An', Uncle Bob, efn he tells the deb'l
sump'n 'boutn three little white girls an' three little niggers
runnin' erway fum they teacher an' wadin' in er ditch, then I jes
b'lieve he made it up! Now that's jes what I' b'lieve; an' can't you
tell the deb'l so, Uncle Bob?"
"Who? Me? Umph, umph! yer talkin' ter de wrong nigger now, chile! I
don't hab nuffin te do wid 'im mysef! I'se er God-fyearn nigger, I is;
an', let erlone dat, I keeps erway fum dem jay birds. Didn' yer neber
hyear wat er trick he played de woodpecker?"
"No, Uncle Bob," answered Diddie; "what did he do to him?"
"Ain't yer neber hyeard how come de wood-pecker's head ter be red, an'
wat makes de robin hab er red bres'?"
"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 sittin' 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.
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