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"Most generally, Boss, it are; but you see Bre'r Green, what was to preach the ole 'oman's sarmont, had a big baptizin' for two Sundays han' runnin', and he was gwine to Boston for a spell, on the next comin' Saddy, so bein' as our time belonks to us now, we was free to 'pint a week day." "You are positive it was the twenty-sixth?" "Oh, yes'ir; plum postiv.
We-uns haven't had breakfast yet, so we-uns are feeling po'ly," replied Unc' Billy with a grin. A sudden thought popped into Peter's head. "Unc' Billy," cried Peter excitedly, "are you a Carnivora?" Unc' poked his head a little farther out and put his hand behind his ear as if he were a little hard of hearing. "What's that, Bre'r Rabbit? Am I a what?" he demanded.
I wouldn't tech one fer nothin'." "But you aren't afraid of snakes," replied Dimple, "and these little terrapins are much more harmless." Nevertheless Bubbles had in some way acquired a superstition about "Bre'r Tarrapin," from Sylvy, who, like most colored people, stood in terror of the innocent creatures.
"But sometimes Mrs. Possum has to tote around a still bigger family. We believe in chillun and lots of them. We reckon on havin' two or three big families every year." "Where is your home?" asked Johnny Chuck. "I know," said Peter Rabbit. "It's up in a big hollow tree." Unc' Billy looked down at Peter. "'Tisn't at all necessary to tell anybody where that hollow tree is, Bre'r Rabbit," said he.
"Why, Uncle Peter," said Phil incredulously, "cats can't talk!" "Can't dey? Hoo said dey couldn'? Ain't Miss Grac'ella an' me be'n tellin' you right along 'bout Bre'r Rabbit and Bre'r Fox an de yuther creturs talkin' an' gwine on jes' lak folks?" "Yes, Uncle Peter, but those were just stories; they didn't really talk, did they?"
We could see for ourselves Bre'r Jack-rabbit and Sis' Gopher skipping away in the greasewood. The horses and cattle had their own broad-beaten roads converging from far away toward an occasional break in the canon wall, where the thirsty tracks went down.
Not once in the long, hot afternoon had she vouchsafed him the minimum of a show of interest, curiosity, or even consciousness of his presence. Then the train made its second stop on account of the fires, and Bre'r Rabbit his luckless break into the long monotony of the declining day.
"It never does to poke your finger into a bird's nest," observed Elsie, with a sapient shake of the head. "The eggs always addle if you do, or the young birds refuse to hatch out; and of course in the case of turtle-doves it would be all the more so. 'Lay low, Bre'r Fox, and wait for what happens.
The next instant, uninjured, but leaping madly for life, Bre'r Rabbit was streaking eastward out of harm's way, a liberated victim whose first huge leap owed much of its length to the impetus of Stuyvesant's long, lean, sinewy arm.
He was just past and no more when a familiar voice hailed him. "Morning, Bre'r Rabbit," said the voice. "What's yo' hurry?" Peter stopped abruptly and looked up in that tree. There, peering down at him from a hole high up in the trunk, was a sharp, whitish-gray face, with a pair of twinkling black eyes. "Hello, Unc' Billy," cried Peter. "How are you and Ol' Mrs. Possum?" "Po'ly, Peter, Po'ly.
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