"Ain't yer neber hyeard how come de woodpecker's head ter be red, an'
wat makes de robin hab er red breas'?"

"Oh, I know 'bout the robin's breast," said Diddie. "When the Saviour
was on the cross, an' the wicked men had put er crown of thorns on him,
an' his forehead was all scratched up an' bleedin', er little robin was
settin' on er tree lookin' at him; an' he felt so sorry 'bout it till he
flew down, an' tried to pick the thorns out of the crown; an' while he
was pullin' at 'em, one of 'em run in his breast, an' made the blood
come, an' ever since that the robin's breast has been red."

"Well, I dunno," said the old man, thoughtfully, scratching his head; "I
dunno, dat _mout_ be de way; I neber hyeard it, do; but den I ain't
sayin' tain't true, caze hit mout be de way; an' wat I'm er stan'in' by
is _dis_, dat _dat_ ain't de way I hyeard hit."

"Tell us how you heard it, Uncle Bob," asked Diddie.

"Well, hit all come 'long o' de jay bird," said Uncle Bob. "An' efn yer
got time fur ter go 'long o' me ter de shop, an' sot dar wile I plats on
dese baskits fur de oberseer's wife, I'll tell jes wat I hyearn 'boutn
hit."

Of course they had plenty of time, and they all followed him to the
shop, where he turned some baskets bottom-side up for seats for the
children, and, seating himself on his accustomed stool, while the little
darkies sat around on the dirt-floor, he began to weave the splits
dexterously in and out, and proceeded to tell the story.