The Wren’s Nest, home of Joel Chandler Harris, was being maintained as a museum, for whites only.
“YOU DONE YEAR ME say dat de creeturs is got mos’ ez much sense ez folks, ain’t you, honey?” inquired the old man, sighing heavily and settling himself back in his old seat with an air of melancholy resignation.
“Well den, one day when dey wuz a segashuatin’ tergedder, Brer Rabbit up en ’low ez how he gwineter drap roun’ down in town en see wuz Miss Wren ter home.
“Whuffo you wanter do dat?’ sez Brer B’ar. En de yuther creeturs tuck’n sez ’mungs wunner nudder dat dey bleedzd ter ax de same Whuffo.
“Brer Rabbit he des sot der en sorter pull he mustarsh, en look like he know mo’ dan he gwine tell. Twel bimeby he up en sez, sezee, Ef dis don’t bang my times,’ sezee, ‘den Joe’s dead en Sal’s a widder.’
“‘Hit look lak,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, dat dem dat knowed de fust thang ’bout de pitchers en de pyapers ’bout de creeturs ’ud know dat Miss Wren’s house is des bilin’ wid ’em. Hit look lak,’ sezee, ‘dat de creeturs roun’ yer done nat’ally tuck’n los’ dey cultchul reckemembunce.’
“Wid dat Brer B’ar kinder got on he ’noyunce, en he up’n spon’, he did, dat he knowed des ez much ’bout de pyapers en pitchers ez Brer Rabbit, en he low dat he gwine see ’em, if hit’s de las’ ack.
“En all de yuther creeturs up’n low dat dey wuz high up fer ter fotch er look at de pitchers en de pyapers deyse’fs. Des den Brer Rabbit lipt up en skaddle off down de road lak de dogs wuz atter im, en de yuther creeturs lipt up en foller long.
“Well ’twant long twel dey fotch up at Miss Wren’s, en Brer Rabbit lipt spang up ter de do’ en knock, blim, blim. En den dar wuz Miss Wren, come ter see who wuz blimmin’.
“Brer Rabbit, he spruce up he years en sez, ‘Howdy, Miss Wren, we come fer ter fotch er look inter dem pyapers en pitchers you got in yo’ house ’bout de creeturs.’
“‘Howdy, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Miss Wren. ‘You en de creeturs mought des ez well des skaddle on back ter whar you lives, kasc we ain’t open ter de cyolored.’
“Wid dat Brer Rabbit drap back he years en make er great ’monsteration.
“‘Now looker yer, Miss Wren,’ he sez, sezee. Ez ter dat, we is got black creeturs yer, en grey creeturs, en spackeldy creeturs, en green creeturs, en creeturs ’bout zackly de same cyolor ez yo’se’f.’
“‘En ah is b’ar-cyolored,’ sez Brer Bar. ‘En b’ar-sized.’
“But Miss Wren she des scrootch back todes she pyarlor en make ter shet de do’.
“‘Tooby sho,’ she sez, sez she. ‘Tooby sho. But dis yer house is fer de creeturs ez knows who dey is, en dey gits in, en de cyolored don’t. En you is de cyolored.’
“En ker-flum, she shet de do’.”
“And what did the rabbit do then, Uncle Remus?” inquired the little boy at length, and with scarcely restrained impatience, for the venerable darkey had relapsed into what gave every appearance of being a deeply meditative silence.
“Now, den, honey, you er crowdin’ me,” he said. “Wen it come down ter dat, I speck ole Brer Rabbit got ter projeckin’ like he natchul self, en Brer B’ar got he ’noyunce up, en sumpen er nudder come un it terreckly.”
“I would surely like to hear about that,” said the little boy. “Shall we make it this time tomorrow, then? Your place, of course.”