] I lay dey fit yo' palate mo'
samer dan dey does mine. Dish yer hunk er beef, we kin talk 'bout dat
w'en de time come, en dem ar biscuits, I des nat'ally knows Miss Sally
put um in dar fer some little chap w'ich his name I aint gwine ter call
in comp'ny."

It was easy to perceive that the sight of the supper had put Uncle Remus
in rare good-humor. He moved around briskly, taking the plates from the
waiter and distributing them with exaggerated carefulness around upon
his little pine table. Meanwhile he kept up a running fire of
conversation.

"Folks w'at kin set down en have der vittles brung en put down right
spang und' der nose--dem kinder folks aint got no needs er no umbrell.
Night 'fo' las', w'iles I wuz settin' dar in de do', I year dem
Willis-whistlers, en den I des knowed we 'uz gwine ter git a season."[7]

"The Willis-whistlers, Uncle Remus," exclaimed the little boy. "What are
they?"

"Youer too hard fer me now, honey. Dat w'at I knows I don't min'
tellin', but w'en you axes me 'bout dat w'at I dunno, den youer too hard
fer me, sho'. Deze yer Willis-whistlers, dey bangs my time, en I bin
knockin' 'roun' in dish yer low-groun' now gwine on eighty year. Some
folks wanter make out deyer frogs, yit I wish dey p'int out unter me how
frogs kin holler so dat de nigher you come t'um, de furder you is off; I
be mighty glad ef some un 'ud come 'long en tell me dat. Many en many's
de time is I gone atter deze yer Willis-whistlers, en, no diffunce whar
I goes, deyer allers off yander. You kin put de shovel in de fier en
make de squinch-owl hush he fuss, en you kin go out en put yo' han' on
de trees en make deze yere locus'-bugs quit der racket, but dem ar
Willis-whistlers deyer allers 'way off yander."[8]

Suddenly Uncle Remus paused over one of the dishes, and exclaimed:

"Gracious en de goodness! W'at kinder doin's is dis Miss Sally done gone
sont us?"

"That," said the little boy, after making an investigation, "is what
mamma calls a floating island."

"Well, den," Uncle Remus remarked, in a relieved tone, "dat 's diffunt. I
wuz mos' fear'd it 'uz some er dat ar sillerbug, w'ich a whole jugful
aint ska'cely 'nuff fer ter make you seem like you dremp 'bout smellin'
dram. Ef I'm gwine ter be fed on foam," continued the old man, by way of
explaining his position on the subject of syllabub, "let it be foam, en
ef I'm gwine ter git dram, lemme git in reach un it w'ile she got some
strenk lef'. Dat 's me up an dow