"'I'm oblije ter you, Brer Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'but I'm
fear'd she's done gone by now,' en dat sorter make Brer Fox en
Brer Possum feel in mo'nin' wid Brer Rabbit.

"Bimeby, w'en dinner-time come, dey all got out der vittles, but
Brer Rabbit keep on lookin' lonesome, en Brer Fox en Brer Possum
dey sorter rustle roun' fer ter see ef dey can't make Brer Rabbit
feel sorter splimmy."

"What is that, Uncle Remus?" asked the little boy.

"Sorter splimmy-splammy, honey--sorter like he in a crowd--sorter
like his ole 'oman ain't dead ez she mout be. You know how fokes
duz w'en dey gits whar people's a moanin'."

The little boy didn't know, fortunately for him, and Uncle Remus
went on:

"Brer Fox en Brer Possum rustle roun', dey did, gittin out de
vittles, en bimeby Brer Fox, he say, sezee:

"'Brer Possum, you run down ter de spring en fetch de butter, en
I'll sail 'roun' yer en set de table,' sezee.

"Brer Possum, he lope off atter de butter, en dreckly here he
come lopin' back wid his years a trimblin' en his tongue a
hangin' out. Brer Fox, he holler out:

"'W'at de matter now, Brer Possum?' sezee.