow of deep feeling and
fancy.
WORKS.
Life And Love: Poems.
FAIR DAUGHTER OF THE SUN.
(_From Life and Love._[43])
Hail! daughter of the sun!
White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now
In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow,
Crowned with white blooms, begun
To grow a-weary of its flagrant wreath,
And do thy temples long to ache beneath
A gilded, iron crown?
Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car
To be the gleam of some new-risen star--
Yond clamor, for renown?
Stay, lovely one, oh stay!
Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain:
For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain--
He is the same alway.
This god in burnished tinsel, as of old,
Cares for no music save of clinking gold--
All else to him is vain:
His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead;
A crown of care he bringeth for thy head,
And for thy wrists a chain.
Bide thou, oh goddess, stay!
Even in the gateway turn! The orange tree
Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee;
The jasmine's starry spray
Still waves thee back: O South! thy glory lies
In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise
Thy day, which fadeth not:
There--patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine,
There--hearts devoted, make thy name divine,
Their own hard fate forgot.
DEDICATION.--SONNET.
TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER.
The green Virginian hills were blithe in May,
And we were plucking violets--thou and I.
A transient gladness flooded earth and sky;
Thy fading strength seemed to return that day,
And I was mad with hope that God would stay
Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long passed by!
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