Morning crept slow over the Georgia hills, bringing with it a syrupy kind of heat—the kind that made every creature move slower except for Br’er Rabbit, who never could sit still long enough to get sticky.
He hopped down a red-dirt path, whistling a tune that might’ve been cheerful if it weren’t so sly. Trouble, you see, had a habit of finding Br’er Rabbit, but he always found a way to dance with it instead of getting stepped on.
And this morning, trouble had a name: Br’er Fox.
That jealous trickster had spent all week planning a snare so clever even the moon leaned in to listen. Out by the millpond, he rolled out a heavy millstone, flat and wide, and smeared it with sweet, golden sorghum syrup so thick it glistened in the sunlight. “Let’s see him hop free from this,” Br’er Fox chuckled, licking his whiskers.
Before long, along came Br’er Rabbit, swinging his paws and humming. He stopped dead when he caught a whiff of that sorghum. His nose twitched, ears perked.
“Well now,” he said, “that smells just like heaven baked on Sunday morning!”
He bounded over to the millstone, dipped a paw, and licked. The sweetness melted on his tongue. “Mercy!” he said, “I ought to take some home—”
And then—smack!—both paws stuck fast to the syrup. He pulled back and—slap!—his other paw got caught too.
Out from the brush came Br’er Fox, tail swishing like a preacher’s fan.
“Well now, Br’er Rabbit,” he drawled, “looks like you done found yourself in a sticky situation.”
Rabbit blinked twice, calm as you please. “Well bless my fur,” he said, “you done built me a monument!”
Fox tilted his head. “A what?”
“A monument, my good friend—a proper tombstone! You got me so fine and proper, I reckon you’ll be famous once folks see where ol’ Br’er Rabbit lies buried. You best give me a hero’s send-off.”
Br’er Fox squinted. “A hero’s send-off?”
“Yes sir,” Rabbit sniffled, looking solemn. “Roll this fine stone up that hill yonder. Lay me out where the sun can see me. Let the folks sing, ‘Here lies the bravest rabbit ever lived!’—oh, and don’t forget to hum a hymn or two. Heroes can’t rest without music.”
Br’er Fox’s grin spread slow. He liked that idea just fine. “Well, I do declare, that sounds mighty noble,” he said, puffing out his chest. “I’ll make sure the whole forest knows you died grand.”
He got behind the millstone and started pushing. The stone was heavy as a promise, groaning and grinding up the slope. Rabbit moaned louder with every turn.
“Sing now, Br’er Fox,” Rabbit called. “A funeral without a song ain’t fit for no rabbit.”
So Fox started low, drawling out,
🎵 “Swing low, sweet chariot…” 🎵
His voice wobbled, but he liked the sound of himself, so he sang louder, eyes half-closed, tail wagging in rhythm.
That’s when Br’er Rabbit twisted—one paw, then another—sliding slick out of the syrup’s grip. He gave one mighty jerk, and pop! out he came, sticky but free.
He didn’t run away—oh no, not our Rabbit. He hopped right in front of the stone, set both hind legs firm, and kicked with all his might.
That millstone lurched forward, rolled once, twice, then thundered downhill straight toward Br’er Fox—who opened his eyes just in time to yelp, “RABBIT, NO—!”
Too late.
The stone chased him faster than sin on Sunday, bouncing and spinning while Br’er Fox scrambled, ears flapping, fur flying. He hit the pond with a splash so big even the frogs ducked. The millstone followed him with a KER-SPLUNK and sank straight to the bottom.
Br’er Fox surfaced coughing weeds, his tail dripping like a drowned cat’s.
On the shore, Rabbit sat in the shade, wiping syrup from his whiskers. “Now, Fox,” he called, “I appreciate that nice hymn, but next time you plan a funeral, make sure you know who’s doing the dying!”
Fox just gurgled and sank again.
Later that evening, the whole forest buzzed with laughter. The story spread faster than the smell of biscuits—how Br’er Rabbit turned his trap into a triumph and rolled mischief right back at its maker.
Some say that millstone still rests in the pond, covered in moss, a warning and a memory both: that no trap’s too tight for a clever mind and a calm tongue.
As the moon rose, Rabbit sat watching his reflection ripple in the water, humming the same tune Br’er Fox had sung. “Sometimes,” he whispered, “the only way out of trouble is straight through it—but you better know which way that stone’s gonna roll.”
Moral of the Story
When you can’t escape trouble, redirect it. Wit, calm thinking, and confidence can turn traps into stepping stones—or rolling ones.
Knowledge Check
1. What kind of trap did Br’er Fox set?
He smeared sweet sorghum syrup on a heavy millstone to catch Br’er Rabbit.
2. How did Rabbit react when caught?
He stayed calm and pretended to be proud of his “monument.”
3. Why did Fox agree to roll the stone uphill?
Rabbit convinced him it was for a hero’s funeral.
4. When did Rabbit escape?
As Fox closed his eyes to sing, Rabbit wriggled free.
5. What did Rabbit do instead of fleeing?
He kicked the millstone downhill toward Fox, sending him into the pond.
6. What is the key lesson of the tale?
Stay calm, think fast, and let cleverness steer danger where it belongs.
Origin: African American folktale tradition (Southern United States)
Category: American Folktales
Tags: Br’er Rabbit, African American folktales, trickster tales, humor in adversity, wit and wisdom
Keyword: Br’er Rabbit folktale
