"What are you looking for, Uncle Bob?" asked Diddie.

"Des er few buckeyes, honey," answered the old man.

"What you goin' ter do with 'em?" asked Dumps, as the little girls
joined him in his search.

"Well, I don't want ter die no drunkard, myse'f," said Uncle Bob, whose
besetting sin was love of whiskey.

"Does buckeyes keep folks from dying drunkards?" asked Dumps.

"Dat's wat dey sez; an' I 'lowed I'd lay me in er few, caze I've allers
hyearn dat dem folks wat totes a buckeye in dey lef britches pocket,
an' den ernudder in de right-han' coat pocket, dat dey ain't gwine die
no drunkards."

"But if they would stop drinkin' whiskey they wouldn't die drunkards
anyhow, would they, Uncle Bob?"

"Well, I dunno, honey; yer pinnin' de ole nigger mighty close; de
whiskey mout hab sump'n ter do wid it; I ain't sputin' dat--but wat I
stan's on is dis: dem folks wat I seed die drunk, dey nuber had no
buckeyes in dey pockets; caze I 'members dat oberseer wat Marse Brunson
had, he died wid delirums treums, an' he runned, he did, fur ter git
'way fum de things wat he seed atter him; an' he jumped into de riber,
an' he got drownded; an' I wuz dar wen dey pulled 'im out; an' I sez ter
Brer John Small, who wuz er standin' dar, sez I, now I lay yer he ain't
got no buckeyes in his pockets; and wid dat me 'n Brer John we tuck'n