“Brer rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de tar-baby, she keep on sayin’ nuthin’ twel presently brer rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en blip he tuck ’er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his merlasses jug. His fis’ struck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt ’im. “But tar-baby, she stay still, en brer fox, he lay low. “‘Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you agin,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid de udder han’, en dat stuck. Tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en brer fox, he lay low. ‘Tu’n me loose, fo’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee, but de tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt on, en den brer rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. “Brer fox, he lay low. Den brer rabbit squall out dat ef de tar-baby don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den brer fox, he santered fort’, lookin’ des ez innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds. “‘Howdy, brer rabbit,’ sez brer fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin’,’ sezee, en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft twel he couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I ’speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, brer rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain’t gwineter take no skuse,’ sez brer fox, sezee.” Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes. “Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had been told. “Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, en den agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B’ar come along en loosed ’im—some say he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.” _Joel Chandler Harris._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _POMONA’S NOVEL._ [Illustration] IT was in the latter part of August of that year that it became necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St. Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far into the regulation sleeping hours. There were very good reasons why we should go (for of course I would not think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first place it would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to take the trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We had never been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we would see would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes and Niagara, and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then we would have to leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how could we do that?