"All right, Brer Fox, but you had better holler fum whar' you stan'," sez Brer Rabbit, "so's der res' may hear. I sorter members der las' time we confabbed togedder, sezee, when we war des as soshubble ez er basket er kittens, twel bimeby you kinder went down to der bottom kerblunkity-blunk, and den you sorter rounded on _me_ 'bout der privit palaver, en I des don't like der way ez der sym'tums seem to segashuate," says Brer Rabbit, sezee. "Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is, but you ain't gwineter boss _me_," says Brer Fox, sezee. Brer Rabbit, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but he ain't sayin' nuthin'. "I'm gwineter larn you howter talk ter 'spectubble fokes if hit's der las' ack," says Brer Fox, sezee. "Ef you don't take off dat hat, and tell me howdy, I'm gwineter to bus' you wide open, sezee, ef I busses myself at der same time," sezee. Den Brer Rabbit he fotch up on his behime legs like he wuz 'stonished, but he stan' on his dignitude, and he ain't sayin' nuthin! Den Brer Fox get mighty mad. Der never wuz a madder beas' dan he wuz des den. He rip, en he r'ar, en he cuss, en he swar, he snort, en he cavort. "What was he doing that for, Uncle REMUS?" the little boy inquired. "Bress you' soul, he wuz tryin' fer tar fling Brer Rabbit off'n his dignitude," answered the old man. "And did he succeed?" pursued the little lad. "Dat's all de fur de tale goes--at present," replied the old man. "How de onfrennelness eventuated, I may tell you anudder time. But, as I tell you, Brer Rabbit wuz a monstus soon beas'; and, when Brer Fox look mighty biggity, atter cuttin' up mighty small, en loup roun' and make faces at all de beastesses, en sorter rustle roun' like he wuz gwinter bus' eberything, why den, honey, fokes is apt to look on him as kinder splummy-splummy, atter all, en his enfloons bimeby is boun' to be pow'ful lackin'." * * * * * THAT FOOT-BALL. _AN ATHLETIC FATHER'S LAMENT._ What was it made me cricket snub, And force my seven sons to subsidize a local "Rugby" Club? That Foot-ball! Yet, what first drew from me a sigh, When TOM, my eldest, missed a "try," But got instead a broken thigh! That Foot-ball! What in my second, stalwart JACK, Caused some inside machine to crack, And kept him ten months on his back--? That Foot-ball! What brought my third, unhappy TED, To fade and sink, and keep his bed, And finally go off his head?-- That Foot-ball! My fourth and fifth, poor JOHN and JIM, What made the sight of one so dim? What made the other lack a limb? That Foot-ball! Then FRANK, my sixth, who cannot touch The ground unaided by a crutch, Alas! of what had he too much? That Foot-ball! The seventh ends the mournful line, Poor STEPHEN with his fractured spine. A debt owe these good sons of mine, That Foot-ball!