.

Some negro from the River place had brought a fiddle, and, though it was
a very feeble one, its screeching seemed to annoy Uncle Remus.

"Put up dat ar fiddle!" he exclaimed, waving his hand. "Des put 'er up;
she sets my toof on aidje. Put 'er up en les go back ter ole times. Dey
ain't no room fer no fiddle 'roun' yer, 'kaze w'en you gits me started
dat ar fiddle won't be nowhars."

"Dat's so," said the man with the fiddle, and the irritating instrument
was laid aside.

"Now, den," Uncle Remus went on, "dey's a little chap yer dat you'll all
come ter know mighty well one er deze odd-come-shorts, en dish yer
little chap ain't got so mighty long fer ter set up 'long wid us. Dat
bein' de case we oughter take 'n put de bes' foot fo'mus' fer ter
commence wid."

"You lead, Unk Remus! You des lead en we'll foller."

Thereupon the old man called to the best singers among the negroes and
made them stand near him. Then he raised his right hand to his ear and
stood perfectly still. The little boy thought he was listening for
something, but presently Uncle Remus began to slap himself gently with
his left hand, first upon the leg and then upon the breast. The other
negroes kept time to this by a gentle motion of their feet, and finally,
when the thump--thump--thump of this movement had regulated itself to
suit the old man's fancy, he broke out with what may be called a
Christmas dance song.

His voice was strong, and powerful, and sweet, and its range was as
astonishing as its volume. More than this, the melody to which he tuned
it, and which was caught up by a hundred voices almost as sweet and as
powerful as his own, was charged with a mysterious and pathetic
tenderness.

The fine company of men and women at the big house--men and women who
had made the tour of all the capitals of Europe--listened with swelling
hearts and with tears in their eyes as the song rose and fell upon the
air--at one moment a tempest of melody, at another a heart-breaking
strain breathed softly and sweetly to the gentle winds. The song that
the little boy and the fine company heard was something like
this--ridiculous enough when put in cold type, but powerful and
thrilling when joined to the melody with which the negroes had invested
it:--

_MY HONEY, MY LOVE_

_Hit's a mighty fur ways up de Far'well Lane,
My honey, my love!
You may ax Mister Crow, you may ax Mr. Crane,
My honey, my love!