"Did the dog come?" asked the little boy.

"Go 'way, honey!" responded the old man, in an impressive tone.
"Go way! Mr. Dog, he come en he come a zoonin'. En he ain't wait
fer ter say howdy, nudder. He des sail inter de two un um. De
ve'y fus pas he make Brer Possum fetch a grin fum year ter year,
en keel over like he wuz dead. Den Mr. Dog, he sail inter Brer
Coon, en right dar's whar he drap his money purse, kaze Brer Coon
wuz cut out fer dat kinder bizness, en he fa'rly wipe up de face
er de yeth wid 'im. You better b'leeve dat w'en Mr. Dog got a
chance to make hisse'f skase he tuck it, en w'at der wuz lef' un
him went skaddlin' thoo de woods like hit wuz shot outen a
muskit. En Brer Coon, he sorter lick his cloze inter shape en
rack off, en Brer Possum, he lay dar like he wuz dead, twel
bimeby he raise up sorter keerful like, en w'en he fine de coas'
cle'r he scramble up en scamper off like sumpin' was atter 'im."

Here Uncle Remus paused long enough to pick up a live coal of
fire in his fingers, transfer it to the palm of his hand, and
thence to his clay pipe, which he had been filling--a proceeding
that was viewed by the little boy with undisguised admiration.
The old man then proceeded:

"Nex' time Brer Possum met Brer Coon, Brer Coon 'fuse ter 'spon'
ter his howdy, en dis make Brer Possum feel mighty bad, seein' ez
how dey useter make so many 'scurshuns tergedder.

"'W'at make you hol' yo' head so high, Brer Coon?' sez Brer
Possum, sezee.