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The Life 
 
 of 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 From Ohseurity in Boyhood to Fame 
 in Early Manhood 
 
 Short Stories and Other Early Literary 
 Work Not Heretofore 
 Published in Book Form 
 
 By Robert Lemuel Wiggins, Ph.D. 
 
 Professor of English in Birmingham-Southern College 
 Birmingham, Ala. 
 
 Nashville, Tenn. 
 
 Dallas, Tex.; Richmond, Va. 
 
 Publishing House Methodist Episcopal Church, South 
 
 Smith & Lamar, Agents 
 
 1918 
 
^0 
 
 *p 
 
 # 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918 
 BY 
 
 SMITH & LAMAR 
 
 APR i4i3ii 
 
 ©CI.A5L52 41 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Opportunity to contribute to the knowledge of Joel 
 Chandler Harris came to the author, a native of Georgia, 
 while he was living in the city of Atlanta. "The Sign of the 
 Wren's Nest" was thrown open to him by Mrs. Harris 
 just as she began setting things in order for the approaching 
 occupancy of the home by the Uncle Remus Memorial As- 
 sociation. She generously laid before him Mr. Harris's 
 boyhood scrapbooks, an invaluable file of The Country- 
 man, letters, pertinent clippings, etc., and through leisurely 
 conversation from day to day afforded such illumination on 
 the life and character of her husband as could come from 
 no other source. Further researches were made in Eaton- 
 ton, Forsyth, Savannah, and Atlanta, in each of which 
 places were still living those who had known Harris in his 
 boyhood or young manhood previous to the publication of 
 "Uncle Remus" and were glad to give facts that might 
 be got only from their memories. Especial mention must 
 be made of Mrs. George Starke, whose reminiscences were 
 strengthened by letters that she has permitted to be used. 
 The most valuable documentary sources of information 
 were the files of The Countryman and the Atlanta Con- 
 stitution, which were diligently searched page by page, 
 the former exhaustively and the latter from the year of 
 Harris's first association with the paper down to 1881. 
 
 The author is under particular obligation to Professor 
 W. P. Trent, of Columbia University,' who read the manu- 
 script of this work and gave scholarly advice. He is also 
 indebted to Professor James Hinton, of Emory University, 
 for kindly criticisms and suggestions. A portion of the 
 work was submitted as a dissertation in partial fulfillment of 
 the requirements for the degree of doctor of philosophy at 
 
 (iii) 
 
iv The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the University of Virginia, where valuable assistance was 
 received from Professor C. Alphonso Smith. The repro- 
 duction of "The Romance of Rockville" would have been 
 impossible had not Miss Alice B. Wilson, of the Atlanta 
 Constitution, personally made a typewritten copy from the 
 carefully guarded file of the weekly Constitution. Permis- 
 sion for this to be done was generously granted by the ed- 
 itor, Mr. Clark Howell. The bibliography was prepared 
 with comparative ease on account of the previous work of 
 Misses Katherine Wooten and Tommie Dora Barker at 
 the Carnegie Library of Atlanta. From the beginning to the 
 close of his task extensive assistance, both in the me- 
 chanical work of preparing the manuscript and in literary 
 criticism, has been given by the author's wife, Gertrude 
 Holland, grateful acknowledgment of which is here made. 
 The Index was prepared by the Book Editor of the Meth- 
 odist Episcopal Church, South, Dr. Frank M. Thomas. The 
 volume is published in recognition of the value of Harris's 
 contribution to our nation's literature. R. L. Wiggins. 
 Birmingham, Ala. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 Introduction i 
 
 Part I. — Biographical 9 
 
 Part II. — Early Literary Efforts 155 
 
 Bibliography 429 
 
 Index 445 
 
 (v) 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 THE fame and popularity of Joel Chandler Harris fol- 
 lowed instantly upon the publication of his first book, 
 in 1880, and have steadily grown and spread until he 
 has attained a permanent place in the world's literature. 
 His ability and talent are evident in all that he wrote as 
 poet, editor, historian, novelist, and short-story writer; but 
 his genius triumphs in his negro folk tales, and these are 
 carrying his name around the world. 
 
 "Uncle Remus : His Songs and His Sayings" had been off 
 the press only about two weeks when the publishers wrote : 
 
 Bear Mr. Harris: The firm are well pleased at the suc- 
 cess of "Uncle Remus." We have sold two editions of fif- 
 teen hundred each, and the third edition of fifteen hundred 
 more will be in on Friday. Of these, some five hundred are 
 ordered. Mr. Charles A. Dana told me in my office last 
 week as follows : "Derby, 'Uncle Remus' is a great book. 
 It will not only have a large, but a permanent, an enduring 
 sale." 
 
 Yours truly, J. C. Derby. 1 
 
 In 1915 the publishers reported fifty-two printings of this 
 book. "Nights with Uncle Remus" has passed through six 
 editions. "Uncle Remus and His Friends" has appeared in 
 editions of 1892, 1900, 1913, and 1914. 
 
 In England "Uncle Remus" was published very soon after 
 
 *Mr. J. C. Derby, as representative of the publishers, went to At- 
 lanta and assisted Mr. Harris in selecting from the files of the At- 
 lanta Constitution those tales, sketches, songs, and proverbs that 
 make up the volume. 
 
 (I) 
 
2 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 it appeared in this country, and its popularity there has 
 equaled its popularity here. Ten publishing houses in Lon- 
 don have produced editions. Rudyard Kipling has ex- 
 pressed his admiration of Harris's work, acknowledging 
 indebtedness to him from the age of fifteen, when "Uncle 
 Remus" legends "ran like wildfire through an English pub- 
 lic school." 1 
 
 On April 24, 1914, W. Francis Aitken wrote: "So far as 
 I can gather from memory and from others who should 
 know, the Uncle Remus series is as well known in England 
 almost as the 'Fables' of ^Esop, but no one has written 
 anything about him that stands out by reason of its intrinsic 
 importance." Punch and Westminster Gazette have adapt- 
 ed the Uncle Remus idea to political caricature. A cable- 
 gram from London, published in the Atlanta Journal April 
 16, 1914, tells fully of " 'Brer Rabbit and Mr. Fox,' which 
 was presented for the first time on any stage at the Aldwych 
 Theater to a delighted and astonished audience." 2 The 
 London Sunday Times of May 3, 19 14, indicates the equal 
 success of the dramatization at the Little Theater. 3 The 
 "Cambridge History of American Literature," now being 
 published, allots a chapter to Harris. 
 
 In Germany, the culture ground of folklore study, we 
 may presume that this author will be a growing figure. In 
 1910-11, as Roosevelt Professor in the University of Berlin, 
 Dr. C. Alphonso Smith, presenting a survey of American 
 literature, devoted two entire lectures out of thirty to "Joel 
 
 ^rom a letter to Mr. Harris, dated Naulakha, Waite, Wendham 
 Co., Vermont, December 6, 1895. Mr. Kipling inquired especially as 
 to the source of "Miss Meadows and the Girls." 
 
 2 The Atlanta Journal, April 16, 1914. 
 
 3 The London Sunday Times, May 3, 1914; also Current Opinion, 
 July, 1914, Vol. LVIL, page 30, "Brer Rabbit and Mr. Fox as Foot- 
 light Favorites in London." 
 
Introduction 3 
 
 Chandler Harris, eine Abhandlung uber den Neger ah liter- 
 arisches Objekt." And he pronounced "Uncle Remus" 
 "the most important individual contribution to American 
 literature since 1870." 1 Whereupon the German reviewers 
 responded with especial notice of Harris. Then followed 
 the first really acceptable history of American literature by 
 a German, Dr. Leon Kellner, professor in the University of 
 Czernowitz, who gives the "Tar Baby Story" in English and 
 translates it into German, declares that Harris has shown 
 the deepest insight into the soul of the American negro, 
 and accords him major writer's space. 2 
 
 In France translation of the Uncle Remus stories has 
 been included in a series known as "Les Livres Roses Pour 
 La Jeunesse." 3 As stated in Smith's bibliography of Harris : 
 
 W. T. Stead (London Review of Reviews) began in 1896 
 a series known as "Books for the Bairns," of which "The 
 Wonderful Adventure of Old Brer Rabbit" (July-September, 
 1896) was No. 6, "More Stories about Old Brer Rabbit" 
 (January-March, 1898) No. 20, and "Brer Fox and Brer 
 Rabbit" (January- June, 1901) No. 61. These three num- 
 bers included twenty-eight stories, fourteen [fifteen] from 
 "Uncle Remus" and fourteen [thirteen] from "Nights with 
 Uncle Remus." No. 6 was translated into French as "Les 
 Merveilleuses Aventures du Vieux Frere Lapin," Paris, 
 1910; No. 20, as "Nouvelles Aventures du Vieux Frere La- 
 
 1 Die Amerikanische Literatur (Berlin, 1912), page 31: "Uncle 
 Remus: His Songs and His Sayings" (1880) (Seine Lieder und 
 Auspruche) ist der wichstigste einzelne Beitrag zur amerikanischen 
 Literatur seit 1870." 
 
 2 Geschichte der nordamerikanischen Literatur (Berlin and Leipsic, 
 1913). Vol. II., pages 75-82. "Den tiefsten Blick in die Seele des 
 amerikanischen Negers hat Joel Chandler Harris." (Doubleday, 
 Page & Co. brought this work out in America, translated from the 
 German by Julia Franklin, May, 1915.) 
 
 'Librarie Larousse, Paris, 1910-11. 
 
4 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 pin," Paris, 191 1; and No. 61, as "Frere Renard et Frere 
 Lapin," Paris, 191 1. 1 
 
 In Australia the booksellers carry "Uncle Remus" in their 
 regular stock. 2 
 
 In India during 19 17 a boys' magazine called Balak (the 
 Bengali for boy), published at Calcutta, carried a series of 
 the legends translated into Bengali by C. E. Prior, a mis- 
 sionary. 8 
 
 In Japan recently a guest in a Japanese home found 
 "Uncle Remus" the only book in English. 
 
 Finally, in their Harris form the tales are going back to 
 Africa. 4 
 
 In America, of course, "Uncle Remus" is a name through 
 which the ends of the continent may enter at once into 
 friendly acquaintance. Mr. Harris was loved by the little 
 children and honored by the great men of his country. Con- 
 temporary authors paid highest tribute to him and sought 
 association with him. President Roosevelt declared that 
 Georgia had done no greater thing than giving Harris to 
 American literature. 6 He afterwards prevailed upon the 
 "most modest writer in America" to be his guest at the 
 White House. 6 Andrew Carnegie visited Harris in 1906 
 
 Cambridge History of American Literature. 
 
 2 Report of National Secretary Young Women's Christian Associa- 
 tion. 
 
 3 C. E. Prior, in a letter to Mr. Harris from Calcutta, November 8, 
 1916, published in the Atlanta Georgian, January 16, 1917. 
 
 4 Mrs. Myrta Lockett Avary. Introduction to the Visitors' Edition 
 of "Uncle Remus and His Friends," 1914. 
 
 5 Banquet speech in Atlanta, 1905. 
 
 "Letters in possession of Mrs. Harris. Mr. Roosevelt, says Mrs. 
 A. McD. Wilson, President Uncle Remus Memorial Association, 
 made possible the Association's purchase of the Wren's Nest by 
 donating to the purpose the proceeds of a lecture in Atlanta, about 
 $S,ooo. Later Mr. Carnegie contributed a like amount. 
 
Introduction 5 
 
 and later subscribed himself on a portrait presented to the 
 Wren's Nest as "not only an admirer, but a loving friend, 
 of that rare soul." Mark Twain, in letter after letter, 
 entreated Harris to visit him. 1 Riley spent some time 
 in genial and affectionate association with Mr. Harris and 
 his family in Atlanta. He afterwards wrote the following 
 letter: 
 
 Philadelphia, December 30, 1905. 
 Joel Chandler Harris, Esq. 
 
 Dear Friend: Your book of "New Stories of the Old 
 Plantation" is here from your generous hand, and I am as 
 tickled over it as old Brer Rabbit on the front cover. And 
 I think it's the best of all Christmas books this year, just as 
 last Christmas your "Tar Baby Rhymes" led all the list. La ! 
 but I want to see you and talk with you, loaf with you, me- 
 ander round with you, or set still, jes' a-tradin' laughs or 
 shut clean to a-sayin' nothin' 'cause we don't haf to ! 
 
 To-day I got off four books to your care (by express). 
 Nothin' new but the pictures, which in spots at least I 
 know'll please you. How in fancy I see us a-really a-meet- 
 in' up again, after these long years, and a-throwin' our 
 heads back, a-sorto' teeterin' on one foot and a-hittin' the 
 ground with the t'other, same lak a-peltin' a old dusty cyar- 
 pet with a wet umbrell ! 
 
 And now, on the dawn of the new year, come to you the 
 heartfelt greetings and praises and gratefulness of 
 
 Your fraternal, ever-loving old Hoosier friend, 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 P. S. — To your household all fervent best wishes and con- 
 tinuous. Do write to me! 2 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page wished Harris to join him on a 
 lecture-reading tour 3 and declared : "No man who has ever 
 written has known one-tenth part about the negro that Mr. 
 
 ^Letters in possession of Mrs. Harris. 
 
 2 Letter in possession of Mrs. Harris. 
 
 8 Letter dated Richmond, Va., September 27, 1887. 
 
6 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Harris knows." 1 And George W. Cable is said to have 
 "smiled at all Southern names except Uncle Remus." 2 
 
 The Uncle Remus Memorial Association, organized in 
 Atlanta July 10, 1908 (one week after the great writer's 
 death), purchased his home, "The Sign of the Wren's Nest," 
 January 18, 1913, and has equipped it as a permanent me- 
 morial. During the first year 1,300 visitors registered; and 
 from January to December, 1914, 2,523 registered, from 
 forty-five States and seven foreign countries. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fact that he has made a permanent 
 contribution to literature, is the most popularly read Amer- 
 ican author, and has been highly honored, no biography of 
 Joel Chandler Harris has ever been written nor any ade- 
 quate study of his career undertaken. Of the various inter- 
 esting biographical sketches that have appeared, the most 
 extensive was written by Mrs. Myrta Lockett Avary in 
 1913, published as a souvenir pamphlet by the Uncle Remus 
 Memorial Association. Especially has the earlier half of 
 the author's life been hastily passed over. The present 
 volume, therefore, is based upon exhaustive researches, with 
 particular reference to formative influences in his career, 
 and covers Mr. Harris's life from obscurity in boyhood to 
 fame in early manhood. 
 
 a As quoted by Baskervill in "Southern Writers." 
 2 New Orleans letter from Boston Post, Atlanta Constitution, 
 August 5, 1881. 
 
PART I 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL 
 
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS was born in Eatonton, 
 Putnam County, Georgia, December 9, 1848, and died 
 at his home, "The Sign of the Wren's Nest," in Atlanta, 
 about 8 p.m., July 3, 1908. 1 
 
 One hundred and fifteen years had afforded abundant 
 time for descendants of the Oglethorpe colony, together 
 with their immigrating neighbors from Virginia and North 
 Carolina, to transform wild hunting grounds and small 
 maize fields of the Creeks and Cherokees into great planta- 
 tions and wealthy towns. During the final decade of slav- 
 ery ease and leisure were promoting the advance of culture, 
 especially in Middle Georgia, and herein lies the significance 
 to-day of the phrase "one of the good old towns" that is 
 applied to Eatonton. 
 
 Still a small place of about two thousand people, preserv- 
 ing much of its ante-bellum character, it is near the geo- 
 graphical center of the State. It is certainly significant that 
 within a day's drive of this village were born, before and 
 during the time of Harris, most of Georgia's outstanding 
 leaders in religion, literature, government, and war. In the 
 same county was born L. Q. C. Lamar; in the adjoining 
 county of Jasper, Ben Hill ; to the north, about forty miles, 
 Henry W. Grady and Atticus G. Hayggood ; to the northeast, 
 less than fifty miles, Alexander Stephens, James O. Andrew, 
 Robert Toombs, and, nearer by half, George F. Pierce; to 
 the southwest, within fifty miles, John B. Gordon; to the 
 south, less than forty miles, Sidney Lanier; and just across 
 the Hancock line, Richard Malcolm Johnston. Then we 
 
 1 These dates are certified by the family. 
 
 (9) 
 
io The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 are prepared to note further that this town was the center 
 in Georgia about which were assembled the various educa- 
 tional institutions. Within the narrow circle (the radius of 
 which might be traversed on foot between one's morning 
 and evening meals) were planted by the State its university; 
 by the Methodists, Emory College for boys and Wesleyan 
 for girls; by the Baptists, Mercer University (Institute); 
 by the Presbyterians, Oglethorpe University. Finally, the 
 capital of the State, Milledgeville, was not twenty miles 
 away. 
 
 Thus favorably located, Eatonton was a wealthy, cultured 
 community ; and Joe Harris was its little poor boy, to whom 
 in many ways much assistance was given. Authentic ac- 
 count of his life begins when he was living with his mother 
 and grandmother in a little one-room house on the edge of 
 town in the early fifties. His mother pluckily earned a liv- 
 ing for the three with her needle. She was a woman of 
 strong character and quick mind, but, conscious of her pov- 
 erty, lived to herself, rarely leaving the work that confined 
 her indoors, except to attend church. 1 
 
 A chum of boyhood and a friend throughout life gives the 
 following account : 
 
 Our family moved to Eatonton about 1853, into a house 
 not far from where Joe Harris was living with his mother 
 and grandmother. It was very soon after our arrival that 
 Joe appeared one morning at our woodpile, where we soon 
 made acquaintance. In the days that followed we became 
 fast friends for life. Joe didn't believe in work and always 
 sat on the fence while my brother and I worked in the gar- 
 den or elsewhere. Some years ago, when I read something 
 about his "Snap Bean Farm," I laughed and said to myself, 
 "Yes, I bet he ain't got two rows." 
 
 1 These facts are established by the testimony of John S. Reid and 
 other aged citizens of Eatonton. 
 
Biographical I 1 
 
 Well, he'd wait until we got through work, and then we'd 
 be off up the branch hunting lizards or doing something 
 else. Joe could run like a deer; and when we didn't want 
 the company of my younger brother Jim [In the Savannah 
 News Joe used to refer to him as Hon. James Nathan 
 Leonard] , he would hold him until I got a good start, throw 
 his hat away, and then run off from him. He could throw, 
 too, like a bullet. I remember one day he spied, hanging 
 right over my head, a wasp nest that I didn't see. With one 
 rock he dropped that nest, full of wasps, square in my face 
 as I looked up. Joe was gone like a flash, but my face was 
 swollen so that I could hardly see for a week. 
 
 Mr. McDade's livery stable was a great place for us. 
 Fine horses were often brought from Kentucky and Ohio, 
 and the drovers would let us ride them to the blacksmith 
 shop or for exercise. Collecting bird eggs was another 
 great amusement, and we had many kinds that nobody but 
 ourselves knew. But I suppose our biggest fun was in 
 running rabbits. Mr. Harvey Dennis, who lived across the 
 bottom and up on the hill from Joe's house, had some very 
 fine fox hounds. We would get out and clap our hands and 
 yell until those dogs would rush down and follow us. Pret- 
 ty soon here would come Mr. Dennis after us ; but he would 
 just say: "Well, boys, you've got my dogs running rabbits 
 again !" He had good reason not to get mad, because Joe 
 used to help him keep his dogs in training by dragging a 
 fox hide around through the fields and woods for three or 
 four miles and then sitting up in a tree till the dogs fol- 
 lowed the trail and treed him. 
 
 Nearly every time we hunted over in the neighborhood of 
 the graveyard we would see a rabbit run out through one 
 same hole. Not far away lived a fortune teller, who, I 
 remember, gave us a chase one day. It looked like the 
 very same rabbit, of course, that ran through the graveyard 
 each time, and Joe would declare it was that fortune teller 
 turned into a rabbit. Sometimes the rabbit we were after 
 would hop out in sight of us and appear to spit on his 
 front paws. When Joe saw that, he would say : "He's gone 
 now; we'll never get him." One day Joe and I came in 
 from a long tramp very hungry. His mother fixed up some 
 
.» 
 
 12 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 batter and told Joe he could cook the cakes. After he had 
 turned them several times, he wheeled about and ran the 
 blunt side of the flapper around my neck. It burned so 
 that I thought my throat was cut, and I threw up my hands 
 in horror. His mother was so amused that she laughed as 
 if she couldn't stop. There was a blistered ring around my 
 neck for several days. 
 
 For a year or two we went to a mixed school taught by 
 a lady from the North, Miss Kate Davidson. Then we 
 went to the male academy. Joe, Hut Adams, a boy older 
 than either of us, and myself were boon friends, and we 
 rarely mixed with others. I remember how, coming to- 
 gether from school north along Washington Street, one 
 block from the town square, Hut would drop out at his 
 house first, then at McDade's stable Joe would turn out 
 Marion Street a hundred yards to his house, while my house 
 was straight on out Washington Street about two hundred 
 yards from Hut's. School seemed to be from sunup to 
 sundown, with only a dinner recess. But on our way to 
 and from school, on Saturdays, and sometimes on Sundays, 
 we had great times at marbles, tops, pole-jumping, stealing 
 watermelons 1 from Mr. Edmund Reid, and robbing Colonel 
 Nicholson's and Aunt Betty Pike's orchards. Hut was the 
 only man in the crowd that had a handkerchief, with which 
 we used to seine for minnows. He had a gun, too. Joe and 
 I would tramp all over the woods and fields with him, carry- 
 ing the game, in order to have one shot apiece. Hut got us 
 into a lot of deviltry, of course. But Joe got off many a 
 good joke on him. 
 
 I remember once we were in Colonel Nicholson's orchard. 
 Hut was high up in a tree. Joe saw the Colonel at a dis- 
 tance, walking with his stick, and called up to Hut : "Yon- 
 der comes Colonel Nicholson with his gun." Hut didn't 
 stop to look, but let loose and fell to the ground. Then 
 such a scramble he made ahead of us through the thick, 
 high weeds! The best one of all, Joe pulled off one day 
 when we were on our way back to school from dinner. 
 Near the street were the remains of an old log barn, with 
 
 x See editorial page, Atlanta Constitution, August 17, 1884. 
 
Biographical 13 
 
 only the walls standing, some eight feet high, possibly. Joe 
 had observed through the cracks that hogs had for a long 
 time made their beds inside. So, while we were all jumping 
 with our poles, he dared Hut to jump over one of the walls. 
 Hut leaped and tumbled over. When he had recovered 
 himself and come out, he began madly scratching his legs ; 
 and in a moment we all saw his light-colored breeches sim- 
 ply peppered with giant hog fleas. Hut made for Joe ; but 
 Joe was quick enough to get away home, where he stayed 
 until the next day. Hut had to go home and change his 
 clothes before he went back to school. 1 
 
 Leading from near Joe's house toward mine was a big 
 gully, which, with its tributaries, was our favorite play- 
 ground. We organized the "Gully Minstrels." Joe had a 
 fiddle that he couldn't play, and he made a most ridiculous 
 clown. Aunt Betsy Cuthbert, an old free negro, lived just 
 above the gully toward the stable. We thought there was 
 nobody like old Aunt Betsy, especially because she gave us 
 such good ginger cakes and pies. 2 
 
 Those good times before the war passed swiftly. I shall 
 never forget when Joe left us to begin work in the printing 
 shop on Mr. Turner's plantation. When the negro drove by 
 with his little trunk, I told Joe good-by as he got in the 
 wagon and was driven away. 3 
 
 The attention of kindly friends in Eatonton was drawn 
 to Joe Harris when, having learned to read at six years of 
 age, he appeared at Sunday school, clean and neatly dressed, 
 mentally alert and active. 4 His mother kindled in him the 
 
 1 On the afternoon of September 5, 1916, Mrs. Harris told the au- 
 thor of how Mr. Leonard and Mr. Harris recalled and laughed over 
 this incident during one of Mr. Leonard's visits to his old friend in 
 West End (Atlanta). 
 
 2 See editorial page, Atlanta Constitution, August 17, 1884. 
 
 "This account was given the author by Mr. Charles D. Leonard in 
 Eatonton August 31-September 1, 1916. 
 
 *Mr. Harris often spoke of the Eatonton friends who were kind 
 to him. He is quoted as to this in the Children's Visitor (Nashville, 
 Tenn.), November 23, 1902. 
 
14 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 intellectual and literary flame by reading aloud at least one 
 book, Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield," until he held ex- 
 tensive passages in memory. 1 So it came about, says Mrs. 
 B. W. Hunt, an intimate friend who sometimes studied 
 from the same book with him, that, when a little private 
 school for girls and boys was organized by a teacher from 
 Connecticut, Joe was entered probably at the expense of 
 some friend and kept in attendance for three or four years, 
 until he was old enough to enter the private school for boys. 2 
 Capt. John S. Reid, now Ordinary of Putnam County, says 
 that he taught Joe in this boys' school, where he was in at- 
 tendance for about a year and a half, being charged nothing 
 for his tuition. Captain Reid says, further, that he was the 
 best composition writer in his grade. 3 According to Har- 
 ris's own statement in later life, he had followed the reading 
 of the "Vicar of Wakefield" with some attempts at writing 
 after the fashion of that book. 4 He had become fond of 
 reading, and from the libraries of cultured friends came to 
 him very stimulative literature. Mrs. Hunt recalls his es- 
 pecial interest in Scott, Smollet, and Lamb. 
 
 Some way might have been found for this promising boy 
 to continue his education had not the war come. However, 
 it was to some purpose that the colleges were hard by. He 
 may well have known that during the first six years of his 
 life Emory College had as its president George F. Pierce, 
 from just across the Oconee River, and during six years of 
 his later life J. R. Thomas, from the adjoining county of 
 
 1 Lippincott's Monthly Magazine, April, 1886, "An Accidental Au- 
 thor," J. C. Harris. 
 
 2 Mrs. B. W. Hunt {nee Louise Prudden), of Eatonton, Ga. (Oral 
 statement.) 
 
 3 Capt. John S. Reid, of Eatonton, Ga. (Oral statement.) 
 
 4 Ray Stannard Baker, "Joel Chandler Harris," Outlook, Novem- 
 ber 5, 1904, Vol. LXXVIII., pages 594-603. 
 
Biographical 15 
 
 Hancock. He may well have heard how Mercer had been 
 founded by Rev. Jesse Mercer, the great Baptist preacher 
 of the preceding generation, who had been famous for his 
 long and powerful ministry in adjoining counties and who 
 had organized and for six years been pastor of a Church in 
 Eatonton. But the direct and certain influence fell upon 
 him from Oglethorpe University, at Milledgeville. For 
 when, in the alternating order of the village Church serv- 
 ices, came Presbyterian Sunday at the little union church, 
 there were often had from Oglethorpe eloquent preachers, 
 notable among whom were the learned professor of science, 
 afterwards president of the University of South Carolina, 
 James Woodrow, uncle of Woodrow Wilson, and the presi- 
 dent, S. K. Talmage, uncle of DeWitt Talmage. Doubt- 
 less Emory also, and possibly Mercer, furnished equally in- 
 spiring preachers for the Eatonton congregation. In "Sister 
 Jane," written in the first person and partly autobiograph- 
 ical, 1 Mr. Harris, after drawing on his clear memory doubt- 
 less as much as imagination in describing a certain church, 
 preacher, and sermon, records, in effect at least, a very im- 
 portant section of his own experience when he writes : 
 
 I found myself, therefore, with a good many other men, 
 sitting in the pews usually reserved for the women. I was 
 one pew behind that in which Sister Jane sat — on the very 
 seat, as I suddenly discovered, that I had sometimes occu- 
 pied when a boy, not willingly, but in deference to the com- 
 mands of Sister Jane [his mother, probably], who, in those 
 days long gone, made it a part of her duty to take me pris- 
 oner every Sunday morning and carry me to church, wheth- 
 er or no. 2 
 
 There is, of course, no possibility of determining just 
 what good seeds were sown by some of these preachers in 
 
 1 So says Mrs. Harris. ? "$ister Jane." 
 
i6 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the receptive mind and heart of this more or less recalcitrant 
 young hearer, but we are probably apt to underestimate the 
 influence. Religious touches in "Sister Jane" and in his 
 writings elsewhere show that he was familiar with the 
 Scriptures, evidently from his youth. And his vigorous 
 mind must have reacted as, through the persons as well as 
 through the words of these prominent men, secular interests 
 and ambitions were gratuitously borne in upon him with 
 matters of divine concern. For the thoughtful student of 
 his life there is much left unsaid in this playful account of 
 the hour at church after Sister Jane had gathered in the 
 youngster : 
 
 I used to sit and wish for the end, until the oblivion of 
 sleep lifted me beyond the four walls and out into the free- 
 dom of the woods and fields. Sometimes the preacher, 
 anxious to impress some argument upon the minds of his 
 hearers, would bring his fist down on the closed Bible with 
 a bang that startled me out of dreamland. 
 
 Out of one dreamland he was doubtless swept by the elo- 
 quence of the orator into another, truly beyond the four 
 walls out into the world of men and affairs. For that was 
 still the regnant day of the orator, especially the preacher, 
 when the pulpit reached farther than the press. 
 
 But the press too was moving upon his awakened mind 
 and was the immediate agency that started him upon his 
 career. He is recalled by Mrs. Hunt as "a shy little re- 
 cluse," who seemed to find often a desirable retreat in the 
 post office, where Mrs. Hunt's father, Mr. Prudden, was 
 the kindly postmaster, who gave Joe access to various news- 
 papers, particularly the "every Tuesday" Recorder and Fed- 
 eral Union, from the capital city of the State. A vivid de- 
 scription of the post office is made the starting point for Mr. 
 Harris's narrative, most completely autobiographical, "On 
 the Plantation." (In this book Mr. Harris presents himself 
 
Biographical 17 
 
 under the name of Joe Maxwell.) Much in the same vein 
 as he wrote of the long sermons, of these papers he writes : 
 
 What he found in those papers to interest him it would 
 be hard to say. They were full of political essays that were 
 popular in those days, and they had long reports of political 
 conventions and meetings from all parts of the State. They 
 were papers for grown people, and Joe Maxwell was only 
 twelve years old and small for his age. 1 
 
 But there came a paper on February 25, 1862, when he 
 had reached the age of fourteen, in which his quick eye 
 found down among the advertisements an announcement 
 certain to be eagerly seized upon by his mind, now prepared 
 for a thing of this nature. Within nine miles of his home, 
 right out on a plantation, was to be established by a planter 
 whom he knew (so read the advertisement) a weekly paper 
 that was to be modeled after his beloved Goldsmith's paper, 
 the Bee, Addison's little paper, the Spectator, and Johnson's 
 little paper, the Rambler, and was to be distributed from 
 this his very own post office. Recalling his tremendous 
 shock of joy on reading this announcement, Mr. Harris 
 wrote in later life : "Joe read this advertisement over a doz- 
 en times, and it was with a great deal of impatience that he 
 waited for the next Tuesday to come." Tuesday came and 
 brought the first issue of the promised paper, called The 
 Countryman, to that boy, whose careful and exhaustive pe- 
 rusal of it brought him to his life's crisis. Again it was 
 down among the advertisements that he found the matter of 
 moment : 
 
 WANTED — An active, intelligent white 
 boy, fourteen or fifteen years of age, is wanted 
 at this office to learn the printing business. 2 
 
 ^'On the Old Plantation." "The Countryman, March 4, 1862. 
 2 
 
18 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Here faced him his crucial opportunity. Trembling with 
 mingled timidity and delight, he arose to meet it. From "On 
 the Plantation" we take the following reminiscence : 
 
 Joe borrowed pen and ink and paper from the friendly 
 postmaster and wrote a letter to the editor, saying that he 
 would be glad to learn the printing business. The letter was 
 no doubt an awkward one, but served its purpose, for when 
 the editor of The Countryman came to Hillsboro [Eaton- 
 ton] he hunted Joe up and told him to get ready to go to 
 the plantation. The lad, not without some misgivings, put 
 away his tops and marbles, packed his little belongings in 
 an old-fashioned trunk, and set forth on what turned out to 
 be the most important journey of his life. 1 
 
 So came Joe Harris, with the bent of his genius well 
 shaped, to the occasion of leaving his first home. The ap- 
 parent influences that had upbuilt him in that home were 
 his mother, friends, reading, school, atmospheric inspiration, 
 the pulpit, and the press. And the post office, that medium 
 through which the world outside came into the village and 
 the village went forth into the world beyond, was a fitting 
 place for him to spend his leisure hours, awaiting the vision 
 of his future. 
 
 x Mr. Harris's account of this experience was given also in an in- 
 terview for the Atlanta News. (See Lee's "Uncle Remus," page 25.) 
 
II 
 
 EATONTON had done all it could toward the making 
 of Harris. Under the favoring influences that this 
 little Middle Georgia town contributed, he had well 
 prepared for the decisive hour of his career, whose future 
 success demanded now that he leave his childhood home for 
 another more favorable to his maturing years. A drive of 
 less than two hours carried him to Turnwold, the plantation 
 home of Mr. J. A. Turner, editor of The Countryman. A 
 most extended journey could no more surely have carried 
 him into a new world. 
 
 Happily removed from the various warlike activities of 
 the town to the calm of the country, he was, by the nature 
 of his employment, perhaps saved from later conscription. 
 In The Countryman of October 4, 1864, Mr. Turner wrote: 
 
 In our office we have one or, at most, two able-bodied 
 men. Yet some liar told the enrolling officer of this county 
 that every employee in our office was a large, strong, able- 
 bodied man. An effort was made to take the lame and the 
 halt [Mr. Turner] and even an infant (in the eye of the 
 law) [probably a boy employed later than Harris] out of 
 our office and put them into military service. We have in 
 The Countryman office only one, or at most two [possibly 
 includes Harris] , able to do military service. 
 
 Then follows an assertion of the need of men to keep up the 
 publication of newspapers. On October 15, 1864 (?),ayoung 
 friend of Harris's, W. F. Williams, wrote him from Colum- 
 bus, Georgia, a most interesting letter about dodging con- 
 script officers. His papers (he, too, was a printer) had not 
 been properly made out by the "wooden-headed enrolling 
 officer" in Eatonton. "You can tell Smith," he concludes, 
 
 (19) 
 
20 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "if you should see him, he is a jackass." Conscription or 
 any active concern with the affairs of the war would possi- 
 bly have precluded such literary work as Harris later gave 
 to our country and to the world. Here, then, is our first 
 debt to the Turnwold home. 
 
 During these four years, when practically every man and 
 youth in the South was torn away alike from trade and 
 study, how must Providence have taken in care Joe Harris, 
 binding him in such a fortunate apprenticeship to the print- 
 er's trade as would possibly surpass even the college, whose 
 doors were then closed, in preparing an author for the fu- 
 ture ! With Mr. Turner as the faculty, with his library of a 
 thousand volumes, with the printing office as the literary 
 laboratory, and with the whole plantation as the campus, he 
 was, indeed, to pass through a most wonderful four-year 
 curriculum, coming thence into the world with his talents 
 developed and his career prepared for. Here we discover 
 the supreme formative influences upon the life of Joel 
 Chandler Harris. An adequate study of these influences 
 will bring us to thoroughly established conclusions as to the 
 preparation of Harris for his great life work. 
 
 Mr. Joseph Addison Turner was a highly cultured law- 
 yer-planter of the old school. He was born in Putnam 
 County, Georgia, September 23, 1826. His formal educa- 
 tion was limited to a brief period in the local Phoenix Acad- 
 emy and a fall term (1845) at Emory College, Oxford, 
 Georgia. But his father, William Turner, who had begun 
 teaching him while with lameness from necrosis the boy 
 was yet confined to his bed, must have led him judiciously 
 along the path of learning to where he might travel alone. 
 That he went forward until he might soon be called a liber- 
 ally educated man is seen by a glance at his later intellectual 
 accomplishments. Upon his return from Emory College he 
 was put in charge of Phoenix Academy and gave full satis- 
 
Biographical 21 
 
 faction during the year of his teaching. In 1847 he took 
 up in Eatonton the reading of law under a relation, Col. 
 Junius Wingfield, and was after a few months admitted to 
 the bar. Beginning to write for publication at the age of 
 twenty, he was for the remainder of his life exceedingly 
 active in literary production. He had published volumes of 
 poetry and prose and undertaken the publication of more than 
 one magazine previous to establishing The Countryman. 1 
 
 The personality and character of this man may well be 
 noted before approaching directly his influence as a man of 
 letters upon Harris, because the young apprentice was taken 
 into Mr. Turner's home as a member of the family. Mr. 
 Turner was to him a congenial spirit, and in his later life 
 there is reflected at more than one point the moral influence 
 that then fell upon him. The brusque manner of the editor 
 must appear very vividly in a few words from his prospec- 
 tus in The Countryman of September 15, 1863 : 
 
 Now, if you like my terms . . . ; if not, keep away, and 
 be sure not to get into any palaver or argument with me 
 about my terms, nor to think you are doing me a favor, for 
 the favor is the other way. I don't do business of any kind 
 but one way, and every one must conform to my rules. 2 
 
 At the same time he was full of humor. And when we 
 come to consider his literary influence upon Harris, we shall 
 be reminded of this assertion about himself : 
 
 Both in my writings and conversations I am compelled by 
 nature to be an inveterate joker and humorist and indulge 
 my humor, repartee, or joke at the risk of offending my best 
 friend. I cannot possibly help it. But there is no sting nor 
 malice in my jokes; and if they offend, I am sure to ask 
 forgiveness. 3 
 
 Autobiographical sketch by Mr. Turner in The Countryman, 
 February, 1866. 
 
 s The Countryman, September 15, 1863. Autobiographical sketch. 
 
22 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 To many who merely met Mr. Harris after he became 
 famous, especially to those misguided individuals, as he 
 called them, who sought autographs, and to those who ex- 
 ercised too little discretion and tact in seeking "an inter- 
 view," he certainly appeared quite as brusque as Mr. Tur- 
 ner; yet every one knew that no malice had place in his 
 heart. And he was always fond of a joke. Joe Turner and 
 Joe Harris must have been often as boys together in their 
 fun, and doubtless the younger boy won forever the heart 
 of the older one when in the old printing office he perpe- 
 trated a splendid piece of mischief upon a tramp printer. 
 It was on publication day that the wandering printer came 
 by. In return for his dinner he agreed to help "run off" the 
 paper. He was unwilling to go to the house. So Harris 
 brought his dinner to him and told him that some ladies 
 were later coming out to look through the office. It was in 
 August, and the tramp had discarded his shirt in order to 
 work with more comfort at the hand press. Suddenly Joe 
 Harris called, "Here they come!" and rushed to the door, 
 leaving the other to clamber out of a rear window upon an 
 adjoining tin-covered shed. Joe at once struck up a conver- 
 sation, saying: "I shall first show you the press — how you 
 ink the forms, pull down the lever, etc." Slowly he pro- 
 ceeded to the type cases and there began a detailed descrip- 
 tion of typesetting. The tramp, after sweltering for some 
 time under the fierce sun's rays, with his naked body fairly 
 baking against the tin roof, ventured to a crack in the wall 
 and discovered that Joe's guests were all imaginary. 1 
 
 Mr. Julian Harris tells of how, while he was once riding 
 on an Atlanta street car with his father, Mr. Harris nudged 
 him and, with that famous twinkle in his eye, directed his 
 attention across the aisle to a nodding neighbor whose meal, 
 
 1 Account given by Mr. J. T. Manry. (See page 85.) 
 
Biographical 23 
 
 in a sack pressed between his knees, was gradually slipping 
 out through a hole in the bottom of the sack. With the 
 giving away of the sack the sleepy fellow was aroused and 
 thought he detected the fun lurking in Mr. Harris's face. 
 "Harris, you scamp," said he, "why didn't you tell me?" 
 "I thought possibly you had a purpose in doing that," re- 
 plied Harris. 1 
 
 These incidents reveal the real Harris, although only the 
 fortunate few knew him so. Sometimes he would come 
 into the editorial offices of the Constitution, says Frank 
 Stanton, and, finding too serious and heavy an air upon his 
 associates, jump up, crack his heels together, and do the 
 old-fashioned cornfield negro shuffle so perfectly that good 
 humor prevailed for the rest of the week. 2 
 
 We think at once of Mr. Harris's unwillingness to make 
 any claims for the literary value of his work when we read 
 from Mr. Turner the following: 
 
 It is entirely foreign to the nature of a Southern gentle- 
 man to advertise himself or to drum for subscribers. This 
 is one reason why so few Southern literary or miscellaneous 
 journals succeed. But it is absolutely necessary that the 
 Southern people should have these kinds of journals, and 
 to some extent these must use the means to success. I have 
 got my consent to advertise; but to drum, never! I could 
 not under any circumstances ask men to subscribe for my 
 paper. It is not genteel to do so. 8 
 
 Mr. Turner was not a member of any Church, though he 
 was a Sunday school teacher and certainly a religious man.* 
 "The Countryman," he declared (Vol. II., No. 2), "is what 
 self-styled 'orthodoxy' calls 'heterodoxy' — stands for liber- 
 
 1 Oral account by Mr. Julian Harris. 
 
 2 Oral statement of Frank L. Stanton, of the Atlanta Constitution. 
 
 s The Countryman, Vol. II., No. 1. 
 
 *The Countryman, July 12, 1862. 
 
24 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 al and enlightened religion, as opposed to sectarian creed- 
 ism." (September 15, 1863.) Writing of an incident when 
 Stonewall Jackson, after a sermon, administered the sac- 
 rament to members of all denominations, he wished that 
 Jackson had invited everybody instead of Church members 
 only, adding: "I would have liked myself, even I, who am 
 no Church member and never expect to be one — I would 
 have liked to have the privilege granted me of communing 
 with the Christians." (October 20, 1862.) But he also 
 wrote: "The Church as founded by our Saviour is a good 
 and sufficient society of itself for the amelioration and mor- 
 al government of mankind. The blood of Christ saves 
 souls." (July 12, 1862.) "The Church and Christianity 
 must and will survive the wreck of bigotry and intolerance. 
 We know not what to do without the Church and Chris- 
 tianity." (April 7, 1863.) Of the Catholic Church he 
 wrote that he had been trained to oppose it, but had over- 
 come all prejudice. (September 13, 1864.) On one occa- 
 sion he served as preacher, publishing his sermon in The 
 Countryman, March 13, 1866: 
 
 PEACE 
 
 The Origin and End of Christianity — A Sermon 
 
 BY J. A. TURNER 
 
 Preached at an examination at Union Academy, Putnam 
 County, Georgia, July 27, 1865. "Glory to God in the high- 
 est, and on earth peace, good will to men." (Luke ii. 14.) 
 
 That Harris was indelibly impressed by the religious doc- 
 trines and eccentricities of Mr. Turner cannot be doubted. 
 Although he came from a Methodist home and, as we have 
 seen, was carried regularly to Sunday school and preaching 
 as long as he was in Eatonton, yet, like Mr. Turner, he al- 
 lied himself with no Church until on his deathbed, shortly 
 
Biographical 25 
 
 before the end, he was received into the Catholic Church, 
 the Church of his wife. 1 There is abundant evidence, how- 
 ever, that he was a very devout man. Rev. J. W. Lee, 
 preaching in Trinity Methodist Church (Atlanta) a memo- 
 rial sermon after Mr. Harris's death, said: "He was a 
 devoted follower of the Lord Jesus Christ. He told me 
 not long ago that all the agnostics and materialists in crea- 
 tion could never shake his faith." Mr. Harris once said: 
 "The most important conviction of my life was when I 
 came fully to realize that a personal Providence watched 
 over me from day to day. With me it is no longer a belief, 
 but a fact. I have been on the brink of ruin many times, 
 and God has always rescued me." 2 
 
 In politics Mr. Turner was prominent. He was elected 
 to the State Senate on an independent ticket. Of The Coun- 
 tryman he declared that it was not a party paper, but that 
 its purpose in politics would be to "oppose radicalism and 
 favor conservatism." 3 So far as Harris was concerned, Mr. 
 Turner's attitude toward the war is the matter of chief con- 
 cern, and we find that his influence must have been such as 
 to contribute to the peace-breathing atmosphere of our post- 
 bellum author. It is good to have from him the following 
 words : 
 
 In i860, upon resuming my seat in the Senate, I found 
 myself without a party with which to act; and consequently, 
 so far as the great question of secession was concerned, I 
 bore no prominent part. One party was, I thought, in favor 
 of secession in any event, and the other I considered in 
 favor of unconditional submission. Hence I could decide 
 
 1 Oral statement of Mrs. Harris. 
 2 Boston Globe, November 3, 1907. James B. Morrow. 
 *See The Countryman, April 7, 1863, December 22, 1862, and Vol. 
 II., Nos. 2 and 5. 
 
26 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 with neither. I looked upon both parties as infatuated — one 
 driven by madness upon the trail of blood and the other im- 
 becile with fear and insane with a blind attachment to a 
 Union already in spirit gone. I am not a man for war, but 
 emphatically a peace man. I wrote an article for the Fed- 
 eral Union urging the appointment of Northern and South- 
 ern commissioners to arrange for a peaceable dissolution of 
 the Union. I also wrote a resolution to the same effect, 
 which was introduced into the Senate by Hon. H. C. Fulton, 
 of Columbia County. 1 
 
 During the war the Turner plantation did not remain 
 untouched. The Countryman published correspondence 
 from the battle front. Again and again were recorded, in 
 the list of slain, names of friends who had marched away 
 from Putnam; and often upon the editor and his printers 
 fell the duty of carrying in person the sad news to the be- 
 reaved families and of ministering as they were able to 
 those left in need. And the editor suffered in person and 
 property from the war. Upon charge of publishing disloyal 
 articles, he was on one occasion somewhat roughly seized 
 and held for a time under military arrest by General Wilson 
 in Macon, Georgia. The paper was then placed under such 
 restrictions that no publication was undertaken between 
 June 2j, 1865, and January 30, 1866. The following items 
 appear in The Countryman of December 6, 1864: 
 
 Sun., 20th Nov. — Sent nine [mules and negroes] to 
 the swamp, but stayed at home myself. About one or two 
 o'clock four or five Yankees came, professing they would 
 behave as gentlemen. These gentlemen, however, stole my 
 gold watch and silver spoons. . . . Four more [Yankees], 
 . . . two Dutchmen. These raided the hat factory. 
 
 A mob of savage Yankees and Europeans, surrounding 
 us with the pistol and the torch, . . . our children fright- 
 ened and weeping about us. 
 
 Autobiographical sketch. 
 
Biographical 27 
 
 It is not surprising that Mr. Turner himself sometimes 
 took to the swamp. But he saw the humor of it, being able 
 to refresh his readers with such accounts as the following, 
 in The Countryman, August 2, 1864: 
 
 THE RAIDERS AT HAND 
 
 One o'clock p.m., Tuesday, August 2. — After writing the 
 above [an account of the presence of Yankees in the neigh- 
 borhood], it seemed to be made evident that we must be- 
 come non comeatibus in swampo (whither we retired) or 
 become ourselves prisoners. The female portion of our 
 family decided the former was better for us, and we acted 
 upon this suggestion. To-day Wheeler's cavalry possessed 
 attraction enough to draw us from our covert, and so we 
 have emerged to finish our notes in our sanctum. 
 
 In his "Autobiography" he reviews his experiences of 
 those days thus : 
 
 After the commencement of the war I did all I could to 
 feed and clothe the soldiers and the soldiers' families. I 
 organized a hat factory on my plantation during the war 
 and never turned off any one, especially a soldier, hatless. 
 If the applicant said he was unable to purchase a hat, then 
 I gave him one. And now I hold an account of several 
 thousand dollars against the deceased Confederacy for hats 
 purchased by it for its soldiers. Not only have I lost heavily 
 in this way, but lost very heavily by Sherman's invasion. 
 And yet at the same time I was spending not only my in- 
 come, but my capital and my time and energies, to serve, 
 people maddened by the insane cry of speculation and ex- 
 tortion raised by demagogues . . . denounced me as a 
 "speculator and extortioner." I, however, tried to make a 
 joke of my losses, as my nature requires me to do of almost 
 everything. I gave a humorous accountein my paper of the 
 Yankee visit to my house ; and I published in The Country- 
 man a humorous letter to General Sherman, touching the 
 destruction of my property, which was copied into nearly 
 every paper throughout the land and declared by the Augus- 
 ta Constitutionalist to be unsurpassed for rollicking humor. 
 
28 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Eloquent are the changing mottoes adopted by the editor 
 for his paper as the war progressed to its conclusion. First : 
 "Brevity is the soul of wit." After September 22, 1863: 
 "Independent in Everything, Neutral in Nothing." After 
 June 6, 1865 : "Independent in Nothing, Neutral in Every- 
 thing." After June 30, 1866: "Devoted to the Editor's 
 Opinions." At the close of the war he was able to make a 
 clear declaration of peace in The Countryman, June 6, 1865 : 
 "Reunion — Henceforth we desire to know no North, no 
 South, no East, no West, but one common country." 
 
 Joe Harris, situated as he was at this time, was bound to 
 see the various aspects of affairs largely through the eyes of 
 Mr. Turner. The sentiments of The Countryman are re- 
 flected wherever is given in "On the Plantation" any ac- 
 count of the war. Apropos of one of the items quoted 
 above is to be read from this book of Mr. Harris's the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 Joe saw a good deal of these foragers; and he found 
 them all, with one exception, to be good-humored. The 
 exception was a German, . . . [who] came to the store- 
 room where the hats were kept, wanted to take off as many 
 as his horse could carry, and . . . became angry when 
 Joe protested. He grew so angry, in fact, that he would 
 have fired the building — and was in the act — when an officer 
 ran in and gave him a tremendous paddling with the flat of 
 his sword. It was an exhibition as funny as a scene in a 
 circus. 1 
 
 In the same chapter (page 228) he recalls ludicrously his 
 predicament when, having wandered one day along the road 
 to Milledgeville, and having climbed upon a rail fence to 
 rest, there came by, all unexpectedly, the Twentieth Army 
 Corps of Federals, commanded by General Slocum. He 
 writes : 
 
 a "On the Plantation," page 226. 
 
Biographical 29 
 
 They splashed through the mud, cracking their jokes and 
 singing snatches of songs. Joe Maxwell [Harris], sitting on 
 the fence, was the subject of many a jest as the good- 
 humored men marched by : 
 
 "Hello, Johnny ! Where's your parasol ?" 
 
 "Jump down, Johnny, and let me kiss you good-by !" 
 
 "Johnny, if you are tired, get up behind and ride !" 
 
 "Where's the rest of your regiment, Johnny?" 
 "If there was another one of 'em a-setting on the fence 
 on t'other side, I'd say we was surrounded." 
 
 Here was Sherman's march through Georgia as seen by 
 Joel Chandler Harris, a boy on the plantation. There fol- 
 lowed the passing of the Yankees an incident whose pathos 
 was so powerful as almost alone to have determined the 
 spirit of Harris's later writing about the negro. His account 
 of it is given its rightful place near the close of his book : 
 
 This incident has had many adaptations. It occurred just 
 as it is given here, and was published afterwards in The 
 Countryman. In the corner of the fence, not far from the 
 road, Joe found an old negro woman shivering and moaning. 
 Near her lay an old negro man, his shoulders covered with 
 an old ragged shawl. 
 
 "Who is that lying there?" asked Joe. 
 "It my ole man, suh." 
 "What is the matter with him?" 
 "He dead, suh ; but, bless God, he died free !" 
 It was a pitiful sight and a pitiful ending of the old cou- 
 ple's dream of freedom. Harbert and the other negroes 
 buried the old man, and the old woman was made comfort- 
 able in one of the empty cabins. She never ceased to bless 
 "little marster," as she called Joe, giving him the credit for 
 all that was done for her. Old as she was, she and her 
 husband had followed the army for many a weary mile on 
 the road to freedom. The old man found it in the fence 
 corner, and a few weeks later the old woman found it in the 
 humble cabin, 
 
30 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 We need extend our view of Mr. Turner's politics and 
 the effects of the war experiences upon him only to note his 
 attitude toward the freed negro. He promptly announced 
 to his one hundred slaves that the war had freed them from 
 any bondage to him and that henceforth they were their 
 own masters. But he said also to them that they need not 
 wander homeless away, but that the old doors were open 
 still, and that they might, if they wished, remain in their 
 homes with him. No slave of Mr. Turner's was suffered 
 to experience that exiledom and want which seemed a likely 
 lot for the negroes upon their emancipation. And so Har- 
 ris, remaining on the plantation until The Countryman 
 ceased to be published, saw many of the old slaves taken 
 under the protection and care of their former master, who 
 also gave employment to others who had fled from less fa- 
 vorable conditions. One of the last editorials that he set in 
 type for Mr. Turner, February 13, 1866, might well have 
 been written by Henry Grady when the lingering clouds of 
 war were finally disappearing many years later. With all of 
 Grady's longing for peace and willingness to do his share, 
 Mr. Turner wrote : 
 
 If the negro is forced upon us as a citizen, we go for edu- 
 cating him, inducing him to accumulate property and to do 
 other things which make a good citizen. In his attempts at 
 elevating himself he should receive all the aid and encour- 
 agement in the power of our people to give him. 1 
 
 Thus, while Mr. Turner was a most ardent Southerner 
 and had his hatred of the Yankees, the prevailing influence 
 that he exerted upon Harris from 1862 to 1866 was season- 
 ing the young man's mind and heart with sympathy for the 
 negro and a longing for peace for the nation. 
 
 Here we are led from our consideration of the teacher — 
 
 x The Countryman, February 13, 1866. 
 
Biographical 31 
 
 the faculty, as we have called Mr. Turner in characterizing 
 Mr. Harris's four-year educational course at Turnwold — 
 to a consideration of the campus, as we have called the plan- 
 tation. We have only to note those things that have a dis- 
 tinct bearing upon Harris's later work, and they stand out so 
 clearly that we can present them briefly. 
 
 Everything worth while was made possible through that 
 relationship of Mr. Turner with his slaves, the character of 
 which has already been shown. The interracial atmosphere 
 of the plantation determined the character of Harris's great 
 literary work. Had such conditions existed here as Mrs. 
 Stowe found where she chanced to be for a short time, the 
 world to-day would not know Uncle Remus. Had Mr. Tur- 
 ner as a heartless master allowed some overseer, such as 
 was occasionally found on the plantations, to stir his ne- 
 groes with fear and anger, there might have grown prejudice 
 in the mind of young Harris, unfitting him for that calm 
 representation of normal plantation life in the South which, 
 along with the writings of Page and others, has well-nigh 
 corrected the false impression that had previously been so 
 widely made in other sections of the country. Had lack of 
 confidence in their master caused to creep into the minds of 
 the negroes the faintest suspicions, Joe Harris would never 
 have been favored with the recital of those wonderful folk 
 tales reserved by the Africans for the children whom they 
 fancied. When during the war rumors of a general slave 
 uprising spread terror through scores of plantations, there 
 was no uneasiness at Turnwold. Mr. Turner knew his 
 slaves too well and felt too steadily their confidence in him 
 for any such rumor to disturb him. Masters and overseers 
 on other plantations, in dread of massacre, might organize a 
 patrol system and hold the negroes under terror, but no 
 "patter-rollers" dared trespass upon the peaceful slave quar- 
 
32 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ters at Turnwold. 1 Fortunately enough, "Marster" so treat- 
 ed his negroes that "Little Marster" came into an inherit- 
 ance of affection that he knew how to appreciate and quickly 
 learned how to nourish, until every black on the plantation 
 was bound in his friendship, and his acquaintance was ex- 
 tended among those on neighboring plantations. 2 
 
 There were two things in particular that caused Joe Har- 
 ris to cultivate the friendship of the negroes. It will be re- 
 called that in Eatonton he was a "shy little recluse." Such 
 was his character everywhere else, but the good old slaves 
 made him forget all his shyness. He felt relieved of all 
 restraint when in their company. He has told us how pain- 
 fully sensitive he was from early boyhood; but who can 
 conceive of an old slave's injuring any one's feelings? As 
 he grew older his occasional visits to his mother in Eatonton 
 must have developed his consciousness of her loneliness and 
 his humble fortune, and doubtless he went downcast and 
 melancholy many times to some old soothing "mammy" who 
 knew just how to meet the occasion. He could not always 
 talk out of his heart to the other printers and to Mr. Tur- 
 ner ; but when hunting with a simple-minded black compan- 
 ion, he was assured of a sympathetic listener to whatever he 
 might say, and so could unburden his soul or set his fancy 
 free. For this reason, then, he sought the companionship of 
 well-chosen friends among the negroes. Again, there were 
 the Turner children, boys and girls of eight and ten and 
 twelve. Children, no less than friendly old slaves, brought 
 relief and happiness to Joe Harris. Many a glad hour, the 
 happiest of his life he would undoubtedly have declared, 
 must he have spent rollicking with these little chums. "I 
 
 1 Compare the Abercrombie plantation in "Aaron in the Wild 
 Woods," especially page 213. 
 
 2 Note the story of Mink in "On the Plantation," Aaron in "Aaron 
 in the Wild Woods," etc. 
 
Biographical 33 
 
 was fond of children," he says, "but not in the usual way, 
 which means a hug, a kiss, and a word in passing. I get 
 down to their level — think with them and play with them." 1 
 Mrs. Harris says he would not tell stories to his children, 
 because that would lift him above them, but rather would 
 sometimes roll on the floor with them. 2 At Turnwold began 
 this love of children, which was the incentive to much of 
 his work as an author. These children were much of the 
 time in the affectionate care of devoted slaves, to whom on 
 this account Joe was drawn more closely. In Chapter VIII. 
 of "On the Plantation" we have Mr. Harris's own account, 
 as follows : 
 
 Harbert's house on the Turner place was not far from the 
 kitchen, and the kitchen itself was only a few feet removed 
 from the big house — in fact, there was a covered passage- 
 way between them. From the back steps of the kitchen two 
 pieces of hewn timber, half buried in the soil, led to Har- 
 bert's steps, thus forming, as the negro called it, a wet- 
 weather path, over which Mr. Turner's children could run 
 when the rest of the yard had been made muddy by the fall 
 and winter rains. Harbert used to sit at night and amuse 
 the children with his reminiscences and his stories. The 
 children might tire of their toys, their ponies, and every- 
 thing else ; but they could always find something to interest 
 them in Harbert's house. There were few nights, especially 
 during the winter, that did not find them seated by the ne- 
 gro's white hearthstone. Frequently Joe Maxwell [Harris] 
 would go there and sit with them, especially when he was 
 feeling lonely and homesick. 
 
 Thus we understand how Mr. Harris could say in his 
 introduction to "Nights with Uncle Remus" that he had 
 been familiar with the tales from his boyhood. The negro 
 songs, too, became familiar to him at this time. Mr. Turner 
 
 1 Boston Globe, November 3, 1907. James B. Morrow. 
 s Oral statement of Mrs. Harris. 
 
 3 
 
34 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 tells how his youngest son, Joe Syd, had learned songs from 
 the negroes. He specifies one, called "Have My Way/' 1 Of 
 "Uncle Remus," who, Mr. Harris declared, 2 was a kind of 
 "human syndicate" of several old negroes he had known, 
 Mr. Ivy Lee writes : 
 
 The original was in many respects "Ole Uncle" George 
 Terrell, a negro owned before the war by Mr. J. A. Turner. 
 In the ancient days "Uncle" George Terrell owned an old- 
 fashioned Dutch oven. On this he made most wonderful 
 ginger cakes every Saturday. He would sell these cakes 
 and persimmon beer, also of his own brew, to children of 
 planters for miles around. He was accustomed to cook his 
 own supper on this old oven every evening. And it was at 
 twilight, by the light of the kitchen fire, that he told his 
 quaint stories to the Turner children and at the same time 
 to Joel C. Harris. Men now, who were boys then, still re- 
 late their joy at listening to the story of "The Wonderful 
 Tar Baby" as they sat in front of that old cabin munching 
 ginger cakes while "Uncle" George Terrell was cooking 
 supper on his Dutch oven. 8 
 
 The negroes, the children, and the animals made the three 
 angles of the triangle into the magic of which Harris entered 
 in 1862, to come forth himself the master magician in 1880. 
 His close and constant contact with domestic and wild ani- 
 mals was a part of the normal life on the plantation. What 
 boy from the town would not have found an immediate in- 
 terest in horses called Butterfly, Tadpole, Bullfrog, and 
 dogs called Hell Cat, Biscuit, and Devil ? These names, in- 
 deed, are a commentary on the more than mere property 
 interest of Mr. Turner himself in his domestic animals. A 
 
 *The Countryman, April 4, 1865. 
 
 2 Boston Globe, November 3, 1907. James B. Morrow. 
 
 s "Uncle Remus," Ivy Lee. The facts as quoted are confirmed by 
 old citizens, who recall also Harris's early association with "Uncle" 
 Bob Capers, an Eatonton teamster owned by the Capers family, 
 "Aunt" Betsy Cuthbert, and other good old slaves. 
 
Biographical 35 
 
 quarter of a century afterwards Mr. Harris sought to repre- 
 sent the character of Mr. Turner in this respect and at the 
 same time revealed his own heart by means of an idealized 
 account of his going from Eatonton to begin his residence 
 at Turnwold. He wrote that as he and Mr. Turner drove 
 together along the way "the editor in a fanciful way went 
 on to talk about Ben Bolt and Bob Roy as if they were per- 
 sons instead of horses; but it did not seem fanciful to Joe, 
 who had a strange sympathy with animals of all kinds, es- 
 pecially horses and dogs. It pleased him greatly to think 
 that he had ideas in common with a grown man who knew 
 how to write for the papers." 1 Probably one of the first of 
 the editor's notes given to Harris to be set in type for The 
 Countryman (April 29, 1862) was significant: 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 For a number of years past we have kept a record of 
 the return of the birds that migrate south at the approach 
 of [winter?]. We give here the date of their appearance 
 this spring, as taken from our notebook. [Eight entries fol- 
 low, as various birds had been first noticed in April.] 
 
 Flocking in the woods about the printing office, the birds, 
 along with the squirrels that played on the roof, sometimes 
 afforded the little typesetter his only company. Butterfly 
 became Joe's favorite pony. The harriers were at his com- 
 mand when his work was done in the afternoons. The 
 young negroes were anxious to "run rabbits" with him 
 whenever he chose company. In addition to the sport, there 
 came through The Countryman, January 26, 1863, another 
 incentive to learn the ways of animals (and to the boy who 
 was receiving by way of visible return for his work only 
 his board and clothes this was a certain incentive 2 ) : 
 
 1 "On the Plantation," Chapter I. 
 
 2 Boston Globe, November 3, 1907. James B. Morrow. 
 
36 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 FUR WANTED. — I will pay 10 cents apiece for every 
 good rabbit skin delivered at my hat shop ; 50 cents for ev- 
 ery good coonskin; $3.00 for every good otter skin; $5.00 
 for every beaver skin ; and for mink, fox, and muskrat fur 
 in proportion. The animal must be killed between the 15th 
 of October and the 15th of March. J. A. Turner. 
 
 January 26, 1863. 
 
 A series of articles on foxes, fox hounds, and fox-hunting 
 was published in The Countryman during 1863 and 1864. 
 Mr. Turner was always very fond of fox-hunting. Often 
 parties of friends spent several days as his guests for hunt- 
 ing festivals. Mr. Harris recalls this custom in a chapter 
 of "On the Plantation," entitled "A Georgia Fox Hunt." 
 His realistic accounts of fox hunts written soon after he left 
 Turnwold first indicated his talent in the field of narrative 
 fiction. 1 But while fox-hunting had its excitement, coon- and 
 possum-hunting had their charm. His favorite black com- 
 panions for this sport had never worked so hard during the 
 day that they were not ready to accompany "Little Marster" 
 at night. Then it was — when the coon was located in his 
 hollow, or the eyes of the possum shined in the tree top, and 
 the old negro began to carry on a conversation with the ani- 
 mal — that Joe Harris captured, along with the possum and 
 the coon, the spirit of the negroes that moves through their 
 animal tales, making easy the way for himself to become the 
 supreme master of his craft. 3 
 
 x See later account of his life in Forsyth, Georgia; also Part II. 
 2 The old negro's talking to the coon or possum is still a familiar 
 source of fun to those who hunt in the South. 
 
Ill 
 
 IT now remains to discover what direct literary influ- 
 ences were moving upon Harris during his years on the 
 Turner plantation. Can we find something of his first 
 inclination to write, whether from his observation, study, or 
 imagination, while he was a printer in The Countryman of- 
 fice? Did he receive at this time any encouragement and 
 assistance? Did he produce anything worth while during 
 the four years? Happily, we are able to give to each of 
 these questions full answer, based upon detailed and specific 
 evidence. 
 
 In all the sketches of Harris that have so far appeared 
 much has been made of his contributions to The Country- 
 man signed "Countryman's Devil." As a matter of fact, he 
 did put some things in The Countryman over that signature, 
 but they gave little evidence of literary possibilities. Indeed, 
 they were only a series of puns; and the evidence of any- 
 thing literary about Harris, so far as they are concerned, 
 lies perhaps in the fact that his critical judgment would not 
 allow him to sign his own name. However, it must not be 
 overlooked that he was here finding new expression for that 
 same spirit of fun which was manifest in his boyish pranks 
 already written of. And the successful paragraphist of the 
 next decade was here in the making. A few examples of 
 these efforts at wit, selected from the whole, follow : 
 
 Why must Governor Brown's reputation as commander- 
 in-chief of our forces grow less? 
 
 Because for all his military reputation he is obliged to 
 Wayne. — Countryman's Devil. 
 
 Why would it be highly criminal to make C hard in the 
 name of one of the Alabama Confederate senators? 
 
 (37) 
 
38 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Because Alabama would then be represented in the Senate 
 by a Yankey. 
 
 Why would it be criminal to make C soft in the other 
 Alabama senator's name ? 
 
 Because it would make him Slay, when the Bible says: 
 "Thou shalt not kill." 
 
 Why are women opposed to the repeal of the Stay law? 
 Because a great many of them consider stays their chief 
 support. — Countryman's Devil. 
 
 Harris found amusement in this way chiefly during his 
 second year (1863) at Turnwold. Other papers that year 
 took notice of his paragraphs. The Augusta Constitutional- 
 ist, for instance, carried the following: "Our brother of 
 The Countryman has been publishing a number of sharp 
 sayings of late which he uniformly ascribes to 'our devil.' " 
 Whereupon the Confederate Union propounds as follows : 
 
 Why is the editor of The Countryman like the enemy's 
 fleet when they attacked Charleston? 
 Because he puts his "devil" foremost. 
 
 The first piece that appeared in The Countryman over his 
 name follows: 
 
 GRUMBLERS 
 
 I was reading yesterday in a very remarkable book which 
 some over-ignorant people aver never existed; but as to 
 whether it exists or not, I leave for the common sense of 
 the reader to judge. The copy of the work which I have 
 before me was procured for me by a friend at a great cost 
 from the Caliph Haroun Al Rascid. The name of the cu- 
 rious book is the "Tellmenow Isitsoornot," written by that 
 justly celebrated Grand Vizier, Hopandgofetchit. The read- 
 er will think all this highly nonsensical and, at the same time, 
 foreign to my subject; but, nevertheless, it is necessary that 
 I give some account of this book, as there are but two cop- 
 ies of it in the new world, one of which I own [at] the pres- 
 ent period. In this book, beginning on the second page of 
 
Biographical 39 
 
 Chapter I., will be found a very minute account of the dif- 
 ferent classes of men. It speaks of grumblers as follows : 
 "These are the delicate morsels of humanity who cannot be 
 pleased, who are so fastidious and dissatisfied that all the 
 world cannot reconcile them to their lot. They grumble at 
 the providence of God." (The reader will bear in mind that 
 I translate verbatim et literatim.) "These men who are 
 dissatisfied with the state in which God has placed them," 
 the work goes on to state, "are mostly idlers and vagabonds, 
 though they are formed of all classes — the rich, the poor, 
 the black, the white, and all. These are a distinct race of 
 the genus homo. Their dialect has a monotonous nasal 
 twang, sometimes loud and emphatic, at others low and 
 moaning. Their grammars indicate a frequent use of the 
 pronoun we and such interrogations as these : 'What shall 
 we do ?' and 'How are we to live such times as these ?' '' 
 They use such interrogations as these to great redundancy. 
 "The present war" (the war waged by Mahomet?) "has de- 
 veloped their strikingly deformed character. ... So this 
 race now stands at the head of everything that is remarka- 
 ble or in the least curious." And to prove how curious and 
 yet how common they are, let me relate a short anecdote. 
 "This race," the book continues, "were first found in the 
 Eastern Hemisphere, and the news of their discovery spread 
 so fast that it reached the barbarians of the Western World 
 in a few days. But before we were aware that the tidings 
 had left our own country, one of the American savages had 
 already landed and was endeavoring to procure a specimen 
 of these 'grumblers' to place in a museum. Burn him" (the 
 writer evidenty means Barnum) "soon procured a fine spec- 
 imen ; but as soon as he saw him he turned off with : 'O 
 pshaw ! Plenty of them at home !' So you see how common, 
 as well as curious, they are." Here the chapter on grum- 
 blers ends, and here my quotation ends. It is highly impor- 
 tant that every one should read "Tellmenow Isitsoornot," as 
 it contains many valuable lessons ; but as every one cannot 
 procure a copy of it, I shall content myself by occasionally 
 presenting a chapter to the readers of The Countryman. 
 
 J. C. Harris. 1 
 
 x The Countryman, December 15, 1862. 
 
40 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Grumblers" was published nine months after Harris's 
 arrival at Turnwold, when he had just passed his four- 
 teenth birthday. In addition to showing his inclination to 
 write, it shows an early acquaintance with the "Arabian 
 Nights" and taste for imaginative writing. May we not, 
 too, foresee the mischievous boy of the playground becom- 
 ing the humorist of literature? 
 
 Along with his puns of the next year he contributed sev- 
 eral articles that revealed his more sober nature. Two of 
 the longer ones, and the best, are given here. 1 As may be 
 seen elsewhere, there is seen in the first piece evidence of 
 his reading Bryant, and likely he was writing something of 
 his own experience : 
 
 SABBATH EVENING IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 People who live in the crowded cities, as a general thing, 
 have no idea of the beautiful stillness of a Sabbath evening 
 in the country, far away from the bustle and turmoil attend- 
 ant on city life. In a city one cannot read or worship God 
 as he would choose. He must needs be interrupted; while 
 in the country it is just the reverse. One can go out into 
 the open fields, or glide into the dark foliage of the screen- 
 ing forest, and seat himself at the foot of some cloud- 
 capped vine, and read his Bible or reflect or give utterance 
 to his thoughts in words — hold converse, as it were, with na- 
 ture's God or listen to the lays of the lark as she ascends 
 heavenward. He can hark to the merry piping of the tree- 
 frog and various other beautiful sounds without fear of 
 being disturbed. He can hear the mournful cadence of 
 the evening zephyr as it whispers its tale of love to the 
 pine tree tops, tossing to and fro, as it mournfully chants the 
 requiem of departing day. 
 
 It reminds us of the evening of life, when gently we are 
 swayed to and fro by the hand of time, gently we go down 
 the billowy tide of life, gently we sink into the tomb, all 
 nature chanting our requiem. 
 
 *For his other contributions to The Countryman, see Part II. 
 
Biographical 41 
 
 Is it not a beautiful thought to ease us down into the 
 grave, to think that the evening wind sighing among the 
 pines is mourning the death of man? Is it not a comfort 
 to those who have no one to love them — the orphan or the 
 childless widow — to think that God has provided one thing 
 to mourn our fall, and that it has been provided ever since 
 the creation of our first parents? J. C. Harris. 1 
 
 The other piece, published a few months later, shows 
 his imagination again at free play and may show, too, a 
 familiarity with Poe, possibly with Chivers : 
 
 LOST 
 
 Was I dreaming, or was it the shadow of a cloud passing 
 between my barred window and the moon that flitted before 
 my vision? Or was it in reality the form of Eloele? Ah! 
 no; nothing but the phantasm of a grief-stricken and gloomy 
 mind. 'Twas long ago when I knew Eloele — long ago! 
 But I thought I saw her last night as once I saw her in days 
 long past and gone — saw her pass before me as of yore; 
 saw her in her gentle beauty, with her loving blue eyes upon 
 me, with her golden curls floating in the evening breeze, as 
 in auld lang syne. 
 
 Yes, I know it must have been her ; for she beckoned me 
 on, and I tried to clasp her airy form to keep her with me ; 
 but something whispered, "Lost!" and she was gone. 
 
 People come to visit me in my cell and look pityingly on 
 me. They fasten me down to the floor with a cruel chain 
 to keep me quiet, they say ; but I would hurt no one — O no ! 
 Why do they not tell me of my wife, my Eloele? I would 
 be quiet, very quiet. I have asked them of her, but they 
 say nothing and only shake their heads. 
 
 Something tells me she is murdered ; and when she comes 
 to me in my slumber she has a cruel gash across her 
 throat and another on her head. But I never struck her! 
 I never inflicted those cruel wounds upon her — O no! I 
 loved her too well for that. 
 
 Why don't they let her come to me? Because they think 
 
 l The Countryman, February 17, 1863. 
 
42 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 me mad? I will not live long; and then, if she is dead, I 
 will see her again, and she will be no longer a shadow. But 
 while I live every voice and passing wind will whisper: 
 "Lost Eloele!" J. C. Harris. 1 
 
 Harris had now been contributing to The Countryman 
 for about a year. He had probably drawn no praise or com- 
 ment from the various papers for his more serious efforts. 
 But he had attracted the attention of one whose words 
 would mean far more to him than any newspaper notoriety. 
 The editor of The Countryman had observed his young 
 apprentice with care. In the first place, he was impressed 
 with Harris's performance of the duties to which he had 
 been assigned. Nearly a year had passed, when Christmas 
 brought the editor's employees their first holidays, and Mr. 
 Turner wrote in The Countryman of December 22, 1862 : 
 "The printers in The Countryman office have served the 
 editor and subscribers of this journal faithfully during the 
 present year, and Mr. Wilson and Joe and Jim 2 deserve the 
 thanks of us all. Certainly, then, they ought to have a 
 Christmas holiday." About six months further passed, and 
 the editor wrote of Harris : "The Confederate Union is dis- 
 posed to undervalue the services of The Countryman's devil. 
 If it only knew what a smart devil The Countryman has, it 
 would not do so. Just ask your 'Jim' about it, Brother Nis- 
 bet. He knows 'our devil.'" (The Countryman, May 5, 
 1863.) On September 8, 1863, he made this acknowledg- 
 ment through The Countryman: "We have received from 
 'J. C. H.' a critique to show that 'Hindoo' is not a rhyme 
 to 'window.' " He followed this with a half -column discus- 
 sion. However, had Mr. Turner given no further atten- 
 
 l The Countryman, June 30, 1863. 
 
 2 James P. Harrison, a most valuable friend of Harris's later life 
 in Forsyth and in Atlanta. 
 
Biographical 43 
 
 tion, or attention only of this kind, to the young writer, very 
 little importance could be attached to his literary influence 
 upon Harris. He did not stop here. The older writer, full 
 of experience and skilled by practice, took the younger un- 
 der private care in a personal effort, by unobtrusive assist- 
 ance and timely counsel, to develop the talent that had shown 
 itself. 
 
 In order to show that Mr. Turner was qualified to recog- 
 nize literary talent and to aid in its cultivation, something 
 further may be added about his own literary work. Both 
 at the old Phoenix Academy and at Emory College he had 
 been distinguished for his ability to write. Two years be- 
 fore the birth of Harris he had first appeared in print 
 through several articles, signed "Orion," in the Temperance 
 Banner, Augusta, Georgia ( ? ). He had for some years been 
 attempting verse and, under the assumed name of Frank 
 Kemble, published in 1847, through James M. Cafferty (?), 
 Augusta, Georgia, a volume entitled "Kemble's Poems." 
 Ten years later "The Discovery of Sir John Franklin and 
 Other Poems," by J. A. Turner, came from the press of 
 S. H. Goetzell & Co., Mobile. He wrote, in addition, a 
 considerable amount of political verse satire. "On the 17th 
 day of July, 1859, I completed," he writes in his "Autobiog- 
 raphy," "my poem, 'The Old Plantation,' and wrote the 
 preface to it, having been industriously engaged on the poem 
 for about eighteen months." It was first published in The 
 Countryman (1862), and from the press of that paper was 
 issued in pamphlet form. He left in manuscript three long 
 poems— "The Maid of Owyhee," "Jonathan," and "The 
 Nigger: A Satire." In 1848 (the year of Harris's birth) 
 Mr. Turner was a contributor to the Southern Literary Mes- 
 senger and the Southern Literary Gazette. Later (1851-53) 
 he wrote miscellaneous articles also for DeBow's Review, 
 Godey's Lady's Book, Peterson's Magazine, the Southern 
 
44 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Record, Federal Union, Augusta Constitutionalist, New 
 York Day Book, Spirit of the Times, etc. As publisher he 
 had much experience. It was in 1848, again, when he was 
 only twenty-two, that he undertook his first magazine, Tur- 
 ner's Monthly. It failed after three months' publication at 
 Madison, Georgia. In 1853 Benjamin F. Griffin published 
 for him one number of a second magazine, styled The Tom- 
 ahawk. In 1854-55, while practicing law in Eatonton, Mr. 
 Turner published "a weekly miscellaneous journal," the In- 
 dependent Press, which, says the "Autobiography," "ob- 
 tained considerable circulation and great popularity, owing 
 to its independent and fearless tone." In i860, while living 
 at Turnwold, he had published by Pudney & Russell, New 
 York, The Plantation: A Quarterly Review, which the war 
 cut off after four numbers. Finally, in 1862, came that 
 wonderful little paper whose "devil" has lent to it immor- 
 tality. Through its immediate agency Joel Chandler Har- 
 ris was lifted out of obscurity and drawn into his prepara- 
 tion for fame. It must, therefore, receive distinct attention. 
 The first issue of The Countryman appeared March 4, 
 1862; the last issue May 8, 1866. Mr. Harris said: "The 
 type was old and worn ; and the hand press, a Washington, 
 No. 2, had seen considerable service." 1 But, perhaps to the 
 greater credit of the printers, not an issue of the paper ap- 
 peared whose print was not clear and general mechanical 
 appearance not neat. The first issue was a sheet folded 
 once, giving four pages, each with four columns eighteen by 
 three inches. Under the vicissitudes of the time, the size 
 varied from four to sixteen pages, with a fluctuating sub- 
 scription price. 2 The editor had fixed a high ideal for this 
 
 1 "On the Plantation," page 21. 
 
 2 The changes made in the paper during the four years of its pub- 
 lication were as follows : Volume V., No. 3, four pages and reduced 
 print, on account of the burning of the Bath Paper Factory. Price 
 
Biographical 45 
 
 journal. This is fully set forth in the prospectus of an early 
 issue (April 15, 1862) and reads: 
 
 The Countryman is a little paper published on the edi- 
 tor's plantation, nine miles from Eatonton, at one dollar per 
 annum, invariably in advance. We do not profess to pub- 
 lish a newspaper, for, under the circumstances that is im- 
 possible. Our aim is to mold our journal after Addison's 
 little paper, The Spectator, Steele's little paper, The Tatler, 
 Johnson's little papers, The Rambler and The Adventurer, 
 and Goldsmith's little paper, The Bee, neither of which, we 
 believe, was as large as The Countryman. It is our aim to 
 fill our little paper with essays, poems, sketches, agricultural 
 articles, and choice miscellany. We do not intend to pub- 
 lish anything that is dull, didactic, or prosy. We wish to 
 make a neatly printed, select little paper, a pleasant com- 
 panion for the leisure hour, and to relieve the minds of our 
 
 advanced from $2 to $3 a year. (There had been a previous advance 
 from $1 to $2 a year.) Vol. V., No. 13, return to full sheets, $3 per 
 annum. Vol. VI., No. 5 (on or before), $5 per annum. Vol. VI., 
 No. 12, change of motto from "Brevity Is the Soul of Wit" to "In- 
 dependent in Everything, Neutral in Nothing." Vol. VII., No. 1, 
 W. W. Turner, brother of J. A. Turner, is called in as associate 
 editor. Vol. VII., No. 1, is followed by Vol. IX., No. 1, Vol. X., No. 
 1, Vol. XL, No. 1, and so on to Vol. XVIIL, the volume number 
 being changed each week instead of the issue number. The dates 
 are regular. January 5, 1864, $10 per annum. Pages doubled after 
 first issue. Vol. XIX., No 18 (May 3, 1864), $5 for four months. 
 Vol. XIX., No. 21, drops back to eight pages (lack of paper). Vol. 
 XIX., No. 30, $5 for three months. Vol. XX., No. 21, $3 per annum. 
 Size reduced to four pages. Vol. XX., No. 23, Motto, "Independent 
 in Nothing, Neutral in Everything." Just at this time (June, 1865) 
 Mr. Turner was placed under military arrest and put under such 
 restrictions in publication that the paper was suspended between 
 June 27, 1865, and January 30, 1866. Vol. XXI., No. 1 (January 30, 
 1866), motto, "Devoted to the Editor's Opinions." $2 per annum. 
 Vol. XXI., No. 3, $3 per annum. Vol. XXL, No. 15 (May 8, 1866), 
 last issue. Vol. I., Nos. 12, 13, 14, Vol. II., Nos. 3, 7, 8, and Vol. 
 XIX., No. 24, are missing from Mr. Harris's file. 
 
46 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 people somewhat from the engrossing topic of war news. 
 Write the following address in full: J. A. Turner, Turn- 
 wold, Putnam County, Georgia. 
 
 He had earlier taken his entire first page for a discussion 
 of little papers, with especial reference to Steele, Addison, 
 Goldsmith, Johnson, Washington Irving, and James K. 
 Paulding. He was extremely anxious to make his, too, a lit- 
 tle paper that would be preserved as permanent literature. 
 The contents might be matter written immediately for the 
 paper, or it might be something carefully selected from va- 
 rious sources. For example, in the eighth issue (April 22, 
 1862) there appears an article on "De La Rochefoucauld," 
 from Disraeli's account of Rochefoucauld in "Curiosities 
 of Literature," followed by the editor's statement of his in- 
 tention to "lay before our readers many of the maxims of 
 the noble French author," the truth to be embraced, the 
 error rejected by the reader's own judgment. While it was 
 not possible to keep the contents of the paper literary to the 
 full extent of the editor's desire, each issue carried much 
 of more than temporary worth. It is exceedingly interest- 
 ing to know that in what turned out to be the last issue of 
 The Countryman Mr. Turner began to publish an English 
 grammar of his own construction. The front page of the 
 issue of March 18, 1862, was used for the editor's review 
 of Dickens's "Hard Times." The same issue carried a full 
 column on Chaucer. Some other of his personal contribu- 
 tions have already been noted. His interest in a distinctly 
 Southern literature is seen constantly. The Countryman of 
 February 14, 1865, publishes a list of about one hundred 
 Southern poets. April 1, 1862, appeared Henry Timrod's 
 "A Cry to Arms," with this editorial comment: "We copy 
 the . . . spirited lines from the Charleston Courier. They 
 have no superiors in English nor in any other language." 
 
Biographical 47 
 
 February 13 and March 13, 1866, Edgar Allan Poe was un- 
 der discussion, with particular reference to the ill-received 
 Griswold's "Life of Poe." The Countryman prospectus, 
 September 13, 1864, declares the editor's desire in this pa- 
 per to revive Nile's Register, having as an additional fea- 
 ture "a department of elegant literature, rejecting the style 
 of the Yankee literary journals and modeling itself after 
 the best English miscellaneous weeklies, but, at the same 
 time, being stamped with an independent Southern tone 
 original with and peculiar to itself." At another time {The 
 Countryman, Vol. II., No. 1) he wrote: "So few Southern 
 literary or miscellaneous journals succeed. But it is abso- 
 lutely necessary that the Southern people should have these 
 kinds of journals." In the issue of September 29, 1862, we 
 read: "With the beginning of the third volume of this jour- 
 nal its form is changed, so as to make it more convenient 
 for binding." To this purpose an additional fold was made, 
 giving the page a size nine by twelve inches. How anxious 
 was this ambitious man to have his publication preserved! 
 This was his final effort in behalf of Southern literature. 
 When this effort had bravely spent itself, and he realized 
 that he must soon give up publishing The Countryman, he 
 wrote in its columns of February 13, 1866: 
 
 Scarcely any one has been a more industrious writer than 
 I, and scarcely any one has made greater sacrifices for 
 Southern literature than I. I have not only expended large 
 sums of money in the cause; but while I might have made a 
 fortune, perhaps, by falling into the Yankee style of litera- 
 ture, and might have gained notoriety, if not fame, at the 
 hands of the Yankee critics by pandering to their vicious 
 tastes, I refused to make money and accept such fame in 
 order to remain peculiarly and entirely Southern. 
 
 Such was the character of The Countryman, and the tre- 
 mendously stimulative influence that his intimate connection 
 
48 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 with it exerted upon Harris was greater than can be well 
 understood to-day. The typesetter at the modern linotype 
 machine does his work mechanically, with often a stupefy- 
 ing effect upon his mind, so far as the matter before him is 
 concerned. But very different, surely, was the effect upon 
 the mind of young Harris as he sat, sometimes alone, at his 
 case in the quiet little plantation printing shop, studying the 
 learned matter contained in the voluminous editorial manu- 
 script and reflecting upon the selections from standard lit- 
 erature marked for him to set in type for the paper. He 
 took time to think; to chuckle over the paragraphs, compli- 
 mentary and otherwise, that passed back and forth between 
 the editor of The Countryman and other editors; to develop 
 his critical ability as his eye ran over the contributions prof- 
 fered by ambitious writers from the country around; to 
 form his own picture of the war and draw his own conclu- 
 sions as he followed the weekly letters from correspondents 
 at the battle front. He knew each week everything that 
 was in the paper, coming soon to take a proprietary interest 
 in it and to measure the various exchanges by it as standard. 
 His affection for the paper appears in a note written with 
 pencil on the margin of the last issue, carefully preserved 
 to the end of his life : 
 
 This is the very last number of The Countryman ever is- 
 sued. I mean this is the last paper printed; and it was 
 printed by my hand May 9, 1866. It was established March 
 4, 1862, having lived four years, two months, and four days. 
 
 J. C. Harris. 1 
 
 From the record of Mr. Turner's creative work in litera- 
 ture, it is clear that he was abundantly able to teach a young 
 writer. And we are not left merely to imagine that he per- 
 sonally instructed Harris. One of the most valuable results 
 
 1 Paper in possession of Mrs. Harris. 
 
Biographical 49 
 
 of the present research was accomplished when there was 
 found, in Mr. Turner's own handwriting, dated when Har- 
 ris had been with him two years and had yet two years of 
 apprenticeship, a note that bespeaks the relationship of 
 teacher and pupil as follows : 
 
 For the first time since you sent in this article I have 
 found time to examine it ; and though it has merit, I regret 
 that I have to reject it, because it is not up to the standard 
 of The Countryman. 
 
 In the first place, you have made a bad selection in the 
 article you have chosen for a subject. That article is con- 
 temptible and beneath criticism. Captain Flash did his pa- 
 per injustice in publishing it. 
 
 In the next place, there is want of unity and condensation 
 in your article. It is headed "Irishmen : Tom Moore," and 
 then goes off on a great variety of subjects, and is too dif- 
 fuse on everything it touches. 
 
 In writing hereafter, first select a good, worthy subject; 
 second, stick to that subject; and, third, say what you have 
 to say in as few words as possible. Study the "nervous 
 condensation" which you so much admire in Captain Flash. 
 
 All this is for your good. J. A. Turner. 1 
 
 August 21, 1864. 
 
 The first sentence of this note shows that whatever Harris 
 wrote — for The Countryman, at least — passed under Mr. 
 Turner's supervision and at times received his specific criti- 
 cism. We are fortunate in having this note that accompa- 
 nied a rejected article. It shows that Mr. Turner was not 
 the man to accept whatever came from the pen of his prote- 
 ge. Such an attitude on his part would have been, as he well 
 knew, poison to the young writer. But how was he to avoid 
 discouraging forever one whose fearful sensitiveness char- 
 
 1 This note was found loose among various old papers in one of 
 Mr. Harris's scrapbooks in the possession of Mrs. Harris. 
 
 4 
 
5<D The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 acterized him from his earliest days? 1 This note exhibits 
 that splendid tact which during the four years must have 
 wrought unfailing effect upon Harris. First, he places the 
 burden of the trouble on the subject selected, rather than on 
 the article itself; then he tells just where the article is weak 
 in composition; then, constructively, he suggests three defi- 
 nite principles for all writing and joins hands with the young 
 writer on the principle of "nervous condensation," which 
 Harris had already discovered. In a manner of parental 
 affection he closes with : "All this is for your good." We 
 are to understand the spirit of confidence and thankful grat- 
 itude in which this instruction from the older writer was 
 received from the fact that until this day the note here 
 quoted is preserved in a precious old scrapbook of Mr. Har- 
 ris's. But had the rejection of the article given offense, 
 palliation was to follow through a complimentary paragraph 
 from the editor in The Countryman of the next week Au- 
 gust 30, 1864 : 
 
 WHY IS IT? 
 
 That gentleman (we forget his name) who is writing 
 some articles for the Raleigh Mercury on the literature of 
 the South does not give proper credit when credit is due. 
 In his notice of Henry Lynden Flash he uses pretty freely 
 an article of our young correspondent, Joel C. Harris, and 
 yet never gives that correspondent the credit which is his 
 due. 
 
 The editor in his own composition, too, set an example 
 for his pupil. Says he: "We read our own proof — reading 
 and re-reading, revising and re-revising." 2 Here was a 
 writer not under the necessity of abiding by the original 
 
 x Mr. Harris, in a personal letter to Mrs. Georgia Starke, once 
 wrote with deep pathos of the painful sensitiveness with which he 
 had always been afflicted. See this letter on page 95. 
 
 z The Countryman, 
 
Biographical 5 1 
 
 copy. Being proprietor and publisher, as well as editor, he 
 made every change and revision that judgment, taste, and 
 fancy might suggest. And Harris, having set up in type the 
 first copy, carried the proof to the editor's study, 1 where, as 
 the latter read, marked, and revised, the pupil could well- 
 nigh see the master's mental processes. How with a most 
 commendable curiosity he must have returned to the quiet 
 little shop and studied the results of the editor's latest revi- 
 sions ! Mr. Turner's brother, the associate editor, also as- 
 sisted the young man. Among Mr. Harris's books is an old, 
 well-worn copy of the twentieth edition of Parker's "Aids 
 to English Composition," marked "William W. Turner to 
 J. C. Harris." 
 
 A good library was the one thing needed to complete the 
 equipment for literary training at Turnwold. It was at 
 hand, above a thousand well-chosen books, one of the valu- 
 able private libraries of the time. 2 Having, in a way, grad- 
 uated from the smaller libraries of his Eatonton friends, 
 Harris now found provided for him books of all kinds and 
 times. And at his side was his eager guardian fully compe- 
 tent and more than willing to guide his reading. 3 We have 
 already seen how the "Arabian Nights" had taken his fancy 
 from the first. Grimm's "Fairy Tales," too, was a compan- 
 ion favorite. It was no surprise after his death to find in 
 the library of his own home that the most worn book was 
 "Mother Goose's Rhymes and Fairy Tales." It was such 
 matter in books that sank deep into this boy's mind along 
 with the tales listened to in the negro cabins. Mr. Wallace 
 P. Reed, doubtless from conversation with Mr. Harris, 
 writes that Elizabethan literature became the general field 
 
 '"On the Plantation." 
 
 2 Most of this library is still kept by the Turner family. 
 
 "Mrs. Harris confirms this assertion, 
 
52 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 of his early interest. 1 During these years, when his mind 
 was most impressible and memory strongest, he became fa- 
 miliar with the best authors and developed an abiding taste 
 for such reading. So was he preparing to be in after years 
 literary critic for the Atlanta Constitution. And, despite 
 his lack of formal training in the schools, he was absorbing 
 those excellencies of style and diction that characterize his 
 own writing. 
 
 ^'Literature," October 27, 1888. W. P. Reed. 
 
IV 
 
 THAT Mr. Harris took advantage of his opportunities 
 and made steady progress under Mr. Turner's tute- 
 lage is shown by the increase in number and advance 
 in quality of his contributions to The Countryman. Like 
 his teacher, Mr. Harris early attempted poetry ; but in later 
 life he declared his efforts were only doggerel. The influ- 
 ence of Poe, again, seems to appear in the first two poems 
 that follow. The third is given to show his experimentation 
 with the sonnet. The last is quite possibly a tribute to his 
 mother, whose name was Mary. "Minnie Grey," too, may 
 be a tribute to Mr. Turner's eldest daughter, who died in 
 February, 1864. 1 Mr. Turner, in his poem, "The Old Plan- 
 tation," himself honored his little idol, Anne Watson, by 
 calling Turnwold "Glen Wattie." 2 
 
 MOSELLE* 
 
 BY JOEL C HARRIS 
 
 I read your name upon this stone, 
 
 And, weeping, I deplore 
 That the Fate that made you proud and rich 
 
 Should have made me proud and poor. 
 
 I dreamed to-day that I roamed again 
 In a bright sun-lighted dell ; 
 
 1 Harris's contributions to The Countryman were sometimes writ- 
 ten long before their publication, as is shown by the date occasional- 
 ly given with his signature. 
 
 2 "The Old Plantation," J. A. Turner. (Published in The Coun- 
 tryman, 1862, and in pamphlet form.) 
 
 s The Countryman, February 20, 1866. 
 
 (53) 
 
54 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Alas for the dreamer's waking sigh ! 
 Alas for the dream, Moselle ! 
 
 I dreamed that you and I were wed, 
 And the dream seemed all so true ; 
 
 And O what a happy thing it was 
 To be beloved by you ! 
 
 Your raven hair was just as dark, 
 Your eye had just the gleam, 
 
 As when we met in the long ago ; 
 I'm sure that was no dream. 
 
 You said you loved me then, I know, 
 While your bosom rose and fell ; 
 
 Alas for the boy that happy heard ! 
 Alas for the past, Moselle ! 
 
 Ah ! you were rich, and I was poor, 
 And the poor are born to sigh ; 
 
 But alas for the rich or poor who weep 
 When the vows of a woman die ! 
 
 I've often wondered how it is 
 That hearts are bought and sold ; 
 
 But surely yours was bought, Moselle, 
 With the gray-beard miser's gold. 
 
 I was not dreaming when I heard 
 Your happy marriage bell. 
 
 Alas for your husband's doting pride ! 
 And alas for mine, Moselle ! 
 
 I celebrate that bitter day 
 
 Through all the growing years, 
 
 And bow me low in the evening gloom 
 To keep the day with tears. 
 
 In promising once you cheated me, 
 And in giving you cheated him ; 
 
Biographical 55 
 
 And the phantom of love is haunting us both 
 With features pale and dim. 
 
 You loved me well enough, I know ; 
 
 But your love for him was sold ; 
 And you wore your husband's wedding ring 
 
 Because the ring was gold. 
 
 Your gray-beard lover was deceived in you, 
 For he thought you loved him well. 
 
 Alas for the blinded eyes of love! 
 And alas for mine, Moselle ! 
 
 In journeying on with Memory 
 
 Among our former years, 
 A phantom promise hides itself 
 
 In a heavy mist of tears. 
 
 Those tears were shed by me, Moselle, 
 
 When we parted long ago ; 
 And you made a promise then that you 
 
 Would live for me, you know. 
 
 I heard the ghoul-like sexton sound 
 
 Your solemn funeral knell, 
 But it jarred not my heart with so much pain 
 
 As did your marriage bell. 
 
 They say you died of a broken heart, 
 That you called and called for me, 
 
 And your husband hobbled from off his chair 
 And stood where you could see. 
 
 But lovers all must part, you know, 
 
 And all must say, "Farewell." 
 Alas for the pale lips speaking it ! 
 
 And alas for mine, Moselle ! 
 
 Turn wold, Georgia. 
 

 56 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 OUR MINNIE GREY 1 
 
 BY JOEL C. HARRIS 
 
 We cozily sit around the hearth 
 
 And chat on a winter day, 
 But sad sighs check our smiling mirth 
 
 As we think of our Minnie Grey. 
 
 For she was the pride of our fond hearts; 
 
 How we loved her none can tell. 
 We might wear black for the youthful dead, 
 
 But a tear does just as well. 
 
 It seemed to us as if no cloud 
 
 Could come with its dismal shade 
 Where with prattling talk and laughter loud 
 
 Our darling Minnie played. 
 
 But the cloud did come in the shape of Death, 
 And we heard his stern voice say : 
 
 "Ye are too happy here with her ; 
 I want your Minnie Grey." 
 
 And so she closed her loving eyes 
 
 And folded her hands so white 
 Meekly across her pure young breast 
 
 And slept with Christ that night. 
 
 So now we sit around the hearth 
 
 And wait for a coming day 
 When we may leave this dreary earth 
 
 And live with our Minnie Grey. 
 
 Turnwold, Georgia. 
 
 NATURE 2 
 
 BY JOEL C. HARRIS 
 
 I see the dark old woods their heads uprear, 
 Standing embattled against the deep blue sky. 
 Their fauns — almost see them sporting by, 
 
 And hear the dryads whispering softly near. 
 
 x The Countryman, March 6, 1866. "The Countryman, March 13, 1866. 
 
Biographical 57 
 
 Feronia's oracles I almost hear 
 
 Mingling their deep tones with the zephyr's sigh. 
 
 An echo's voice in sportive mimic cry 
 Comes down the hill to rouse the feeding deer. 
 Up through the woodland to the mountain's brow, 
 
 Down in the valley, o'er the sweeping plains, 
 Where ne'er hath been the devastating plow — 
 
 "Tis here, and here alone, that Nature reigns ; 
 And when we come, our stubborn knee must bow 
 
 And bend to her within her woody fanes. 
 
 Turnwold, Georgia, 1864. 
 
 MARY 1 
 
 BY JOEL C. HARRIS 
 
 Though other lips shall tell their love 
 
 In softer strains than mine, 
 Though prouder forms deceitful bend 
 
 And bow at Cupid's shrine — 
 Turn, Mary, from their empty vows 
 
 To one whose heart is thine. 
 
 Like echoes of the mermaid's sigh 
 
 Or of the ocean's swell, 
 Which poets say forever hide 
 
 Within the bright sea shell, 
 Thy image in my inmost heart 
 
 Will ever fondly dwell. 
 
 Thou art my thoughts each weary day, 
 
 My dreaming all the night, 
 And still I see thy gentle smile 
 
 And hear thy footstep light — 
 But tears are gathering in my eyes ; 
 
 I cannot see to write. 
 
 Turnwold, Georgia. 
 
 1 The Countryman, March 13, 1866. 
 
58 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 From his last year's prose contributions two are given. 
 "Christmas" bespeaks his love of children and anticipates 
 his Chapter VIIL, "Something about Sandy Claus," in "On 
 the Plantation." 1 And in this connection it will be remem- 
 bered how he would never tell tales to his children nor to 
 any others, because then they would look up to him, he said, 
 and he could no longer be as he wished always to be — one 
 of them. 2 "Macaria" is at once the best evidence found of 
 his contact with contemporary literature and of his own 
 best writing for The Countryman. It was his first effort at 
 critical literary review, which was in the days of his ma- 
 turity to be a regular feature of his editorial work for the 
 Atlanta Constitution. 1 
 
 CHRISTMAS 3 
 
 There is an invisible chain connecting all my ideas of 
 happiness with Christmas. It is with a kind of religious 
 awe, a half-subdued feeling of enthusiasm, that I look for- 
 ward to each successive return of the anniversary of the 
 birth of our Saviour. 
 
 From time immemorial the return of his birth nights has 
 been celebrated with a succession of holidays and festivals. 
 In the olden times the yule log was burned amid dancing 
 and joy, the maidens were crowned with myrtle and holly, 
 the branch of mistletoe was hung in the middle of the room, 
 and all gave themselves up to innocent mirth. 
 
 With the idea of Christmas comes a vision of the bright- 
 eyed St. Nicholas — or Santa Claus, as the children call him 
 — that merry old sprite with his tiny reindeer and toy sleigh. 
 How he loves the children ! What trouble he takes to bring 
 them good things from his ice-bound home ! And the chil- 
 dren, how they dream of the good things in store for them! 
 
 1 See Harris's contributions to the Atlanta Constitution in Part II. 
 2 Oral statement of Mrs. Harris. 
 a The Countryman, February 20, 1866. 
 
Biographical 59 
 
 What a pity that children ever grow up to be men and 
 women ! What a pity that reason tears to pieces the time- 
 honored legend of St. Nicholas ! As for me, I have always 
 held on to my childish belief in the existence of the good 
 old elf with a tenacity that defied reason. I would not give 
 up that one belief for all the philosophy in the world. Noth- 
 ing can shake it. Why, my grandmother used to hang up 
 her stocking with my own and say that it was the only way 
 she could call up the faces of her dead children and re- 
 membrances of her dear friends. And when we rose and 
 found the good things awaiting us and the marks upon the 
 back of the chimney, where good old Santa Claus came 
 down in the dead hours of the night, it was hard to tell 
 which was the most overjoyed, my grandmother or myself. 
 
 It quite awed my childish fancy, I confess, to see the 
 evidence of St. Nicholas upon the chimney back, and it is 
 no wonder that this fact quite overcame all my doubts. I 
 like to see grown-up people relying upon these traditions of 
 their childhood. It is evidence that at least a portion of 
 their hearts remains untainted and uncorrupted by the 
 world. Such an example of childish faith is worth all the 
 cold reasoning of philosophy. Not only do I still retain my 
 belief in the legend of St. Nicholas, but I go further. I 
 have, in my own mind, personified Santa Claus with Christ 
 himself; and who will dare to impeach my religion? It is 
 not difficult, I opine, to imagine the form of our Saviour 
 descending upon earth at the anniversary of his birth and 
 scattering his blessings among little children whom he loves. 
 It is easy to imagine, I say, the form of our Saviour gliding 
 about from house to house, the palace and the cottage, 
 through the dim mists of midnight, giving his little lambs a 
 token that he was near them, leaning over the couches of 
 the infants, perchance kissing them and repeating the words 
 spoken by him one thousand years ago : "Suffer the little 
 children to come unto me, and forbid them not ; for of such 
 is the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 God bless the little ones who believe in Santa Claus, and 
 a merry Christmas to them all ! J. C. H. 
 
 December 25, 1865. 
 
60 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "MACARIA" 1 
 
 Several years ago the author of "Macaria," Miss Augusta 
 J. Evans, of Mobile, wrote "Beulah." Critics were profuse 
 in their laudations of this work, some of them going so far 
 as to compare it to "J ane Eyre." Their admiration of the 
 book was well grounded. "Beulah" is, indeed, a work of 
 which any author might justly be proud, surpassing many of 
 the standard English and American novels. The plot was 
 connected, the characters well supported, and the whole 
 story grand and thrilling. It being Miss Evans's first work, 
 the critics and the reading public generally very naturally 
 expected in her next work something better — more mature, 
 if I be allowed so to speak. 
 
 After a long silence the distinguished authoress again 
 condescends to favor her friends with a work entitled "Ma- 
 caria; or, The Altar of Sacrifice." 
 
 For the benefit of those who have not perused this work 
 I wish to dissect several of the more prominent chapters of 
 "Macaria." The authoress opens her story with a descrip- 
 tion of her hero, Russell Aubrey. This character is an 
 ambitious youth, who has to contend with the odium of his 
 father's name, who died upon the gallows, as well as several 
 minor difficulties and misfortunes. This character is well 
 supported throughout the narrative, though the reader can- 
 not help thinking that all the more refined and tender feel- 
 ings of Aubrey's nature are swallowed up in his desire to 
 win in his thirst after fame. His ambition, in many places, 
 is made to appear selfish — that is, he desires fame merely as 
 a vehicle by which to revenge himself upon those who have 
 calumniated his own and his father's name. A selfish ambi- 
 tion never accomplishes any noble end. This being known 
 to every reader, the character of Russell Aubrey appears 
 smaller in our estimation than otherwise it would. 
 
 The heroine, Irene Huntingdon, is not so well drawn, 
 though better supported as a character than Aubrey. Some- 
 times she assimilates to Beulah, and again she is like no one ; 
 sometimes a mere woman with a woman's heart and feeling, 
 and sometimes as cold and calm as the 
 Pallid bust of Pallas— 
 
 x The Countryman, January 24, 1865. 
 
Biographical 61 
 
 a living contradiction of herself, as well as the contradiction 
 of the feelings natural to a woman. Having formed the 
 standard of right peculiar to her peculiarities, of course she 
 bases many of her actions upon incorrect principles. At one 
 time she disobeys her father where it was right that she 
 should obey him. And, again, she obeys him with a tenacity 
 altogether unnatural to any person, where everything goes 
 to show that his commands are the result of mere prejudice 
 and malice, where every principle of nature rebels against 
 it, and even where instinct and Holy Writ teach her that she 
 is right and her father wrong. I allude to her father's ha- 
 tred of Russell Aubrey and his wishes that Irene and Rus- 
 sell should never meet, leaving marriage out of the ques- 
 tion. They do meet, however, at a ball. Irene leaves the 
 ball to administer to the sick. Russell follows her to the 
 the domiciles of "poverty, hunger, and dirt" and confesses 
 love for her. Although Irene adores him, she listens as 
 coolly as if she were a statue instead of a woman and, 
 when he has done, tells him that she is a friend to him, but 
 henceforth their paths widely diverge. This is an unnatural, 
 heartless scene. About this time the "clarion of war" 
 resounds throughout the South. Russell Aubrey organizes 
 a company, is chosen captain, and prepares to enter service. 
 Irene learns the facts and indites Captain Aubrey a note to 
 the effect that she wishes to see him. He attends her sum- 
 mons, and Irene confesses her love for him. If this scene 
 is not indelicate, it is certainly unwomanly. Though she 
 confesses her love for Russell, she has no idea of marrying 
 him and tells him again that they must occupy very different 
 spheres in life. 
 
 Mr. Huntingdon, Irene's father, goes to war and in one 
 of the first battles gets killed. Irene henceforth devotes 
 her life to administering to the wants of the sick and 
 wounded soldiers. Here occurs one of the most beautiful, 
 heart-touching scenes I ever read. A sick youth who was 
 wounded in battle is put under Irene's care. Being delirious, 
 the boy imagines her to be his mother. Let the reader pe- 
 ruse the following extract : 
 
 " T have not said my prayers to-night. Mother, hold my 
 musket a minute.' 
 
62 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "He put out his arm as if to consign it to her care and 
 folded his hands together. 
 
 " 'Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name' — 
 His voice sank to a whisper, inaudible for some seconds, 
 then he paused as if confused. . . . 
 
 " 'Jessie knows it all ; I don't/ Then came, indistinctly, 
 snatches of the infant prayer which had been taught him at 
 his truckle-bed in the nursery. 
 
 "After a short silence he shivered and murmured : 
 
 " 'Corporal of the guard, post No. 9 ! Mother, it is cold 
 standing guard to-night, but the relief will soon be round. 
 Standing guard — mother' — 
 
 "His eyes wandered around the dim room, then slowly 
 closed as he fell into sleep that knows no earthly waking." 
 
 Such scenes as the above find an echo in every bosom — 
 so natural, so touching! It does honor to the feelings of 
 Miss Evans's heart. 
 
 While Irene is engaged in attending the wants of the sick 
 soldiers Russell Aubrey is mortally wounded. As soon as 
 she hears of his misfortune Irene hastens to him, and he dies 
 with her arms about him. Why did not Miss Evans cause 
 Russell to marry Irene on his deathbed? There is some- 
 thing so solemn and impressive in a deathbed marriage ! 
 
 The character of Electra Grey is by far the best drawn 
 in Miss Evans's book, though, when compared with "Beu- 
 lah," it is but a feeble imitation. Why do Miss Evans's 
 characters deal so much in the doctrine of the mystics? 
 
 That "Macaria" is a great novel I will not pretend to 
 deny; but that it is not at all comparable with "Beulah" 
 every candid reader will admit. "Macaria" will never be a 
 popular novel, for the reason that the mass of readers will 
 not understand her classical allusions ; and but few, I ween, 
 will define with her the aesthetics of politics and religion. 
 If Miss Evans is not actually pedantic, she is certainly ob- 
 scure. For instance, how many readers will understand 
 such language as the following? "Perish the microcosm in 
 the limitless macrocosm and sink the feeble earthly segre- 
 gate in the boundless, rushing, choral aggregation !" And 
 even when the reader has found the meaning of the "hard 
 
Biographical 63 
 
 words," their connection with what goes before is so in- 
 distinctly seen he does not know how to apply the sentences. 
 
 Miss Evans has been compared to Madame de Stael. 
 Though she says herself that perhaps once in a thousand 
 years a Corinne might be found, it is doubtful if she will 
 ever be found in one day. And I agree with her. If Co- 
 rinne ever visits us, it will be in her imbecility. 
 
 The authoress of "Macaria," through her characters, ad- 
 vances some very specious points with regard to our future 
 independence. She advances the idea that either slavery or 
 home manufactures should be done away with and is an 
 advocate of free trade. This would be glorious. Dependent 
 independence ! Miss Evans looks aghast at what she terms 
 the "gross utilitarianism" of the age. She forgets that even 
 religion is utilitarian, and that instead of our people being 
 gross utilitarians they are only in favor of utile cum dulce 
 (the useful with the agreeable). Everything is liable to 
 progress, and utilitarianism is only another word for im- 
 provement. I am not in favor of that improvement which 
 would subject the "falls of Niagara to turning a mill"; but 
 I am for the utile cum dulce, and God grant that our people 
 may never make true that proverb which has been such a 
 curse to Italy, "Dolce far niente" ! 
 
 Miss Evans's political disquisitions are just what one 
 would expect of a woman — weak and diffuse. And if she 
 does not pointedly suggest an oligarchy, she is certainly in 
 favor of an aristocracy. I have always thought a woman's 
 opinions and suggestions with regard to politics were super- 
 fluous, that it savored too much of the Puritan strong- 
 minded females. Let women, instead of giving their opin- 
 ions in State affairs, personally instill correct principles into 
 the minds of their sons, whom they may "raise up to the 
 councils of the nation." J. C. H. 
 
 Mr. Turner found comfort in the progress that he ob- 
 served in the literary efforts of his apprentice. In the 
 words last quoted from him, giving an account of his efforts 
 in behalf of Southern literature, we read the realization of 
 the fact that his own efforts have reached their limits. He 
 has done what he could and must leave to others the task at 
 
64 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 which he has labored. Joel Harris was one to whom he 
 looked as a future writer for the South. It now seems pro- 
 phetic when he laid one hand on a promising young girl 1 
 and the other on Harris, saying to them : "You will do the 
 writing for the South that I shall be unable to do." Flip- 
 pant and insignificant to some may seem the young man's 
 answer to the question that came a little later from the young 
 lady, but others may read therein the modesty and humor 
 characteristic of the future author. "What are you going 
 to write about, Joe," she asked. "Bumblebees and jay 
 birds," he seemed to mumble. 
 
 Harris responded with all the fire of youth to the inspiring 
 call of his teacher. He became exceedingly zealous in the 
 work of building up a Southern literature. He, too, decried 
 the dependence of nearly all writers and publishers in the 
 South and their poor imitation of "Yankee standards." As 
 the weeks passed he marked the content and spirit of the 
 numerous publications that came to The Countryman office. 
 Book reviews, and occasionally new books themselves, thus 
 reached him. His review of "Macaria" has been given. 
 With strong feeling he opens a brief review of Griswold's 
 "Poe" in these words : "One of the most miserably gotten- 
 up affairs, perhaps, that ever intruded itself upon the read- 
 ing public of America was Griswold's 'Biography of Edgar 
 Allan Poe,' affixed to the works of that lamented genius." 
 He concludes : "Upon the whole, it is to be regretted that the 
 writing of Poe's biography fell into the hands of Griswold ; 
 and I hope even yet that we may have an edition of the 
 works of that great genius honorable alike to his memory 
 and to us, an honest people. — J. C. H. 2 Thus it was, with 
 some acquaintance of his own with the periodicals and books 
 
 1 Mrs. B. W. Hunt {nee Louise Prudden), of Eatonton, who tells 
 this incident. 
 
 2 The Countryman, February 13, 1866. 
 
Biographical 65 
 
 issued from the American press, that he began to write lit- 
 erary criticisms along with the editor. And the creative 
 impulse also had moved him, so that he was no longer merely 
 devil, but also regular contributor to the plantation paper. 
 Nor was there space sufficient in this paper for him to do all 
 that he had an ambition to attempt for Southern literature. 
 His vision was extended, and, with the realization of his 
 growing powers, he began to offer contributions to other 
 publications, as seen in the following letters :* 
 
 Countryman Office, 
 Turn wold (Near Eatonton), Georgia, 
 
 June 2, 1863. 
 Editors Commonwealth. 
 
 Sirs: I send you an article for the Commonwealth, which, 
 if you see fit, publish; otherwise burn it up. On no ac- 
 count let my name be known. 
 
 Hoping that you may soon receive a thousand reams of 
 nice paper (which is the best wish that any newspaper can 
 receive nowadays), I remain, 
 Your friend, J. C. Harris. 
 
 P. S. — I have an original tale for the Commonwealth en- 
 titled "A Night's Hunt." Must I send it? J. C. Harris. 
 
 Eatonton, Georgia, October 25. 
 
 Editor Illustrated Mercury. 2 
 
 I am anxious for the Mercury to succeed, as I believe it is 
 the only publication extant in the South, with the exception 
 of The Countryman, which does not model itself after the 
 vile publications of the North — as, for instance, the Farm 
 and Fireside. I am afraid also that our Southern writers 
 are giving way to the wholesale imitation of Yankee authors, 
 especially the younger portion of those afflicted with caco'e- 
 thes scribendi. . . . [He will write articles to help the 
 
 1 Letters found among papers in the possession of Mrs. Harris. 
 There is good reason to believe that he sent verses and prose pieces 
 to several Southern papers whose files are not available. 
 
 2 Probably published at Raleigh, North Carolina. 
 
 5 
 
66 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Mercury.] I hope you may succeed in all your endeavors 
 to establish an undented Southern literature. 
 
 Joel C. Harris. 
 
 But had Harris never gotten beyond this sectional animosi- 
 ty, his literary work would have been dwarfed. Had he nev- 
 er come to feel an inspiration deeper than sectional jealousy, 
 his work would have been ignoble. Had Mr. Turner gone 
 no further than to implant sectional bitterness in the writing 
 of his pupil, we should be very ungrateful to him. How- 
 ever, the unpleasant and unworthy in his sectional feeling 
 was, of course, soon to pass away. It took but a short time 
 for the brilliant young man to find himself. Nor in doing so 
 was it necessary for him to turn his back upon his teacher, 
 who was impetuous, but wise withal. In the first fire of his 
 youth he had been moved too much merely by the slave- 
 holder's hatred for the Yankee in Mr. Turner's declarations 
 for Southern literature. But Mr. Turner had, underneath 
 his bitterness, proclaimed the fundamental principle upon 
 which this literature must be created. And before Uncle 
 Remus was able to become a citizen of the literary world, 
 Mr. Harris had penetrated the thin surface of hatred and 
 pride veiling Mr. Turner's thought to grasp this underlying 
 principle. On December 22, 1862, one week after the young 
 apprentice had made his first contribution to The Country^ 
 man, Mr. Turner published the following editorial : 
 
 I do emphatically wish us to have a Southern literature. 
 And prominent in our books I wish the negro placed. The 
 literature of any country should be a true reflex in letters of 
 the manners, customs, institutions, and local scenery of that 
 country. Hence when our authors write I don't believe 
 they ought to run off to Greece, Rome, the Crusades, Eng- 
 land, or France for things for their pens. Let them write 
 about things at home and around them. We may talk about 
 Southern literature until doomsday; but so long as every- 
 thing we write is based upon English and Yankee models, 
 
Biographical 6j 
 
 so long we shall have no Southern literature. Our books 
 and journals should be the outgrowth of the vigorous, manly- 
 Southern mind and habit of thought. 
 
 Here, indeed, was outlined distinctly and completely Har- 
 ris's great literary work. How often in conversation he 
 heard these same convictions expressed by the editor we 
 can only imagine. It is not at all unlikely that when he had 
 made his home in Forsyth and again in Savannah and final- 
 ly in Atlanta, following in the steps of Mr. Turner as an 
 editor, he reviewed again and again the file of The Country- 
 man that he had carefully and affectionately preserved. 
 And this earliest editorial on Southern literature must have 
 remained firm in his memory and active in his thought, for 
 again and again the same doctrine echoes through his own 
 editorials in the Atlanta Constitution. 1 And not the Uncle 
 Remus matter alone, but also practically everything that he 
 wrote after his maturity, bespeaks its source. Indeed, his 
 material was drawn almost wholly from his own observation 
 of life in and near old Putnam County. 2 Rockville, 3 Shady 
 Dale, and Hillsborough, for instance, appear on the map, so 
 named, to-day; and it is easy to identify Halcyondale and 
 many other places with only their fanciful names to ob- 
 scure them. Likewise his characters often bear their true 
 names — "Deomotari" ("On the Plantation"), for example — 
 while others are thinly veiled. His fiction everywhere is 
 true interpretation. Of most of his books Harris might 
 have written as he did of "Plantation Pageants" : "Glancing 
 
 x For example, November 30, 1879, "Literature in the South," and 
 January 25, 1880, "Provinciality in Literature." See later quotations, 
 and compare March 4, 1880, review of "The Georgians, in Part II. 
 
 *See Part II. and quotation from J. T. Manry, page 87. 
 
 "This name has lately been usurped by another community near to 
 the earlier one. 
 
68 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 back over its pages, it seems to be but a patchwork of mem- 
 ories and fancies, a confused dream of old times." 1 
 
 It is the crowning glory of Mr. Turner's association with 
 Harris to have implanted in the mind of the young writer 
 the principle of literature that became the implicit guide of 
 his genius, leading it in later years to its own splendid ex- 
 pression. 
 
 ^'Plantation Pageants," the closing paragraph. 
 
V 
 
 INFLUENCES that bore upon Harris at Eatonton and 
 at Turnwold have been clearly discovered. In Eaton- 
 ton his love of nature had manifested itself; and, de- 
 spite the humble circumstances under which he was born, 
 his intellectual life had been awakened before he had 
 reached his teens. On the plantation he learned negroes, 
 animals, and children, especially in their association. By 
 precept and example Mr. Turner taught him to write, 
 through his library taught him to read with profit, and by 
 throwing open to him the columns of The Countryman 
 stimulated his efforts at original composition. Mr. Turner 
 had gone so far as to point out to him the literary way that 
 he should take. But it was Harris's own genius that deter- 
 mined what should be the significance of his journey. Mr. 
 Turner wrote nothing of importance for publication after 
 the downfall of the Confederacy, which drew from him a 
 sad farewell to his readers in the last issue of The Country- 
 man, 1 and two years later (1868) he died broken-hearted 
 in poverty. Harris had left Turnwold to enter upon a dec- 
 ade of hard work and quiet study, after which — accidental- 
 ly, he says, 2 but naturally and distinctively — he took his 
 place among men of letters. 
 
 The Countryman ceased after the issue of May 8, 1866. 
 Joe Harris was eighteen years old, and his apprenticeship as 
 
 x "The Editor's Adieu," May 8, 1866. Contributions to Scott's 
 Monthly later. 
 
 "Lippincott's Monthly Magazine, April, 1866 (Vol. XXXVIL, pages 
 417-420), "An Accidental Author." Joel Chandler Harris. (Literary 
 autobiography.) 
 
 (69) 
 
jo The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 typesetter was completed. He must now break more en- 
 tirely away from home and among- strangers try his ability. 
 Two years earlier he had been anticipating removal from 
 Turnwold. His friend Williams had at that time replied to 
 a letter from him as follows : 
 
 Columbus, Georgia, February 25, 1864. 
 
 Yours dated February 14th. . . . You say you want 
 work down here. I should be delighted if you would come, 
 as I am bored to death with the society with which I am 
 compelled to associate. The boys are clever (in the Ameri- 
 can sense of the word) enough, but, with a few exceptions, 
 stupid woodenheads. . . . [No opening just then.] You 
 can get a "sit" in Macon, no doubt; but you will have to 
 work, work all the time, day and night, and you will soon 
 get tired of it. . . . I remain 
 
 Truly your friend, F. W. 1 
 
 Whatever may have been the circumstances, it was to 
 Macon that Harris went when the occasion for a change of 
 his residence now came. He was employed as typesetter for 
 the Macon Telegraph for three or four months. His card 
 of membership in the printers' union is preserved and reads : 
 
 Macon Typographical Union, No. 64, 
 Macon, Georgia, August 7, 1866. 
 Mr. J. C. Harris has paid dues and fines to date and is 
 entitled to work in any fair office until November 1, 1866, 
 when this permit must be renewed. 
 
 ($2.50.) James H. Smith, Rec. Sec. 
 
 Nothing is known of any literary work on his part during 
 these months. But Macon was the home of Sidney Lanier, 
 and it is quite certain that Harris made use of his opportu- 
 nity to learn at first hand something of this rising figure 
 among Southern literary men. In a letter of April, 1868, he 
 wrote : 
 
 1 W. F. Williams. Letter in Mr. Harris's scrapbook. 
 
Biographical Jl 
 
 Sidney and Clifford Lanier are brothers, born and raised 
 in Macon, Georgia. . . . [Sidney] is the most accom- 
 plished flute player in America. There is something weird 
 and mysterious, ravishing and entrancing in his manner of 
 playing. It is absolutely impossible for me to describe it to 
 you. One of his descriptions of flute-playing in "Tiger 
 Lilies" comes near telling it, but you should hear him to 
 appreciate. He is a good, modest young man, charming in 
 manner. 1 
 
 That Harris was reading and alert as to literary affairs is 
 shown by the presence to-day among his books of the fourth 
 number of the first volume of the Crescent Monthly (Octo- 
 ber, 1866), marked: "J. C. Harris, Telegraph Office, Macon, 
 Ga." Within a month or two he had secured a position as 
 secretary to Mr. Evelyn, editor of the magazine just men- 
 tioned. The Crescent Monthly was published by William 
 Evelyn & Co., New Orleans (William B. Smith & Co., 
 Raleigh, North Carolina) as a "magazine of literature, 
 science, art, and society, . . . gotten up in the style of 
 the London Society Magazine." The editor was an Eng- 
 lishman, an eccentric character, whom Harris did not learn 
 to love. But as his secretary the young man came to have 
 more than the ordinary reader's interest in the contributors, 
 who were prominent literary figures — L. Q. C. Lamar, Paul 
 Hamilton Hayne, Henry Timrod, John Esten Cooke, Augus- 
 ta Evans. He was, indeed, now occupying something of an 
 official position in a literary world. It was here that he 
 came into pleasant association with H. L. Flash, whose 
 "nervous condensation" in style he had earlier learned to 
 admire. 2 His own writing, too, was continued, verses being 
 published often anonymously in the New Orleans papers. 3 
 The credit for some of his best work, patiently done, was 
 
 1 Charles A. Pilsbury, in (Southern) Home Journal. 
 
 2 See page 50. 
 
 "Charles A. Pilsbury, as above. 
 
72 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 stolen from him by another man, according to Sam Small. 1 
 For the first day of the new year 1867 he had prepared the 
 following stanzas, which appeared in the New Orleans Sun- 
 day Times: 
 
 THE OLD AND THE NEW 2 
 I 
 Clasp hands with those who are going, 
 
 Kiss the lips that are raised to be kissed, 
 For the life of the Old Year is flowing 
 And melting away in the mist. 
 
 11 
 A shadow lies black on the water, 
 
 A silence hangs over the hill, 
 And the echo comes fainter and shorter 
 
 From the river that runs by the mill. 
 
 in 
 Greet the New Year with music and laughter, 
 
 Let the Old shrink away with a tear ! 
 But we shall remember hereafter 
 
 The many who die with the year. 
 
 IV 
 
 Aye ! we shall regret and remember 
 
 Mary and Maud and Irene, 
 Though the swift- falling snow of December 
 
 Lies over them now as a screen ; 
 
 v 
 And the alternate sunshine and shadow 
 
 Sweep over their graves with a thrill — 
 Irene lies asleep in the meadow 
 
 And Mary and Maud on the hill. 
 
 VI 
 
 Clasp hands with those who are going, 
 Kiss the lips that are raised to be kissed, 
 
 1 Atlanta Constitution, April 20, 1879. 
 
 2 New Orleans Sunday Times, January 1, 1867. 
 
Biographical 73 
 
 For the life of the Old Year is flowing 
 And melting away in the mist. 
 
 These lines were revised and extended into ten stanzas for 
 the Savannah Morning News January i, 1874, 1 and pub- 
 lished again in the Atlanta Constitution January 1, 1878. 
 He first wrote for The Countryman on this theme, "Mid- 
 night, December 31, 1865. " 2 
 
 Another poem was published in the Times shortly after 
 the above : 
 
 THE SEA WIND 
 
 O sweet south wind ! O soft south wind ! 
 
 O wind from off the sea ! 
 When you blow to the inland ports of home, 
 
 Kiss my love for me. 
 
 And when you have kissed her, sweet south wind, 
 
 Tell her I never forget ; 
 For the pale white mists of parting tears 
 
 Are floating round me yet. 
 
 Tell her I sit all day and dream 
 Of the joys that time may bring, 
 
 Till the old love poems afloat in my heart 
 Meet together and sing. 
 
 And the tune, O wind, that they sing and ring 
 (With a burst of passionate rhyme) 
 
 Is "The Lover's Prayer," a sweet, sad air, 
 A song of the olden time. 
 
 Touch her lips lightly, sweet south wind, 
 
 As I should were I there, 
 And dry up the tears in her violet eyes 
 
 And play with her purple hair. 
 
 1 See page 107. 2 See Part II. 
 
74 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 O soft south wind ! O sweet south wind ! 
 
 O wind from off the sea ! 
 When you blow to the inland ports of home, 
 
 Kiss my love for me. 
 
 And the following verses, written about the same time, 
 should be compared with "Katie," by Timrod (d. 1867) : 
 
 AGNES 1 
 
 1 
 
 She has a tender, winning way 
 And walks the earth with gentle grace, 
 
 And roses with the lily play 
 Amid the beauties of her face. 
 
 11 
 Whene'er she tunes her voice to sing, 
 
 The song birds list with anxious looks ; 
 For it combines the notes of spring 
 
 With all the music of the brooks. 
 
 in 
 Her merry laughter, soft and low, 
 
 Is as the chimes of silver bells, 
 That, like sweet anthems, float and flow 
 
 Through woodland groves and bosky dells. 
 
 IV 
 
 And when the violets see her eyes, 
 
 They flush and glow with love and shame ; 
 
 They meekly droop with sad surprise, 
 As though unworthy of the name. 
 
 v 
 
 But still they bloom where'er she throws 
 Her dainty glance and smiles so sweet, 
 
 And e'en amid stern winter's snows 
 The daisies spring beneath her feet. 2 
 
 Reproduced, along with the two preceding poems, by Davidson 
 in his "Living Writers of the South" and probably published first in 
 a New Orleans paper, 1867. 
 
 2 Timrod : "And daisies spring about her feet." 
 
Biographical 75 
 
 VI 
 
 She wears a crown of purity, 
 
 Full set with woman's brightest gem, 
 
 A wreath of maiden modesty, 
 And virtue is the diadem. 
 
 VII 
 
 And when the pansies bloom again 
 And spring and summer intertwine, 
 
 Great joys will fall on me like rain, 
 For she will be forever mine ! 
 
 For six months or more Harris's intellectual growth was 
 broadened and deepened and his talent cultivated through his 
 literary associations in New Orleans. Falling sick in May, 
 1867, he left for his home in Eatonton. Soon afterwards 
 Mr. Evelyn gave up his publication and returned to England. 
 
 On his way back to Georgia — perhaps in Macon, Georgia 
 — Mr. Harris met with Mr. J. P. Harrison, who had been 
 for a while his genial associate in the old Countryman office. 
 Mr. Harrison had married and become editor of a weekly 
 newspaper at Forsyth, Georgia. He was now happy to se- 
 cure a promise from the sometime Countryman's devil to 
 become the Monroe Advertiser's devil. And during the 
 next three years our author's talents were developed under 
 uplifting influences in the town of Forsyth, within fifty 
 miles of his birthplace. 
 
 He was now a youth of nineteen. Not stoutly grown, red- 
 haired, freckle- faced, and of stammering speech, he was, as 
 ever, shy and reserved with strangers. But to his little circle 
 of town chums, among whom he was called "Red Top," he 
 contributed fun and sense that drew them to him. 1 And his 
 
 1 Says Mr. H. H. Cabaniss, now of Atlanta : "I was an associate of 
 his in Forsyth. We passed many evenings together. In his inter- 
 course with other boys he was bright and witty, just as later in news- 
 paper work. It was in him, and he just couldn't help it." (Letter of 
 November 17, 1915.) 
 
j6 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 splendid mind, knowledge, and literary predilections com- 
 pelled the recognition of the most cultured people. Yet 
 then, as always, he was extremely modest and would appear 
 quite uncouth when any one sought directly a show of his 
 genius. Illustrative of this element in his nature, there is 
 still told by certain elderly people in Forsyth the following 
 story: A sister of Mr. Harrison, Nora, was one afternoon 
 walking with Mr. Harris. The heavens were hanging in 
 .wonderful beauty against the setting sun. Miss Harrison 
 directed the young man's attention to the view and urged 
 an expression of his appreciation. "Why," said the elusive 
 one, "I am reminded of a dish of scrambled eggs." The use 
 of such earthy language was often in later years his modest 
 method of protecting his honest soul from the approaches 
 of insincerity, which he seemed to detect in every departure 
 from simple, natural, spontaneous expression. Any refer- 
 ence to his literary merits was invariably met with a quick 
 reply at once deprecatory and decisive. Throughout his life 
 he was particularly sensitive to sham and false pretense 
 abroad in the land, which restrained him from self-asser- 
 tion. 
 
 Of course to be merely a printer was for Harris impossi- 
 ble. Already, as we have seen, his writing, both in prose 
 and verse, had reached considerable volume. He began at 
 once to contribute to the Advertiser. First there broke forth 
 from his active and mischievous brain bright thoughts, witty 
 "personal notes," and sarcastic "news items," each expressed 
 in a few succinct lines full of fun. These clever little para- 
 graphs were in direct line of descent from the conundrums, 
 puns, and smart sayings of The Countryman's devil. Mr. 
 H. H. Cabaniss, a pioneer newspaper man in Georgia, who 
 lived during those years in Forsyth and succeeded Mr. Har- 
 rison as editor of the Advertiser, says: 
 
Biographical 77 
 
 It was while setting type at the case that Harris would 
 run in some of the bright things dancing in his brain; and, 
 in my opinion, he thus originated the newspaper paragraph 
 of wit. It was his custom to have them appear in a column 
 to themselves, usually in the first column of the editorial 
 page. The proprietor of the paper encouraged him in this 
 work, and it soon became a feature of the paper. Fitch was 
 then editor of the Griffin Star and was quite a character in 
 Georgia journalism and politics. I recall how Harris would 
 give him a thrust once in a while. 
 
 It was on the 12th of July, 1868, that Mr. Harris himself 
 wrote in a letter how he thought he was "cut out for a 
 paragraphing journalist." 1 Long before he became person- 
 ally known to the newspaper men at the State press con- 
 ventions his pungent lines drew comment and praise from 
 all sides. While he was still with the Advertiser there was 
 hardly a paper in the State that did not repeatedly turn 
 some pleasantry upon "Red Top" or "Sorrel Top" Harris. 2 
 In the summer of 1868 the Atlanta Constitution was pro- 
 jected, and there was an understanding that Harris should 
 have a place on the staff. 3 However, he did not at that 
 time leave the Advertiser. 
 
 But Mr. Harris had an ambition to be more than a news- 
 paper editor. Force of circumstances alone was to bind him 
 to the hack work of journalism until his talent and genius 
 should lift into literature his mere newspaper matter. He 
 was a serious student of literature. Magazines and books 
 were placed on his table by Mr. Harrison, 4 in whose home 
 
 Charles A. Pilsbury, in (Southern) Home Journal. 
 
 2 One of Mr. Harris's scrapbooks has many clippings of these 
 newspaper references to him. Unfortunately, the name of the paper 
 and date of publication are often lacking. The service of the clip- 
 ping bureau was not had until later. 
 
 s See quotation from J. T. Manry, page 87. 
 
 4 Mrs. G. A. Starke, sister of Mr. Harrison, in a letter of March 
 19, 191S. 
 
y8 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 he lived, and he had access to the little town library. There 
 is preserved in his youthful scrapbook a loose sheet of paper 
 upon which, while at Forsyth or probably earlier, he indi- 
 cated his conception of a novel of "domestic life rather than 
 of adventure" — so his note reads. Under "Chapter I." there 
 appears the melancholy quotation : 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 A spirit from on high. 1 
 
 In personal letters quoted by Mr. Charles A. Pilsbury 
 appear Mr. Harris's literary visions. During 1867 he 
 "nursed a novel in his brain." On December 2J, 1867, he 
 writes to a friend from Forsyth : "I shall probably turn my 
 attention wholly to prose, as it pays better. Shall try a 
 tale after the new school of English fiction." In February, 
 1868, he expresses his purpose to follow literature as a pro- 
 fession. He has chosen prose and will trust his impulses to 
 direct him. Four months later, still subordinating his ef- 
 forts in poetry to his prose work, he proposes to cultivate 
 the tale, the essay, and the review, and he is contemplating 
 a novel. In this letter of June and in another of October 
 of the same year, 1868, his ambition is suggesting a literary 
 career in a great city, such as New York. Yet he would 
 "give up ruralizing with regret." 2 
 
 So far as the records can be found, Mr. Harris's most 
 considerable accomplishment in prose during his residence 
 in Forsyth (1867-70) was perhaps a series of contributions 
 to the Advertiser in the nature of short stories of fox-hunt- 
 ing and discussions of the different kinds of fox hounds. 
 This matter was not written out with pen, but, as he sat at 
 the printer's case, was set fn type. Mrs. Mary Cabaniss, of 
 
 1 Nothing further is to be gotten from this scrap of paper. 
 2 Charles A. Pilsbury, in (Southern) Home Journal. 
 
Biographical 79 
 
 Forsyth, says that "early after he came into the office as 
 printer's devil he showed his ability in short-story writing, 
 producing graphic descriptions of fox hunts, etc., drawn 
 wholly from imagination, but so real that it seemed as if he 
 had indeed been in the chase." 1 We now know, of course, 
 how he had played the part of the fox in training Mr. Har- 
 vey Dennis's hounds in Eatonton, and that he had often 
 been in the chase on the Putnam County plantations ; and it 
 will be recalled that The Countryman, in 1863-64, carried a 
 series of contributed articles from some connoisseur of fox 
 hounds. Mr. Harris again wrote of the fox hunt when he 
 began publishing short stories in the Atlanta Constitution. 3 
 
 However much or little verse he may have himself writ- 
 ten at this time, his interest in poetry was keen, and his 
 knowledge of contemporary Southern poets was intimate. 
 Mr. Pilsbury records some expressions from him. When a 
 friend praised a poem of his as superior to any written by 
 Flash or Timrod, Mr. Harris protested : 
 
 Flash may not please every one ; but there is not that man 
 living who, possessing any literary taste, can read some of 
 Timrod's happier efforts and not give him the palm for be- 
 ing the first poet of the South. Poor Timrod ! He is dead 
 now, but his name will live while there is true taste extant. 
 As a man of the world he was nothing; as a poet he was 
 everything. He was a poet by nature and culture, one of 
 the few who sing for their own edification and not for 
 fame ; Philomela in the desert ; and I might pursue the fig- 
 ure further and speak of the heart against the thorn, for 
 poor Timrod had troubles. But these only made him sing 
 the louder. 
 
 x Mrs. Mary Cabaniss, in written response to inquiry. The Adver- 
 tiser files have been lost. 
 
 2 In the Atlanta Constitution, December 16, 1877, appeared "A 
 Georgia Fox Hunt," which was rewritten for publication in "On the 
 Plantation." See Part IL 
 
80 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 Again, while at Forsyth, Georgia, April, 1868, he wrote of 
 the Laniers : 
 
 Sidney and Clifford Lanier are brothers, born and raised 
 in Macon, Georgia. Clifford is very young, but promises 
 good things. Sidney is the cleverest, as you say — in fact, 
 he is a man of genius. His novel, "Tiger Lilies," is original 
 and good. His poems, published from time to time in the 
 "Round Table," are poems — quaint, unique, and character- 
 istic. 
 
 When Mr. J. W. Davidson was preparing his "Living 
 Writers of the South," 1 he sought the judgment of the 
 twenty-year-old printer as to the authorship of the famous 
 national poem, "All Quiet along the Potomac." Mr. Har- 
 ris had been for some time investigating the matter, and 
 there is record of his correspondence upon the subject in 
 March, 1868, with Dr. A. H. Guernsey, editor of Harper's 
 Magazine. As a commentary on his literary interest at this 
 time, his reply to Mr. Davidson, dated June 8, 1868, is given 
 as it was published : 
 
 After a careful and impartial investigation of all the 
 facts in my reach, I have come to the conclusion that Mrs. 
 Beers, and not Mr. Fontaine, wrote the poem in question. 
 
 In your sketch of Lamar Fontaine, published in January, 
 1866, I distinctly remember that you do not, except upon 
 the strength of his own testimony, claim the poem for him ; 
 but with evident design you avoid saying that he wrote it. 
 My reasons for believing that Mr. Fontaine is not the author 
 of "All Quiet" are several : 
 
 1. The poem appeared in Harper's Weekly for November 
 30, 1861, as "The Picket Guard," over the initials of Mrs. 
 Ethel Beers, of New York. 
 
 2. It did not make its appearance in any Southern paper 
 until about April or May, 1862. 
 
 "'Living Writers of the South," J. W. Davidson. Carleton, New 
 York, 1869. Mr. Harris prepared the index for this book. See pige 
 87. 
 
Biographical. 81 
 
 3. It was published as having been found in the pocket of 
 a dead soldier on the battle field. It is more than probable 
 that the dead soldier was a Federal and that the poem had 
 been clipped from Harper's. 
 
 4. I have compared the poem in Harper's with the same 
 as it first appeared in the Southern papers and find the punc- 
 tuation to be precisely the same. 
 
 5* Mr. Fontaine, so far as I have seen, has given else- 
 where no evidence of the powers displayed in that poem. 
 I, however, remember noticing in the Charleston Courier, 
 in 1863 or 1864, a "Parodie" (as Mr. L. F. had it) on Mrs. 
 Norton's "Bingen on the Rhine," which was positively the 
 poorest affair I ever saw. Mr. Fontaine had just come out 
 of a Federal prison ; and some irresponsible editor, in speak- 
 ing of this "Parodie," remarked that the poet's Pegasus had 
 probably worn his wings out against the walls of his North- 
 ern dungeon. . . . 
 
 You probably know me well enough to acquit me, in this 
 instance at least, of the charge of prejudice. I am jealous 
 of Southern literature; and if I have any partiality in the 
 matter at all, it is in favor of Maj. Lamar Fontaine. I 
 should like to claim this poem for that gentleman. I should 
 be glad to claim it as a specimen of Southern literature. 
 But the facts in the case do not warrant it. 1 
 
 It was in this volume of Mr. Davidson's (New York, 
 1869) that the first sketch of our author was published, 
 when he was just of age. We discover in it grievous er- 
 rors, such as occurs in the startling assertion that Mr. Har- 
 ris was practicing law. But, although the sketch is not 
 wholly trustworthy, the fact of importance is that there was 
 at that time any sketch at all published; while, if no more, 
 we can draw very substantial inference from Mr. David- 
 son's high ranking of "Chandler Harris" among the young 
 
 1 In later years, according to Prof. C. Alphonso Smith, Mr. Harris 
 came to believe that Thaddeus Oliver, of Buena Vista, Georgia, was 
 the author of this poem. See "Library of Southern Literature"; also 
 Atlanta Constitution, May 19, 1880. 
 
 6 
 
82 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 writers that were surely to become "men of mark in let- 
 ters" and from his statement that Mr. Harris was preparing 
 a work to be entitled "Gems of Southern Poetry," illustra- 
 tive poems from the best Southern poets and biographical 
 sketches. 1 
 
 Mr. Davidson speaks of Mr. Harris chiefly as a poet, 
 comparing two of his New Orleans poems with Flash's and 
 Timrod's. 2 It was about a year later that Mr. Harris pro- 
 duced two little poems that have the genuine ring. We are 
 not surprised that a little child was the source of his inspi- 
 ration, as we learn from the following letter to a sister of 
 
 Mr. Harrison: 
 
 Forsyth, Georgia, 20 June, 1870. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Starke: ... I have been trying to write a 
 few verses for Nora Belle; and I thought I would finish 
 them, print them, and write at the same time. I find, how- 
 ever, it is quite useless to wait any longer. I have written 
 twenty different trifles for my little sweetheart; but none of 
 them come up to my standard of merit or do justice to the 
 subject, and I have destroyed them all in despair. The inspi- 
 ration — or whatever you may please to call it — doesn't come 
 to me as usual, and I find myself in that most perplexing of 
 positions — namely, the desire to write without the ability. 
 Don't laugh at me, please. My judgment has outgrown my 
 power to perform, and I dare say that I shall never be as 
 well pleased with anything I may hereafter write as I was 
 with the first doggerel I ever wrote. . . . 
 
 Very truly your friend, Joel Chandler Harris. 3 
 
 Happily, the poet made a twenty-first trial, producing a 
 beautiful tribute to little Nora Belle Starke. 4 In a letter 
 from Savannah, dated June 4, 1872, to Mrs. Starke, Mr. 
 
 *No such work was published by Harris. 
 2 See these poems on pages 72-74, above. 
 "Letter in possession of Mrs. G. A. Starke, Atlanta, Georgia. 
 4 Miss Starke is now a member of the faculty of Washington Semi- 
 nary, Atlanta. 
 
Biographical. 8 
 
 o 
 
 Harris tells of how the verses had been copied from one end 
 of the South to the other and how the Western papers were 
 then taking them up. Paul Hamilton Hayne, he says, con- 
 sidered them "very fine." 1 As first published in the Monroe 
 Advertiser, the lines are here reproduced through the cour- 
 tesy of Mrs. Starke : 
 
 NORA BELLE 
 
 To the mother of little Nora Belle, the purity of whose everyday 
 life is a grander poem than man has ever yet written, I dedicate the 
 following unpretending lines. 
 
 Of all the little fairies 
 
 That ever love caressed, 
 I know our little darling 
 
 Is the brightest and the best. 
 O the neatest and the sweetest! 
 
 No tongue can ever tell 
 How much of love we lavish 
 
 On little Nora Belle. 
 
 She cannot reach the roses 
 
 That grow about her way, 
 But in her face are flowers 
 
 More beautiful than they; 
 And the sunlight falling round her 
 
 Glows with a magic spell, 
 Shedding a golden glory 
 
 On little Nora Belle. 
 
 She is winsome, she is winning, 
 
 She is blithe, and she is gay, 
 And she asks the wisest questions 
 
 In the most old-fashioned way; 
 And the lilies in the valley 
 
 And the daisies in the dell 
 Are not so pure and tender 
 
 As little Nora Belle. 
 
 a See letter to Mrs. Starke, quoted later, page 98. 
 
84 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 For years ago our Saviour 
 
 Blessed children with a touch, 
 And still his words are ringing : 
 
 "My kingdom is of such." 
 Flushed with his holy meaning, 
 
 They stand outside of sin; 
 And with his hand to guide them, 
 
 They may not enter in. 
 
 O rare sunshine and shadow, 
 
 That chase each other so, 
 That fall and flit and flicker 
 
 And restless come and go ! 
 O winds from o'er the ocean, 
 
 O breezes from the dell, 
 Bring nought but health and pleasure 
 
 To little Nora Belle. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 This is probably the best of all his poetic efforts. "A 
 Christmas Regret" also was written about this time, marked 
 by appropriate structure, rhythm, and diction : 
 
 A CHRISTMAS REGRET 1 
 TO NORA BELLE 
 
 You were not here that day 
 
 When the Christmas songs were sung, 
 And you were ever so far away 
 
 When New Year's bells were rung. 
 
 The music and the dancing were fine, 
 And the children were full of glee, 
 
 When they stood drawn up in line 
 Around the Christmas tree. 
 
 Ah ! the music and the dancing were fine ; 
 
 But something was lacking there — 
 I missed the light and the shine 
 
 Of a little girl's golden hair. 
 
 1 Copy supplied by Mrs. Starke. 
 
Biographical 85 
 
 Every heart was full of glee, 
 
 But my words and smiles were few ; 
 
 No joy was there for me — 
 My thoughts were all for you. 
 
 I'd have given all the music so fine, 
 Every song that was sung, every jest, 
 
 For your soft little cheek against mine, 
 For your dear little head on my breast. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 A very full account of Mr. Harris in Forsyth, based upon 
 personal recollections, has been secured from J. T. Manry, 
 now living in Louisiana, who was not only a fellow printer 
 in the Advertiser office, but was also Mr. Harris's room- 
 mate in the home of the editor. Mr. Manry writes : 
 
 On the third day of March, 1868, 1 entered the Advertiser 
 office as an apprentice, walking from my father's home, sev- 
 en miles west. I was met at the office door by Mr. J. P. 
 Harrison, then, and for some years, editor and proprietor of 
 the paper. He soon introduced me to Mr. Harris, who was 
 working, setting long-primer type, on a double rack, or case. 
 I was carried immediately to his right, where I was shown 
 the first case of type I had ever seen. I could not help ob- 
 serving Mr. Harris closely, and now his picture stands out 
 perfectly before me. He had the reddest hair I had ever 
 seen, I thought, and had less to say than any one with whom 
 I have ever been thrown in contact. He stammered badly 
 in his speech, and it was apparently an effort for him to 
 meet a stranger. 
 
 I remained three years in the office, being with Mr. Harris 
 constantly both night and day, as we occupied the same 
 small room at Mr. J. P. Harrison's. And I would like to 
 say right here that I never knew of one act of injustice com- 
 mitted by Mr. Harris during that time. He was always kind 
 and considerate of the feelings of others and doubly so to 
 me. When he was offered the position on the Savannah 
 News, he had to make a hurried departure; and he asked 
 me to pack his trunk and express it to him, as his clothes 
 
86 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 were then out being washed. I recall the nice letter I 
 afterwards received from him, in which he spoke of Colonel 
 Thompson as "gentle as a morning zephyr." 
 
 On entering the Advertiser office I had read but one novel. 
 The question about my reading came up between Mr. Harri- 
 son and Mr. Harris. I requested Mr. Harris to select such 
 books as I should read and subscribed to a circulating libra- 
 ry kept at Dr. Jayne's drug store. I have Mr. Harris to 
 thank for what knowledge of books I got for the three years 
 I was with him. He wrote me from Savannah to let him 
 know of any books that I wished; and, at my request, he 
 sent me Josh Billings's "Family Tree." 
 
 When I had been in the office for a few weeks, Mr. Har- 
 ris began to get out a column of news run solid (not lead- 
 ed), that it was my duty to put in type. He began to pub- 
 lish, too, short witticisms and personal notes, which at once 
 attracted notice. He could say more in a few lines than 
 almost any other writer. He never wrote out these items, 
 but set them in type at once. The fox-hunting articles, 
 signed "Towaliga," were composed the same way. I re- 
 member that I had to correct from reading the type all of 
 his matter. His fox-hunting stories brought out the virtues 
 of the different breeds of fox hounds — the Birdsong and 
 others. I remember his telling me his reason for the publi- 
 cation of this series of articles. He said he believed that the 
 Monroe County people would take more interest in the pa- 
 per. And they did. 
 
 It was then the custom for every county newspaper to 
 have a lengthy editorial ; but when the readers found infor- 
 mation, and a hearty laugh as well, in Harris's short, witty, 
 occasionally sarcastic lines, the Advertiser was eagerly read 
 and in demand. I remember one of his witticisms about the 
 Kimball House, erected in Atlanta near 1870 by H. I. Kim- 
 ball and R. B. Bullock. It was then probably the highest 
 building in the State. Mr. Harris referred to it as the "Hi 
 Kimball." The papers of the State took up the play, until 
 the hotel received immense free advertising. I have been 
 told that Mr. Kimball introduced himself to Mr. Harris and 
 told him that boarding at the Kimball would cost him noth- 
 ing, that his bills should be referred to H. I. Kimball. I 
 
Biographical 87 
 
 have also been told that in the hotel office is an engraving, 
 "Hi Kimball House." The presswork for the Monroe Ad- 
 vertiser was done entirely by Mr. Harris. I have yet to 
 find his superior as a pressman. The Advertiser took a 
 fifty-dollar prize at the Georgia State Fair as the best- 
 printed county weekly. 1 The press was an old-time Wash- 
 ington hand press, and I frequently rolled the forms. There 
 were about five hundred subscribers. I can recall various 
 witticisms of Mr. Harris as the different post offices were 
 called. When Culloden, for instance, was called, he would 
 say: "The field of Culloden rises red in my sight." 
 
 The first literary work that he did, to my knowledge, was 
 in preparing the index for "Living Writers of the South." 
 I cannot just now recall the author [See page 80] of the 
 book, though I gave a copy of it to his son Julian some two 
 years ago. I presume you have read his "Aunt Minerva 
 Ann." I can name nearly every one of the characters, as 
 they were taken in Forsyth, where the scene is laid. There 
 is a correct portrayal of the old Advertiser office as I knew 
 it. The rose hedge is on the Indian Springs road, about one 
 mile from Forsyth. The lane was covered with the Chero- 
 kee rose for a long distance. This is where the Gosset boys 
 had the fight. I have the margins of the book scribbled all 
 over. The Samantha character is Sallie Watkins, who was 
 cook in the Harrison home. Two years ago, after learning 
 that I had mentioned her in a newspaper article, she sent me 
 word that she was still alive. 2 
 
 Mr. Harris was paid, I think, only forty dollars a month 
 for his services to the Advertiser. As to the price Colonel 
 Thompson was to pay him on the Morning News staff, I do 
 not know. But I do know that he was to have had a posi- 
 tion on the Atlanta Constitution when it should be estab- 
 lished. Mr. J. P. Harrison, S. F. Fitch, of Griffin, Cary W. 
 Stiles, of Albany, and the editor of the Americus Recorder 
 were present at Indian Springs, where the establishment of 
 the Constitution was planned. I carried from the post office 
 
 1 Recall the neat appearance of The Countryman, page 44. 
 2 As to Harris's taking his characters and incidents from life, see 
 page 67 and Part II. 
 
88 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the second issue of the paper, and I remember with what 
 eagerness Mr. Harris received it. 
 
 I think Mr. Harris was more influenced by Mrs. J. P. 
 Harrison and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Starke, than by any one 
 else. Mrs. Harrison was a member of the Methodist Church 
 and was a noble woman. The first poem I ever knew Mr. 
 Harris to write was inscribed to Mrs. Starke's little daugh- 
 ter, Nora Belle. He sent nearly all of his salary to his 
 mother, who lived in Eatonton. I carried the mail to and 
 from the post office, and I believe that I could swear to his 
 mother's handwriting. I know he was always glad to re- 
 ceive her letters. 1 
 
 When summing up the formative influences upon Har- 
 ris's career, one must place the three years in Forsyth as 
 second only to the four years at Turnwold. In Forsyth the 
 youth became the man. He entered the Advertiser office 
 before he was nineteen and left after he was twenty-one. 
 In 1867 he was employed to set type and prepare the forms 
 for the press. For some time such contributions as he made 
 to the contents of the paper were gratuitous. But erelong 
 he was preparing a regular column that was gladly account- 
 ed for by the proprietor-editor in the salary paid him. 2 
 From being only a member of the typesetters' union, Joe 
 Harris within three years became a marked figure among 
 the editors, correspondents, and reporters at the press con- 
 ventions of the State. His pen was magnetic. Newspaper 
 men from every county were drawn to him and published 
 their recognition of his merits. The bright office boy had 
 become the accomplished journalist. His more distinctly 
 
 x The author has compiled this account from a letter dated Plain 
 Dealing, Louisiana, August 26, 1915, written by J. T. Manry to Miss 
 S. S. Center, of Forsyth and New York, and from Mr. Manry's cor- 
 respondence to the Monroe Advertiser, issues of June 15, 1906, and 
 December 6, 1912. 
 
 2 Mrs. Starke, letter of March 19, 1915. 
 
Biographical 89 
 
 literary progress, too, was decisive. He had his visions, he 
 worked diligently, and he produced no uncertain results. 
 Appreciation of his writing was manifested by the cultured 
 people of his community, and his name was enrolled among 
 men of letters in the South. 
 
 Best of all, moreover, Joe Harris learned in Forsyth what 
 it means to have friends. He had left Eatonton at twelve, 
 too young to realize the significance of friendship. At 
 Turnwold there was small chance for him to have the full 
 experience. Mr. Turner was too much his senior, and there 
 was not opportunity sufficient to prove true friendship be- 
 tween himself and others with whom he may have been for 
 a part of the time associated. His residence in Macon and 
 in New Orleans was too brief for friendships, but sufficient, 
 doubtless, for him to feel himself alone in the city's cold 
 crowd. So into Forsyth came this lone son of a poor seam- 
 stress, lately taken by sickness from his honorable position 
 in gay and cultured New Orleans back to rural Eatonton, 
 into the most poignant realization and immediate sharing of 
 his mother's bitter poverty and loneliness. Now came into 
 his life the blessing of friends whose tender sympathy and 
 intelligent encouragement eased his disconsolate mind and 
 uplifted his heart. Intimate and valuable associations were 
 developed with H. H. Cabaniss and other young men of the 
 town. 1 Mr. Harrison took him into his home, where friend- 
 ships for life were cemented. Mrs. Harrison took the deep- 
 est personal interest in him. An older sister of Mr. Harri- 
 son, Mrs. Georgia Starke, who regularly visited her brother 
 and sometimes had Mr. Harris as a guest in her mother's 
 home, must have received his confidences and influenced his 
 life as did no one else at that time. It was her little daugh- 
 ter for whom Mr. Harris cherished such affection as was 
 
 x See reference to H. H. Cabaniss, pages 75, 76. 
 
go The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 shown in the verses already quoted. Published with the 
 lines to Nora Belle, too, was his significant tribute to the 
 mother. 1 A younger sister became a friend about whom 
 possibly gathered something of a romance. 2 We may well 
 believe that Mr. Harris left Forsyth very hastily, as Mr. 
 Manry tells us, because he dared not undergo leave-taking 
 from his friends. He went to Savannah in response to an 
 offer that came to him, not as the result of an application 
 on his part, but as the result of a recognition on the part of 
 the News proprietor of his value and possibilities. Just 
 after this fashion he had gone to Forsyth; and so, when he 
 had proved himself in Savannah, was he to be called to the 
 Atlanta Constitution. 
 
 1 See the poem as given on page 83 ; also see letters quoted here- 
 after, pages 92ff. 
 
 2 See the little poem, "A Rembrance," page 99. 
 
VI 
 
 IT was probably in October of 1870 that Mr. Harris ac- 
 cepted a call to the associate editorship of the Savannah 
 Morning News. This was a phenomenal promotion, 
 conclusive evidence of the faithfulness and rapidity with 
 which he had built upon the foundation laid at Turnwold. 
 Forsyth was but a village of fifteen hundred people; Sa- 
 vannah, with a population of twenty-eight thousand, was 
 the oldest and largest city in the State. The News was, next 
 to the Augusta Chronicle, the first newspaper established in 
 Georgia and was read by thousands where the Advertiser 
 was read by hundreds. It was generally considered the best 
 all-round paper in the Southeastern States. Col. W. T. 
 Thompson, editor from its beginning, in 1850, had achieved, 
 in addition to the honor of his long and'excellent journalistic 
 work, literary fame as a humorist of first rank. Young Har- 
 ris, knowing these facts, moved into his new position with 
 bounding pulse and a heart filled with song of high success. 
 
 Within a few months he wrote in a personal letter that 
 he had found life in Savannah unexpectedly pleasant and 
 that his success seemed assured. He said that Mr. Harri- 
 son had endeavored to attract him to the Advertiser again. 
 However, he intimated, New York would probably be the 
 scene of his later conquest. But his letter was devoted 
 chiefly to the precious memory of the old friends in For- 
 syth. He had left them only because it appeared his duty 
 to accept the superior offer made to him by the News. 
 Except for his brief sojourns in Macon and New Orleans, 
 he was now for the first time absolutely among strangers, 
 farther from the home of his childhood than he was 
 ever to live again. He was no longer in a friend's home as 
 
 (90 
 
92 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 one of the family, but eating and sleeping in a boarding 
 house. He was not a co-worker on a paper to him much as 
 his own, but was one employed to do a certain amount of 
 labor on a great daily whose ownership was of small per- 
 sonal concern to him. And he gave small occasion for any 
 one to take interest in him. A venerable citizen of Savan- 
 nah who saw him daily during those years recalls that he 
 was retiring and hard to approach, seeming content to live 
 his life very much to himself; that he attended no church 
 regularly; that he was not given to joking or story-telling, 
 but rather was very quiet and added few comments to the 
 conversation around him ; that he was "homely, red-haired, 
 freckle-faced — in general appearance a veritable "crack- 
 er." 1 So, after the novelty of his new situation had worn 
 off during the months of autumn, and after dreary winter 
 had come, he was in a melancholy mood when, on the eve 
 of his twenty-second birthday anniversary, there greeted 
 him a letter from his dear friend, Mrs. Starke. Immediate 
 response poured forth from his soul, revealing a conception 
 of life and an ambition that would have startled the unsus- 
 pecting stranger, sentiments and emotions that the world 
 might not perceive, until it read through the character of 
 Uncle Remus : 
 
 Office Morning News, Savannah, Georgia, 
 
 9 Dec, 1&70. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Starke: You cannot imagine how glad I was to 
 receive your letter yesterday. It is something to be remem- 
 bered by one's friends, isn't it ? And such remembrances as 
 your letter are very precious. It came just in time to relieve 
 me from a serious attack of the blues; and in order to se- 
 cure a repetition of the remedy, I write at once. 
 
 About myself there is, indeed, very little to be said. I 
 left Forsyth with much regret and only after the most seri- 
 
 ^ral statement of Mr. A. McC. Duncan, August, 1915. 
 
Biographical 93 
 
 ous deliberation. If I had consulted my desires — my per- 
 sonal feelings, I mean — I would have remained on the Ad- 
 vertiser; but in this miserable world personal predilections 
 are often sacrificed for gain. It is a sad confession to 
 make; but, in my case at least, it is true. The personal 
 relations between Mr. Harrison and myself have been 
 throughout of the kindest and the most intimate character. 
 There have been occasions undoubtedly when his impatient 
 temper rendered me uncomfortable, because I am extremely 
 sensitive; but I dare say that my shortcomings, together 
 with the thousand and one imperfections which, through 
 some bitter destiny, are a part of my nature, have to an in- 
 finite degree overbalanced everything. The cause of my 
 leaving Forsyth was a matter of business simply and had 
 nothing to do with my friendship or personal feelings. I 
 was offered a position as associate editor on the News at a 
 salary that I could not refuse, and I therefore concluded to 
 accept. ... I spoke fully and freely of my hopes and 
 prospects and asked his (Mr. H.) advice in the matter. 
 . . . The position of associate editor on a leading paper 
 like the News is not often tendered to a person as young 
 and inexperienced as myself, and I could not refuse. In 
 speaking with Mr. H. I had insisted upon and emphasized 
 the fact that it was my desire to remain in Forsyth, but 
 that I considered it my duty to come to Savannah, . . . 
 what I conceived to be a perfectly plain distinction between 
 duty and desire. He afterwards came to Savannah to see 
 me and to offer a proposition, the acceptance of which would 
 take me back to Forsyth. ... If you have received even 
 so much as a hint that I left Forsyth on account of a mis- 
 understanding, I assure you it is a mistake. ... I never 
 knew what a real friend was until I went to Forsyth ; and it 
 is no wonder that I look back upon my life there with ten- 
 derest and most sincere regrets — regrets that I was compelled 
 to give it up. My history is a peculiar and unfortunate one, 
 and those three years in Forsyth are the very brightest of 
 my life. They are a precious memorial of what would oth- 
 erwise be as bleak and desolate as winter; and the friends 
 whom I knew and loved there, whom I still know and love, 
 will never lose their places in my heart — those dear friends 
 who were so gentle, so kind, and so good, who were always 
 
94 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ready to overlook my shortcomings and to forgive my awk- 
 ward blunders. There is pathos enough in the recollection 
 of these things to form an immortal poem, if one could only 
 fashion it aright. But, for my part, I will not try. Words 
 are weak at best, and it is only once in a century that they 
 should be employed on such a sacred subject. That part of 
 my life which is still in the future I am willing to trust en- 
 tirely to fate or Providence, but I know that the coming 
 years hold for me no such happiness and will duplicate no 
 such dear days. I know in my soul that I will never again 
 find such friends, tender and true-hearted, faithful and for- 
 giving. ... I do not easily forget. My surroundings 
 here are pleasant to a degree that I could not have hoped 
 for, and my success seems to be assured. But there is 
 something wanting — something, I cannot tell what. I do 
 not feel at home. The place lacks something. 
 
 After all, though, these objections are only nominal. The 
 main point is success and advancement. Whether I shall 
 succeed ultimately, I cannot tell. I will do my best, and 
 then if I fail I will have the satisfaction of knowing pre- 
 cisely of what I am capable ; and you will agree with me 
 that, in the vanities and egotisms of youth, knowledge of 
 that sort is invaluable. In case of failure I give place sim- 
 ply to some one who perhaps is infinitely better and wor- 
 thier. 
 
 Don't fail to write to me. I have been without sympathy 
 a good portion of my life; and your letters are very highly 
 prized, I do assure you. Please remember when you write 
 to a "lonesome" boy like me you are doing missionary work. 
 
 I have no idea how long I shall remain in Savannah, the 
 probability being that I shall gravitate toward that shining 
 Sodom called New York; but, here, there, or elsewhere, 
 please remember that I am always the same and always your 
 friend. J. C. Harris. 1 
 
 With a mother's tender heart, Mrs. Starke sat right down 
 
 better from Mr. Harris to Mrs. Georgia Starke, dated Savannah, 
 Georgia, December 9, 1870. 
 
Biographical 95 
 
 and wrote the forlorn young man a long letter. She urged 
 him to make friends among the new people. But, writing 
 again at once of his consuming affection for his old friends, 
 he declared his "absolute horror of strangers" and wrote 
 pathetically of his "morbid sensitiveness," that caused him 
 more mortification and grief than anything in the world. 
 These two elements in his nature largely explain why Mr. 
 Harris, the "shy little recluse" of Eatonton, remained 
 throughout his life a shy recluse. He would not try now to 
 make friends, he said, for another reason : he desired to be 
 thrown entirely upon his own resources, in order that he 
 might know truly of what he was capable. 
 
 Morning News Office, Savannah, Georgia, 
 
 18 Dec, 1870. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Starke: . . . [Appreciation of a long let- 
 ter.] 
 
 I don't expect to make any friends here, for the simple 
 reason that I shall not try. I haven't room in my heart for 
 them. My love, my friendship, and my esteem are ex- 
 hausted on the few friends that I already have. You see, I 
 am conservative in my disposition and suspicious of new 
 faces. I wouldn't give even the memory of my friends for 
 the balance of the world. I have an absolute horror of 
 strangers; and as for making friends of them now, it is not 
 to be thought of. I am determined to put myself to the test 
 at once, so that I may know exactly what is in me. In order 
 to do this I will have to trust entirely to merit for success 
 instead of depending upon the biased judgment of friends. 
 By this means my capabilities, if I have any, will show 
 themselves. 
 
 My letters are exact transcripts of my thoughts. They 
 stand me instead of a "gift of gab," which, most unfortu- 
 nately, I do not possess. . . . 
 
 The truth is, I am morbidly sensitive. With some people 
 the quality of sensitiveness adds to their refinement and is 
 quite a charm. With me it is an affliction, a disease that has 
 cost me more mortification and grief than anything in the 
 world or everything put together. The least hint, a word, a 
 
g6 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 gesture is enough to put me in a frenzy almost. The least 
 coolness on the part of a friend, the slightest rebuff tortures 
 me beyond expression ; and I have wished a thousand times 
 that I was dead and buried and out of sight. You cannot 
 conceive to what extent this feeling goes with me. It is 
 worse than death itself. It is horrible. My dearest friends 
 have no idea how often they have crucified me. Of course 
 no one can sympathize with such an inexplicable disposition. 
 I can see how foolish it is ; but the feeling is there, neverthe- 
 less, and I can no more control it than I can call into life 
 the "dry bones" or bid the moon to stand still "over the 
 valley of Ajalon." . . . Her treatment of me was perhaps 
 the best, after all; for it showed me, more completely than 
 a thousand years' experience could have done, what a coarse, 
 ungainly boor I am — how poor, small, and insignificant. 
 
 This letter is all about self, self, self. That is the bur- 
 then, the chorus, and the refrain — self, self, self. I beg that 
 you will pardon such dreary dribble and consider it confi- 
 dential. I do not often tell my thoughts so precisely and do 
 not care to do so. 
 
 Most sincerely and faithfully your friend, 
 
 J. C. Harris. 1 
 
 During the months that followed it was often letters from 
 Mrs. Starke, undoubtedly, that kept the divine fire burning 
 in his soul. Sympathy, counsel, encouragement, good cheer, 
 and inspiration came to him from this unfailing source. He 
 always gratefully acknowledged that she saved him from 
 New York. Thirty years later he wrote of the abiding in- 
 fluence of this friendship through all the years, attributing 
 to it his best work. 2 When he had been in Savannah for 
 nearly two years, the following letter was written : 
 
 1 Letter to Mrs. Starke, dated Savannah, Georgia, December 18, 
 1870. 
 
 2 Letter to Mrs. Starke, dated Atlanta, December 23, 1901, and let- 
 ter to Miss Nora Belle Starke, dated Atlanta, December 26, 1906, 
 both in possession of Mrs. Starke. 
 
My Dear Friend: 
 
 Biographical. 97 
 
 Savannah, June 4, 1872. 
 
 I have often thought that my ideas were in some degree 
 distorted and tinged with a coloring of romance fatal to any- 
 practical ambition. But if it is to be so, so be it. You may 
 be sure that I will cling to my idiosyncrasies. They are a 
 part of me, and I am a part of them. They are infinitely 
 soothing, and I would not be without them for the world. 
 Why, sometimes, do you know, I give myself up to the 
 sweet indolence of thinking for hours at a time, and at such 
 times I am supremely and ineffably happy — happy whether 
 my thoughts are tinged with regret or flushed with hope. 
 Not the least of my pleasures is the pleasure of melancholy. 
 Sorrow is sometimes sweet — always sweet when it brings 
 back to us, through the unexplorable caverns of the nights 
 that have fled, some dear dead face, the tone of some silent 
 voice. Those who have not groped through the mystery of 
 pain, who have not been wrapped about with the amber fogs 
 of sorrow, have not experienced the grandest developments 
 of this life, and from my soul I pity them. 
 
 Nearly akin to these things is another experience of mine, 
 and it is very curious. When I was about six years old, I 
 went with my mother to the funeral of my grandmother; 
 and the first words that the preacher said — and the only ones 
 that I remember — have sung in my ears from that day to 
 this. I have never forgotten them for a single moment. 
 They are present with me at all times and under all circum- 
 stances. No matter what I do, what I say, nor where I 
 turn, these words are running in my mind like an undertone 
 of sweet music : "I am the resurrection and the life, saith 
 the Lord." I often say it aloud, unintentionally and uncon- 
 sciously. In my copy books which I used at school it is 
 written hundreds of times. In my composition book it oc- 
 cupies every available place : "I am the resurrection and the 
 life, saith the Lord." . . . 
 
 If you only knew how precious your letters are, how they 
 are read and reread, you would not think the time spent in 
 writing them altogether thrown away. 
 
 I inclose you a copy of "A Remembrance." It is crude 
 7 
 
98 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 enough, both in thought and in expression ; but the invaria- 
 ble result of all of my attempts at elaboration is to consign 
 everything to the wastebasket. Speaking of attempts at 
 verse-building reminds me to tell you that "Nora Belle" has 
 been copied from one end of the South to the other, and 
 the Western papers are now taking it up. I learn through a 
 friend that General Toombs has spoken very highly of it, 
 and through another that Paul Hayne, the poet, character- 
 ized it as "very fine." 
 
 I am never more lonely than when in a crowd. 
 
 Now, as always, faithfully your friend, J. C. Harris. 1 
 
 These letters to Mrs. Starke indicate the powerful period 
 of introspection through which he was passing. The expe- 
 rience was essential, but he must be saved from morbidness. 
 While he was assured of success in his profession, and his 
 ambition and hope were high, still he was conscious of 
 "something wanting"; the place "lacked something." It 
 was something to lift him out of himself that was needed. 
 The lack was in his heart ; and there was wanting, not some- 
 thing, but some one. Romance, which had "tinged his 
 ideas," should now become part of his life. He needed now 
 more than friendship alone; he needed love. But the soci- 
 ety of young ladies was for him a thing unknown and not 
 to be contemplated. Feeling that he had no personal attrac- 
 tions, having a horror of strangers, and afflicted with sensi- 
 tiveness, social embarrassment was the dread of his life, 
 and habitually he sought the seclusion of his daily and 
 nightly newspaper work. " 'Mingled in society ?' " replies 
 Mrs. Starke. "That is a joke, if it were not so serious." 2 
 
 Yet, as the world has since come to know, he had a heart 
 
 better to Mrs. Starke, dated Savannah, Georgia, June 4, 1872. 
 2 Letter dated Atlanta, March 19, 1915. 
 
Biographical. 99 
 
 fashioned only to love. This we see through these letters, 
 and from such a heart occasionally flowed revealing lyrics. 
 Of "A Remembrance" Mrs. Starke writes: "Mr. Harris 
 was visiting my mother on Capitol Avenue [Atlanta] ; and 
 one moonlight evening, while he was lying out on the lawn, 
 the singing of my sister, Miss Nora Harrison, must have 
 touched him." 1 
 
 A REMEMBRANCE 2 
 
 (Atlanta, 1871) 
 
 Soft, low, and sweet, yet clear and strong, 
 
 Rose the rich volume of your song; 
 
 While on the languid August air, 
 
 That swept your face and stirred your hair, 
 
 Invoked as by some magic spell, 
 
 Wild gusts of music rose and fell. 
 
 In the vague hollows of the night 
 
 The calm stars swung steadfastly bright; 
 
 A bird, belated in the gloom, 
 
 Flew nestward with bedraggled plume; 
 
 A star shook loose her fiery train 
 
 And swept across the sapphire plain — 
 
 Then all was still, except the strong, 
 
 Rich distone of your sweet song. 
 
 11 
 I stood entranced ; my soul was bound ; 
 Melodious thralls enwrapt me round. 
 
 better dated Atlanta, July 24, 1915. (Miss Harrison later became 
 Mrs. E. Y. Clarke.) 
 
 2 A copy of this poem was furnished by Mrs. Starke. It was pub- 
 lished in the Atlanta Constitution December 5, 1876, with four ver- 
 bal changes, as follows: In line ten flew — swept; line 12, swept — 
 shot; line 13, Then — And; line 14, distone — harmony; and the date 
 was printed 1873. 
 
ioo The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 I lived again the wild, uncouth, 
 Dear, devious days of my lost youth ; 
 But floods of song swept in and drowned 
 The old-time singers, sorrow-crowned. 
 I saw once more the friends of old 
 And heard their voices manifold ; 
 The waste, wan years slipped slowly by, 
 With many a change of sea and sky, 
 With many a change of form and hue, 
 And left me happy there with you. 
 
 J. C. Harris. 
 
 These lines, written in the summer of 1871, show unmis- 
 takably that the young man was responding to romantic 
 promptings. Within a few weeks, from the far-away North 
 directly to Savannah, came a beautiful sixteen-year-old 
 French-Canadian girl. Her father, a sea captain, had moved 
 to Savannah when he began conducting a steamship business 
 from that point. She had now graduated from the school 
 at St. Hyacinth Convent, near Montreal, and was to spend 
 the winter with her parents, who were living in a boarding 
 place where Mr. Harris lived. We may imagine with what 
 utter confusion the young editor met her. However, much 
 against his will at first, he was occasionally thrown in her 
 company. Her natural, frank manner soon relieved his 
 embarrassment. Her spirit and vivacity attracted him. He 
 began to linger after meals when she was around. He be- 
 came bold enough to tease her. They matched wits daily. 
 With the approach of summer she went away to the North, 
 and he was grieved. They had agreed to correspond; but 
 when she did not write often, he charged her with neglect, 
 and the correspondence ceased. 
 
 In the fall she returned with added graces and beauty, 
 accompanied by the rumor of a suitor in Canada. The 
 young editor was eager to capitulate and, when given an 
 excuse, gladly forgot his late pique. He sought her com- 
 
Biographical. loi 
 
 pany after the noon meal each day and one evening a week 
 when free from work. In her presence he was no longer 
 self-conscious, but wholly at ease and happy. Any one who 
 knows Mrs. Harris to-day can understand why this was so. 
 Unaffected, sincere, gentle, sympathetic, adapting herself 
 without effort to her company, full of life, and ready with 
 wit, hers wefe the best of French qualities, which balanced 
 charmingly with the marked racial characteristics of the 
 young Saxon. Their hearts joined in comradeship. Rising 
 responsively from his timidity and awkwardness, Joel Har- 
 ris became the ardent lover. And before the winter was 
 over she had promised to marry him. 
 
 Captain LaRose, though away from home much of the 
 time, suspected the editor's attentions, was wary, and, 
 when in the city, steered his daily course far in the offing. 
 But there came a day when Mr. Harris opportunely distin- 
 guished his retreating footsteps, pursued him through the 
 hallway, and overtook him at the doorsteps. 
 
 "Too young !" the seaman blustered. "She knows nothing 
 of housekeeping. Both of you are too young to take care of 
 yourselves." 
 
 "I can take care of her," protested the suitor. 
 
 "Well, if she wants to marry you, I leave it with her," 
 were the happy words that ended the pointed conversation. 
 
 The fond father tempted his daughter with a proffered trip 
 abroad, to France and other European countries, but she pre- 
 ferred to marry. In the parlor of the boarding house, on 
 April 21, 1873, was solemnized in a quiet manner the mar- 
 riage of Esther LaRose, aged eighteen, and Joel Chandler 
 Harris, aged twenty-four. A bridal trip to North Georgia, 
 cut short by an unseasonable spell of weather, was extended 
 during the following summer into Canada. The young 
 couple did not undertake housekeeping, but continued to 
 
102 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 board in the same place, 101 Broughton Street, as long as 
 Savannah was their home. 1 
 
 Mr. Harris's marriage came just halfway in the period of 
 his residence in Savannah. His six years there were marked 
 by intense devotion to his newspaper work. It was particu- 
 larly his brisk little paragraphs in the Advertiser that had 
 advanced him to the News, 2 and the punster of The Coun- 
 tryman became the paragraph editor of the great city daily. 
 His chief duty was to gather news items from the exchanges 
 and prepare for each issue of the paper two columns, headed 
 "Affairs in Georgia" and "Florida Affairs." 3 Through the 
 files of the News one quickly discovers that for him it was 
 not a mere matter of sitting with scissors and paste pot, 
 clipping the news from other papers, pasting the clippings 
 on copy paper, and having little Frank L. Stanton take them 
 to the composing room. He applied mind and heart to this 
 special feature of his, so that his humorous and ridiculous 
 comments on persons and incidents became the joy of the 
 thousands who never failed to read these columns. In addi- 
 tion, he often shared the work of the regular editorial page 
 and contributed to other columns various matter of his own 
 composition. Mr. Stanton to-day recalls how often he got 
 interested in something in the paper and later found that it 
 was Mr. Harris who had written it.* Mr. Duncan says of 
 Mr. Harris : 
 
 ^his account of the romance and marriage of Miss LaRose and 
 Mr. Harris is based on a relation of the same by Mrs. Harris Janu- 
 ary I, 1916. The Savannah Directory of 1874-75 gives : Harris, Joel 
 C, assistant editor of Morning News, boards 101 Broughton Street; 
 LaRose, Peter, steamboat captain, residence 101 Broughton Street. 
 
 2 Mrs. Starke; letter dated Atlanta, Georgia, March 19, 1915. 
 
 s Oral statements of Mr. A. McD. Duncan, Mr. T. K. Oglesby, and 
 others. 
 
 "Oral statement of Frank L. Stanton. 
 
Biographical. 103 
 
 He appeared lazy, but worked hard day and night at his 
 desk. When a paragraph or article appeared in an exchange 
 that invited special attention, I have no doubt that Colonel 
 Thompson called on Mr. Harris for an editorial on the sub- 
 ject, and so possibly began his writings in a systematic way. 
 Mr. Harris and Colonel Thompson were of very different 
 temperaments, but were congenial and worked together har- 
 moniously. 
 
 From the Georgia and Florida columns two or three para- 
 graphs are here taken at random. They are, of course, mere 
 newspaper work at its farthest point of separation from 
 work of literary quality. But this feature in the newspa- 
 pers, then being first developed, was, as it still is, exceeding- 
 ly effective in catching the interest of the great body of 
 subscribers ; and so Mr. Harris had to supply the unrelent- 
 ing daily demand for twenty-five to fifty such items : 
 
 Col. H. Whiffletree Grady, of the Atlanta Herald, has 
 found time between his editorial and poetic recreations to 
 invent a new design for a chicken coop. The superstructure 
 will be tested at the next State fair. 
 
 [July 6, 1874.] 
 
 Lochrane refuses to run against Freeman for Congress in 
 the Atlanta District on the ground that the latter is his un- 
 cle or brother-in-law or something of that sort. Now, 
 what son of a breech-loading air gun will rise and say that 
 there is nothing in the ties of consanguinity? 
 
 [July 6, 1874.] 
 
 One with an eye for prophecy may note with satisfaction 
 the prominence given to absurd comments on negro inci- 
 dents : 
 
 A colored emigrant bound for Arkansas got into a dispute 
 with a Macon negro the other day and was promptly vacci- 
 nated. 
 
 [January 4, 1873.] 
 
104 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 A Lumpkin negro seriously injured his pocketknife re- 
 cently by undertaking to stab a colored brother in the head. 
 [January 6, 1873.] 
 
 The most effective of these paragraphs were of immediate 
 interest only, depending upon the reader's familiarity with 
 men and affairs of that day, and so cannot be generally ap- 
 preciated to-day. In the first given above, for instance, the 
 person referred to was Henry Woodfin Grady, the great 
 journalist and orator, with whom Harris was two years later 
 to be associated on the Atlanta Constitution staff. There 
 was carried on among the newspaper men, then even more 
 than now, a constant cross-fire of wit, in which Harris took 
 the lead. Among themselves they knew, too, Harris's epi- 
 grammatic work that appeared from time to time on the 
 editorial page (examples of which one may not to-day ven- 
 ture to identify), and they hailed him as the master para- 
 graphist. The Atlanta Constitution paid him tribute as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 JINKS CONUNDRUM HARRIS 
 
 AN ILLUSTRATED BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF ONE OF GEORGIA'S 
 FUNNY MEN 
 
 We gave our readers a few days ago an extract detailing 
 the history of one Mr. Bailey, whose humorous paragraphs 
 in a little provincial weekly in New England called the Dan- 
 bury News have made the paper and the man famous over 
 the Union. 
 
 We give to-day to our readers a sketch of a young man 
 connected with the Georgia press, whose humor, in its way, 
 is, in our judgment, equally as racy as that of the Danbury 
 joker. We say this in seriousness. Harris's humor has 
 made his paper, the Savannah News, noted for the sparkle 
 of its Georgia column. 
 
 The following is an accurate photograph of Harris in- 
 structing some of his numerous imitators. [A cartoon by 
 E. Purcell represents the giant figure of Harris with arm 
 extended above three small figures. Then follows a bur- 
 
Biographical 105 
 
 lesque biographical sketch relating Harris to Rabelais, Fal- 
 staff, and Mark Twain, emphasizing the exuberance of his 
 fun, and concluding as follows :] 
 
 But we must stop. The very suggestion of Harris sets 
 our paper to capering with laughter, our table to cutting up 
 comical didos, pen to dancing a kind of Highland fling. The 
 following are distinguished specimens of Harris's jokes. 
 He has them all patented : 
 
 "A Rome man wants an air-line, narrow-gauge canal be- 
 tween' Baltimore and New Orleans. We were just talking 
 about this thing the other day. If Rome don't have it 
 erected, hanged if we don't put a couple of able-bodied ne- 
 groes to work on it immediately and thus receive the copy- 
 right." 
 
 "The man with the ink eraser was in Macon the other day. 
 The humblest citizen is, by this noble invention, put upon a 
 war footing and can at once proceed to raise checks with 
 perfect impunity." 
 
 "Col. I. -W. Avery, of the Constitution, has purchased a 
 new pair of silver-plated gutta-percha garters. He is now of 
 the opinion that women should be allowed to vote, without 
 regard to sex." 1 
 
 There is left to us no way of determining what "heavy" 
 editorials were written by Mr. Harris ; but, upon the opinion 
 of men like Mr. Duncan and Mr. Oglesby, it may be as- 
 sumed that he did a considerable amount of such writing. 
 There are preserved in his "Census" scrapbook clippings of 
 his traveling correspondence from Indian Spring, Griffin, 
 Barnesville, Gainesville, Tallulah Falls, and Atlanta, repre- 
 senting pleasure trips, press conventions, agricultural con- 
 ventions, and politics. All of the writing for the News was 
 done with a skill that gratified the senior editor, who, soon 
 
 1 The Atlanta Constitution, April 23, 1873. Reproduced, in part, 
 by the Monroe Advertiser, April 29, 1873. 
 
106 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 after Mr. Harris had moved to Atlanta, expressed through 
 his editorial columns the following appreciation : 
 
 The Atlanta Constitution announces that it will shortly 
 commence in its weekly issue the publication of a serial 
 story ... by our friend and late associate, Mr. J. C. 
 Harris. As a graceful and versatile writer, Mr. Harris has 
 few equals in the South, whilst with inventive genius of a 
 high order he combines rare powers of description, a keen 
 sense of the ludicrous, genial humor, and caustic wit. 1 
 
 Mr. H. H. Cabaniss, who had become editor of the Mon- 
 roe Advertiser, characterized him at this time as a "brilliant 
 paragraphist, an able political writer, and a man of rare 
 versatility of talent." 2 
 
 Mr. Harris's success as an editor, indeed, now became the 
 danger in the way of his literary career. From his early 
 years he had given much study to literature and had pro- 
 posed to become himself an author. But now he was being 
 forced into a very practical consideration of life. In 1874 
 his first son, Julian, was born, and in 1875 another, Lucien. 
 Captain LaRose was anxious to set him up in an independ- 
 ent newspaper business, but his pride would not allow him 
 to accept assistance from his father-in-law. 3 He had to 
 work hard, day and night, to cover the task of his regular 
 employment, whereby he made a livelihood for his family 
 and assisted his mother. Consequently there was no time 
 left for the development of purely literary talent. Then, 
 too, he had risen steadily in his profession, until he was 
 heralded as one of Georgia's most promising journalists. 
 So why should he turn aside to uncertain literary pursuits ? 
 But while he no longer contemplated this, his unbroken in- 
 
 1 W. T. Thompson, Savannah Morning News, March, 1878. 
 2 H. H. Cabaniss, Monroe Advertiser, November 28, 1876. See 
 pages 75, 76. 
 
 3 Oral statement of Mrs. Harris. 
 
Biographical 107 
 
 tellectual habits were such as to promote his fitness for a 
 literary career. He read extensively and practiced all kinds 
 of written composition. Seeking access to a library, he 
 became a member of the Georgia Historical Society (found- 
 ed in Savannah in 1839). 1 We have seen how Colonel 
 Thompson distinguished his particular merits as a writer — 
 "wit," "humor," "grace," "descriptive power," "invention," 
 "versatility." Of his abiding interest in versification there 
 is evidence of a later date than his letter to Mrs. Starke in 
 1872: 3 For example, at the head of the first column on the 
 front page of the News of January 1, 1874, appeared ten 
 stanzas based on one of his New Orleans poems, "The Old 
 and the New" : 
 
 JANUARY 1, 1874 3 
 1 
 Clasp the hands of those who are going, 
 
 Kiss the lips that are raised to be kissed, 
 For the life of the Old Year is flowing 
 And melting away in the mist. 
 
 11 
 Greet the New Year with music and laughter, 
 
 Let the Old pass away with a tear ; 
 For we shall remember, hereafter, 
 
 The many who die with the year; 
 
 in 
 And the songs of the children of Sorrow 
 
 Shall unite with the echoes of mirth 
 Ere the sweet, glad sun of to-morrow 
 
 Smiles down on the night-smitten earth. 
 
 1 Mr. William Harden, the present librarian, has found record of 
 Mr. Harris's membership. Until 1875 its library was not open to the 
 public, and the membership fee was ten dollars. 
 
 2 See page 98. 
 
 s The Savannah Morning News, January 1, 1874. Compare page 
 73. 
 
108 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 IV 
 
 And the meek and stricken daughters of Anguish 
 Shall lift their sharp burthens of pain 
 
 And long, as they linger and languish, 
 For Christ's blessed presence again. 
 
 V 
 
 For time has struck down the heart's idols— 
 The fairest, the dearest have died — 
 
 And Death hath gone grimly to bridals 
 And claimed the first kiss of the bride. 
 
 VI 
 
 But the glory of noon and the gray-light 
 Are gathered and mingled in one, 
 
 And the darkness of dawn and the daylight 
 Precede the approach of the sun. 
 
 VII 
 
 A poor mother bird is oft lifted 
 
 From the storm-shaken bough where she clung 
 And cruelly driven and drifted 
 
 Far away from her nest-full of young. 
 
 VIII 
 
 But the wild storm that buffets and harries 
 This lone bird about in the West 
 
 Lifts up on its bosom and carries 
 Another bird safe to her nest. 
 
 IX 
 
 Ah! the span of the heavens is spacious — 
 Clear sky is vouchsafed to the blind — 
 
 The bitterest griefs are made gracious — 
 The crudest fate rendered kind. 
 
 X 
 
 Clasp the hands of the old who are going, 
 Kiss the lips that are raised to be kissed, 
 
 For the life of the Old Year is flowing 
 And melting away in the mist. 
 
 J. C. Harris. 
 
Biographical 109 
 
 Again, in love of childhood, he wrote these two poems: 
 
 JULIETTE 1 
 [Laurel Grove Cemetery] 
 
 Lo ! here the sunshine flickers bright 
 
 Among the restless shadows, 
 And undulating waves of light 
 
 Slip through the tranquil meadows. 
 
 The hoary trees stand ranged about, 
 Their damp gray mosses trailing, 
 
 Like ghostly signals long hung out 
 For succor unavailing. 
 
 And marble shafts arise here and there 
 
 In immemorial places, 
 Embalmed in nature's bosom fair 
 
 And chiseled with art's graces. 
 
 'Twas here, Juliette, you watched the skies 
 
 Burn into evening's splendor, 
 And saw the sunset's wondrous dies 
 
 Fade into twilight tender, 
 
 And saw the gray go out in gloom 
 
 Upon the brow of evening, 
 And watched to see the young stars bloom 
 
 In the far fields of heaven. 
 
 So comes the winter's breath, and so 
 The spring renews her grasses — ■ 
 
 I lift my dazzled eyes, and lo ! 
 The mirage swiftly passes. 
 
 Dear child ! for many a weary year 
 
 The rose has shed her blossom 
 Upon the tablet resting here 
 
 Above thy tranquil bosom. 
 
 1 First published in the Savannah Morning News. Republished in 
 the Atlanta Constitution, January 14, 1877, and in the Saturday Eve- 
 ning Post, April 21, 1900, also in Uncle Remus's Magazine. 
 
1 10 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 And many a season here hath brought 
 
 Processions of newcomers, 
 And many a wonder death hath wrought 
 
 Through all these fervid summers. 
 
 And naught remains of thee, Juliette, 
 
 Thy face and form Elysian, 
 Save what the whole world will forget — 
 
 A dreamer's dubious vision. 
 
 J. C. Harris. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 1 
 
 ADDIE E. SMITH, BLACKSHEAR, GEORGIA, AGED ELEVEN YEARS, 
 DIED MAY 23, 1876. 
 
 Dear child ! a stranger, mourning, 
 Slips from the worldly throng 
 
 To weave and place beside thee 
 This poor frayed wreath of song. 
 
 O'er him the seasons falter, 
 
 The long days come and go, 
 And Fate's swift-moving fingers 
 
 Fly restless to and fro. 
 
 O'er thee, the west wind, sighing, 
 Slow sways the clumb'rous pine ; 
 
 And through the shifting shadows 
 The bright stars gently shine. 
 
 11 
 
 When Springtime's murmurous gladness 
 
 Filled all the listening air, 
 And old Earth's rarest favors 
 
 Bloomed fresh and sweet and fair; 
 
 Published in the Monroe Advertiser, Forsyth, Georgia, July 4, 
 1876. Compare "Obituary," Part II., page 164. 
 
Biographical in 
 
 When waves of perfumed sunshine 
 
 Rolled o'er the ripening wheat, 
 May laid her [ ?] of blossoms 
 
 At Summer's waiting feet. 
 
 And Nature's pulses bounded 
 
 As though infused with wine; 
 Life was the season's token, 
 
 Life was the season's sign. 
 
 * 
 And yet — ah me ! the mystery 
 
 Of this unbroken rest! — 
 June sheds her thousand roses 
 
 Above thy pulseless breast. 
 
 Bright hopes nor fond endeavor, 
 
 Love's passion nor Life's pain, 
 Shall stir thy dreamless slumber 
 
 Or waken thee again. 
 
 in 
 
 The fragrance of the primrose, 
 
 That opens fresh and fair 
 In the deep dusk of evening, 
 
 Still haunts the morning air. 
 
 The songs the wild-bird warbles 
 
 With nature's art and grace 
 Are wafted on forever 
 
 Through the vast realms of peace. 
 • 
 Dear child, thy pure life's cadence, 
 
 A sad, yet sweet refrain, 
 Shall wake the hearts now broken 
 
 To life and hope again 
 
 And fall, a benediction, 
 
 When, at the day's decline, 
 Pale Sorrow, low bending, 
 
 Weeps at Affection's shrine. 
 
112 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Colonel Thompson's influence upon the career of Harris 
 must be reckoned. When the News was established, in 
 1850, Thompson became editor; and for over thirty years, 
 while more than once the proprietorship of the paper 
 changed, he remained editor. He had begun his editorial 
 work with a literary periodical published in Madison and 
 Atlanta. In 1840 he had published "Major Jones's Court- 
 ship/' then "Major Jones's Sketches of Travel," and, in 
 1843, "Major Jones's Chronicles of Pineville." These books 
 were immensely popular. "Major Jones," with his humor — 
 broad, grotesque, sometimes coarse and vulgar — became a 
 character familiar throughout the country. The first of the 
 three books, at least, is well known to-day. So with min- 
 gled modesty and pride Mr. Harris must have read on one 
 page of Davidson's "Living Writers of the South" the 
 sketch of Colonel Thompson and on another page the 
 sketch of himself. And while still moved by literary aspi- 
 ration, he went to Savannah, anticipating, we may well fan- 
 cy, intimate association with not only the dean of Georgia 
 editors, but also the leading humorist in the literature of his 
 section. Mr. Duncan, who had daily observation of the two 
 men, says they were congenial. Mrs. Harris says : "I have 
 often heard Mr. Harris say that Colonel Thompson was 
 always kind and affectionate in his manner toward him and 
 that he seemed to be as deeply interested in the success of 
 his work as if he had been his own kinsman." 1 Upon more 
 than one occasion, soon after Mr. Harris had left Savannah, 
 Colonel Thompson published such an appreciation of his 
 former associate's literary talent as to indicate a most inti- 
 mate knowledge of his abilities. 2 May it not be safely as- 
 
 1 Mrs. Harris, letter dated February 22, 1915. 
 8 In the Savannah News, 1878, as quoted earlier, page 106, and as 
 quoted later, page 123. 
 
Biographical 113 
 
 sumed, then, that the younger writer was constrained, by the 
 deep interest and affectionate manner of his elder, to seek 
 from him counsel and criticism? There was between the 
 two a relationship approaching, to some extent, that which 
 had existed between Mr. Harris and Mr. Turner. The vet- 
 eran editor, familiar with every feature of newspaper work, 
 must have taken great delight in stimulating and directing 
 the talented young man, who now determined by unsparing 
 industry to test his ability in the field of journalism. Mr. 
 Harris's powers were steadily developed during the six 
 years as associate editor of the News, until he became estab- 
 lished in the profession. Colonel Thompson may have con- 
 tributed also more directly to Mr. Harris's eventual reali- 
 zation of his earlier dream of authorship. He had in his 
 literary production effectively illustrated that principle, first 
 taught the apprentice by Mr. Turner a decade before, upon 
 which was to be based the creation of a true and worthy 
 literature of the South or of any section or country. For 
 "Major Jones" was the embodiment of the uneducated 
 white "cracker," who was a well-known type in Georgia. 
 With his humor and dialect, he was, indeed, succeeded by 
 "Uncle Remus" as a parallel figure ; and it is not impossi- 
 ble that, when later Mr. Harris came to delineate the negro, 
 he was mindful of how Mr. Thompson had given to litera- 
 ture the other Southern type. 
 
 However, it was well that Mr. Harris was each year given 
 increased freedom from the daily routine of his work. Va- 
 cations, though short, were helpful to him in preserving his 
 perspective. The meetings of the Georgia Press Associa- 
 tion were always refreshing. Fortunately, too, he was de- 
 tailed as special correspondent in Atlanta for the News 
 during the sessions of the legislature. 1 Here he renewed 
 
 1 Oral statement of Mrs. Harris. 
 
1 14 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 his associations with his faithful friend, J. P. Harrison, who 
 had moved from Forsyth, and warm friendship sprang up 
 with men like Evan P. Howell and Henry Grady. Thus 
 when the yellow fever, in the summer of 1876, drove him 
 from Savannah, the way was easy for him to find a perma- 
 nent home in Atlanta, where his genius was soon to be re- 
 leased for its great achievement. 
 
VII 
 
 " TT C. HARRIS, wife, two sons, and bilious nurse." 
 j Two or three days before the middle of Septem- 
 
 *-* • ber, 1876, a reporter for the Constitution found the 
 above notation on the Kimball House register. 1 And Joel 
 Chandler Harris was from that date until his death, in 1908, 
 to have his residence in Atlanta. 
 
 However, it was not his intention at that time to sever 
 his connection with Savannah. Rather it was his purpose 
 to see his wife and children safely located beyond the danger 
 of yellow fever, which was then raging in their former 
 home, and then himself steal away back to his post on the 
 News. 2 But, after a few days in the hotel, the family was 
 welcomed into the hospitable home of Mr. Harris's dear 
 friend, Mr. J. P. Harrison, who had moved, in 1873, from 
 Forsyth to Decatur, 3 a suburb, practically, of Atlanta. 
 Here, as a result of happy developments, Mr. Harris re- 
 mained, along with his family, until in November, when they 
 moved to become next-door neighbors to Capt. Evan P. 
 Howell, in a home at 201 Whitehall Street; and they were 
 henceforth to be citizens of Atlanta. 
 
 During the days of uncertainty Mr. Harris did some cor- 
 respondence for the News' 1 and, being well known to the 
 city newspaper men, occasionally made some contributions 
 
 1 This registration at the Kimball was confirmed by Mrs. Harris 
 January 1, 1916. See Constitution, September 14, 1876, under "Town 
 Topics." 
 
 2 Oral statement by Mrs. Harris. 
 
 ^Constitution, April 25, 1873. 
 
 Constitution, October 20, 1876, "Good Joke on Harris." 
 
 (115) 
 
u6 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 to the local papers. One who was closely associated with 
 him during those weeks has the following to say : 
 
 When he "refugeed" from Savannah, on account of the 
 yellow fever epidemic there in 1876, and came to Atlanta, I 
 became more intimately acquainted with him. I was then 
 engaged in editorial work for the Franklin Printing and 
 Publishing Company, of which Mr. James P. Harrison was 
 the President. Mr. Harrison and Mr. Harris were old-time 
 friends. Mr. Harrison invited Mr. Harris to be his guest 
 in Decatur, a short distance from Atlanta, where I also was 
 frequently a visitor. Occasionally Mr. Harris and myself 
 occupied the same room. 
 
 Among the papers published by the Franklin at that time 
 was one called The Granger, an organ of the Granger Move- 
 ment in Georgia. Mr. Harrison requested Mr. Harris to 
 make himself at home in the editorial "den" and assist in 
 the editorial work whenever he felt like it. In this way, for 
 a short while, I enjoyed Mr. Harris's companionship." 1 
 
 Captain Howell, of the Constitution, who had for some 
 time known and admired Mr. Harris, said to him : "You 
 are not going back to Savannah ; you are going to stay right 
 here and join the Constitution's staff." 2 Very soon the ex- 
 changes began to detect some of Harris's contributions to 
 the Constitution. 11 Mr. Harris was now considering whether 
 he should accept the proposition from Captain Howell. In 
 the first place, he told his wife that it was very inconvenient 
 
 1 Maj. Charles W. Hubner, in a letter dated Atlanta, December 22, 
 
 1915. 
 
 2 Mr. Clark Howell, son of E. P., in an oral statement July 15, 
 1916, gives this account. 
 
 s Constitution, November 24, 1876, quoting the Talbotton Standard: 
 "J. C. Harris, late of the Savannah News, is temporarily on the 
 Constitution. He is the same live coal of genius and good humor. 
 Besides being a hard worker, he has the brightest and most promis- 
 ing intellect in the State. The Constitution will certainly make a 
 ten strike if he is retained." 
 
Biographical 117 
 
 to be fleeing each year from the yellow fever. Furthermore, 
 the city of Atlanta was showing such wonderful progress 
 that it drew to it young men of high ambition and filled them 
 with inspiration. During the decade from 1870 to 1880 its 
 population was nearly doubled, bringing it to first in rank 
 among the cities of the State. 1 The Atlanta Constitution 
 was being named throughout the country as a great spokes- 
 man of the South. 2 So, after buying a controlling interest 
 in the paper within a few weeks from Mr. Harris's arrival 
 in Atlanta, 8 Captain Howell secured the consent of the pop- 
 ular young journalist to join his editorial staff.* On No- 
 vember 21, 1876, the following announcement was published 
 in the editorial column : 
 
 The fact that Mr. J. C. Harris, late of the Savannah 
 News, has been temporarily engaged upon the Constitution 
 for some weeks past has been frequently alluded to by sev- 
 eral of our contemporaries. We are glad to be able to state 
 to-day that we have made permanent arrangements with Mr. 
 Harris, and henceforth he will be a fixture on the editorial 
 staff of the Constitution. 6 
 
 A flood of press congratulations poured in upon the Con- 
 stitution from all sections, marking the high esteem in which 
 
 'Census: Atlanta — 1870, 21,000; 1880, 37,000. Savannah — 1870, 
 28,000; 1880, 30,000. 
 
 s For brief accounts of Atlanta and of the Constitution, see Consti- 
 tution, August 28, 1878, and October 7, 1879. 
 
 3 "How the Constitution Is Owned," Constitution, August 17, 1884. 
 See also brief paragraph notice of Howell and Grady, October 19, 
 1876. Col. E. Y. Clarke retired from the editorship October 29, 1876. 
 
 *Mr. and Mrs. Harris named their next child, born shortly after- 
 wards, Evan Howell. After the death of this boy, another was 
 named Evelyn, because, says Mrs. Harris, it occurred to Mr. Harris 
 that the two names were related. 
 
 6 Constitution, November 21, 1876. 
 
n8 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Mr. Harris was held throughout the State and beyond. 1 It 
 was primarily as a paragraphist, undoubtedly, that Mr. Har- 
 ris was called to the Constitution, Captain Howell knowing 
 full well that he could also do any other kind of newspaper 
 work in a masterly way. Probably the temporary engage- 
 ment referred to in the above announcement began about 
 October 26 ; for on that date there appeared in the paper a 
 new column, taking the place of "Georgia Gossip," headed 
 "Round about in Georgia." Personal references occurring 
 in this column from time to time thereafter, in addition 
 to the distinctive style, enable us to identify the editor. 2 
 It was filled with just the kind of paragraphic notes and 
 comment that Mr. Harris had made so popular in the Sa- 
 vannah Morning News. Besides entertaining thousands of 
 subscribers through the sparkling paragraphs, the great At- 
 lanta paper was through this column kept in close and friend- 
 ly touch with its exchanges, especially the county weeklies. 
 The following words, published in the column April 7, 1877, 
 show that Mr. Harris, probably more than any other news- 
 paper man, had sought in this way to develop among the 
 papers and cities a spirit of wholesome rivalry and frater- 
 nalism : 
 
 Some of the Georgia weeklies are apparently of the opin- 
 ion that we have some ulterior purpose in noticing the coun- 
 try press as prominently as we do, and a few of them allude 
 to it as a "You-tickle-me-I-tickle-you" business. Ah, well ! 
 Those who entertain such ideas ought to be allowed to enjoy 
 them. It has been the purpose of the writer of these notices 
 during the last ten years 3 to accord to the country press of 
 
 1 For example, see Constitution, November 30 and December 2, 
 1876, quoting, respectively, from the Monroe (Georgia) Advertiser 
 (H. H. Cabaniss, editor) and the Warrenton (Georgia) Clipper. 
 
 2 Constitution, November 8, 1876, December 8, 1876, April 7, 1877, 
 September 17, 23, 1879, etc. 
 
 8 Ten years earlier he was with the Monroe Advertiser. 
 
Biographical 119 
 
 Georgia such recognition of its ability, influence, and serv- 
 ices to the State as it might seem to deserve, and he is not at 
 this late day to be deterred by the unworthy suspicion of a 
 few who have no higher idea of their own calling than to 
 suppose that the good will and esteem of the editor of a 
 country weekly can be purchased by a puff. There is a "true 
 inwardness" in such suspicion so palpable that we need not 
 take the trouble to comment upon it. 
 
 Occasionally he used a friendly thrust : 
 
 Savannah has had her regular triweekly robbery. 
 
 Tramps are arriving in Savannah. They are going South 
 for their health. 
 
 A dead cow on one of the thoroughfares of Americus 
 frightened a horse the other day, and the result was serious 
 injury to a young lady. The cow had been lying in the street 
 for two weeks, and the only wonder is that the people of 
 Americus didn't become frightened before the horse set 
 them the example. 
 
 Elmira, in the great State of New York, is as funny about 
 weather as an independent is about politics. One day they 
 clamor for butterflies, and the next they send orders for 
 snow sledges. There can never be any real honest climate 
 in that section until the zephyrs begin to produce mosquitoes. 
 
 The negro continues to receive attention, as previously in 
 
 the News: 
 
 A negro baby was drowned in a washtub near Reidsville 
 recently. 
 
 A negro woman is on trial in Macon for murdering her 
 baby. This goes to show that the colored people have no 
 rights in Georgia. They are not allowed to murder their 
 own children. When will this oppression cease ? 
 
 Few men could have stood, as did Mr. Harris, the steady 
 test of more than a decade in this kind of work, which de- 
 
120 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 manded, above all else, freshness and spontaneity. It may 
 well have been he, speaking from his heart, who in 1878 
 wrote this among the paragraphs : "Bill Arp's letters are 
 having a big run throughout the country. His homely, un- 
 pretending humor is quite refreshing after this long season 
 of nervous newspaper wit." 1 And Bill Arp added to his 
 next letter the following pleasant postscript : 
 
 I met Harris at the Kimball, and he wouldn't eat nothin' 
 but fish. He said it was brain food; and if he didn't eat 
 sheepshead twice a day, he couldn't nigh get up them bril- 
 liant paragraphs. I thought I diskivered sheepshead in 'em. 
 Do keep him in fish ! — B. A. 2 
 
 But Mr. Harris had also to contribute other matter to the 
 Constitution in response to various assignments made by the 
 directing editor, and he often wrote a special contribution 
 at his own pleasure. Sometimes it was a "heavy political 
 leader"; sometimes it was a humorous paragraph "filler" 
 for the editorial page; again it was a prose poem in the 
 editorial column for Sunday. Occasionally he was sent 
 away to conduct special correspondence. 3 The Constitution, 
 always concerned in the interests of literature, significantly 
 intrusted to him its reviews of magazines and new books 
 and other literary discussions. 4 Humor was a distinguishing 
 characteristic of practically everything he wrote, yet an 
 
 1 Weekly Constitution, June 25, 1878. 
 
 2 WeekJy Constitution, July 2, 1878. 
 
 3 Weekly Constitution, September 17, 1878, "Political Correspond- 
 ence from the Barnesville Convention." J. C. H.; Constitution, Au- 
 gust 3. 1878, Gainesville; June 2off., 1880. Cincinnati. 
 
 4 "Mr. Harris can compass anything in newspaperdom from a 
 strong editorial to a pungent paragraph. . . . His book reviews 
 are scholarly and charming, with a vein of delicious humor and 
 quaint reflection." ("History of Georgia," I. W. Avery, 1881, page 
 614.) Mr. Avery was for some time (up to 1847) editor of the Con- 
 stitution. 
 
Biographical 121 
 
 Augusta (Georgia) editor who knew wrote: "Who ever re- 
 called a spiteful or malicious paragraph from Joe Harris's 
 pen?" Henry Grady said: "He has developed a spirit of 
 humor, gentle, tender, and sportive, that is equal to the best 
 of Willis's and recalls Irwin and Lamb." 1 Verses with his 
 signature appeared occasionally. During 1877 ne wrote sev- 
 eral special stories 2 for the Sunday Constitution which be- 
 tokened his successful short stories of later years, though, 
 doubtless as a kind of apology for these efforts, in connec- 
 tion with one he said : 
 
 If I were writing you a story, I might go on and elaborate 
 these things, as is the custom of those who give themselves 
 over to the fascinations of fiction; but as I am writing of 
 that which is known to hundreds who read the Constitution, 
 I prefer to confine myself to a prosy narrative of facts, but 
 at the same time I propose to narrate these facts in my own 
 way. 3 
 
 The next year the Constitution came out one day with the 
 following announcement : 
 
 A NEW LITERARY ATTRACTION* 
 
 A serial story to run several months, entitled "The Ro- 
 mance of Rockville," will shortly appear in the Sunday edi- 
 tion of the daily Constitution and the weekly Constitution. 
 This may be regarded as the inauguration of a new feature 
 of the Constitution, for we propose to make the original lit- 
 erary matter of the paper as attractive as its political and 
 news departments. The scene of "The Romance of Rock- 
 ville" will be laid in Georgia, and it will embody the peculiar 
 features of life and society in the South anterior to the war. 
 
 1 Henry W. Grady, as quoted in H. Clay Lukens's "Don't Give It 
 Away." 
 2These stories are reproduced in Part II. 
 3"One Man's History." June 3. 1877. 
 ^Constitution, March ?, 1878 (editorial). 
 
122 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 It will, in short, be a study of Southern character. We cer- 
 tainly need not say more to commend it to our present read- 
 ers than to add that its author is Mr. J. C. Harris, of the 
 Constitution staff and the author of "Uncle Remus's Revival 
 Hymn" and other literary efforts that have been received 
 with a remarkable degree of favor from one end of the coun- 
 try to the other. We hazard nothing in asserting that the 
 hymn referred to was more freely copied in this country 
 than any other literary effort of the past year. So popular 
 did it become that it was published in Harper's Monthly as 
 the production of a man who had appropriated it for that 
 purpose. 1 Mr. Harris will put into the new story his never- 
 failing humor and his thorough knowledge of Southern char- 
 acter. It will be perhaps his most ambitious effort, and all 
 who desire to read it should without delay get into commu- 
 nication with the business manager of the Constitution. 
 
 This announcement was greeted far and wide with a 
 hearty welcome. When reference was again made to the 
 matter in the Constitution, a solid column of press notices, 
 thirty or more, complimentary to Harris and anticipatory of 
 his serial story, was published. 2 "The Romance of Rock- 
 ville," a novelette of fifty thousand words, was published 
 through the Weekly Constitution from April 16 to September 
 10, 1878. It was a promising piece of work, indicating the 
 author's powers of sustained narrative that were to be fur- 
 ther developed in his later life. Indeed, "Sister Jane" was 
 based upon the central incident in the plot of this story, and 
 a parallel study of the two is interesting. 3 
 
 Mr. Harris, having begun his career, like Bret Harte, 
 Mark Twain, and W. D. Howells, at the printer's case, and 
 having passed from apprenticeship into maturity as a jour- 
 nalist, was now, however much he might disclaim the honor, 
 
 'See later reference to this on page 130. 
 
 "Constitution, March 31, 1878; Weekly Constitution, April 2, 1878. 
 
 s "The Romance of Rockville" is reproduced in Part II. 
 
Biographical 123 
 
 advancing some of his work in that capacity to the threshold 
 of literature. The brilliant Grady, his colleague, declared: 
 "Through his jagged and crude work of daily journalism 
 there shines the divine light of genius." 1 And Colonel 
 Thompson at the same time said: "He is, to my mind, 
 one of our most promising writers. You see what he 
 has done and is doing, but he is capable of far superior 
 work and will erelong prove it to the world." 2 Striving to 
 do for his paper, largely along the line of his natural incli- 
 nation from youth, something more than the mere tasks as- 
 signed to him, he was astonished one day to find that in so 
 doing he had, in the opinion of those who knew, served a 
 higher apprenticeship and that the great publishers of the 
 North were anxious for contributions from him. However, 
 it was not along the beaten path of prose fiction that he was 
 to proceed first into the higher realm. There was another 
 line of service to his paper through which his distinctive 
 genius would lead him, amazed and embarrassed, into the 
 company of those writers who are immortal. 
 
 During October, 1876, there were a number of changes in 
 the Constitution. Among others, there was one which re- 
 sulted in the creation of "Uncle Remus." The files of the 
 paper show that it had for some time recognized the interest 
 attaching to the old-time negro. Space on the editorial page 
 was regularly reserved for what purported to be humorous 
 interviews upon topics of the day with an ante-bellum darky 
 called "Old Si," who thus had become an established figure 
 for the Constitution's readers. "Old Si" was none other 
 than Sam W. Small, a regular member of the staff. On 
 October 14 Mr. Small's contract with the paper expired; 
 
 , Henry W. Grady, as quoted in H. Clay Lukens's "Don't Give It 
 Away." 1879. 
 
 2 W. T. Thompson, in Lukens's "Don't Give It Away." 
 
124 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 and when a new contract could not be agreed upon, he went 
 over to the Sunday morning Herald, buying an interest in 
 the same. 1 "Old Si" was announced to appear thereafter 
 regularly in the Herald. 2 Whereupon the Constitution felt 
 the need of its accustomed sketches in negro dialect. In 
 this emergency Captain Howell turned to Mr. Harris and 
 asked him if he could not continue the work previously done 
 by Mr. Small. Mr. Harris replied that he would not under- 
 take just what Mr. Small had been doing, but would try 
 something. 8 The last "Old Si" sketch had appeared in the 
 issue of September 29. On October 26 "Old Si's" space 
 was occupied by "Jeems Robinson." This sketch was the 
 beginning of Joel Chandler Harris's negro dialect work. 
 And so, with slight changes, among them the introduction 
 of "Uncle Remus" and the change of caption to "Jeems 
 Rober'son's Last Illness," it begins the series of "Sayings" 
 as collected later in his first published volume. 
 
 Of course Mr. Harris had to go through a period of ex- 
 perimentation before he was able to create his great charac- 
 ter. Following the sketch referred to above, appeared on 
 succeeding days "Cracker," "Dago," "Dutchman," and nor- 
 mal English sketches, probably his efforts. The name "Re- 
 mus" — not "Uncle Remus" — first appeared incidentally at 
 the close of "Politics and Provisions," October 31. And the 
 "Uncle Remus" caption, afterwards used regularly, was first 
 used in "Uncle Remus's Politics" November 28; though 
 when Mr. Harris came to publish his book, this sketch was 
 not taken, doubtless because the author had come to see that 
 it, like all of "Old Si," was too patently the white man trying 
 to express his ideas in negro language rather than the nat- 
 
 1 See Constitution, October 25, 1876, "Personal to the Public." 
 ^Constitution, October 29, 1876. 
 
 "Account of the conversation given by Mrs. Harris to the author. 
 Mr. Clark Howell thinks that Mr. Harris volunteered this service. 
 
Biographical 125 
 
 ural talk of the negro. This sketch, therefore, is significant 
 in the evolution of "Uncle Remus" ; and so it is here repro- 
 duced, together with a typical "Old Si" : 
 
 "OLD SI" ON HAYES 1 
 
 We stopped at the post office yesterday to hear Old Si 
 expound politics. 
 
 "It's de born truf, sah," he urged. "De readin' niggers is 
 dead sot 'ginst 'em ; !" 
 
 "Against whom, Si?" we ventured. 
 
 " 'Ginst dis hyar 'publican party, sah. Dey is, fur a 
 fact!" 
 
 "Why is that? What's the trouble?" 
 
 "Hez you tuck de time, sah, ter read dat ar letter from de 
 'publican candidate? Mister Hazes — I t'ink dat's what 
 dey's a-callin' ob him." 
 
 "Yes, we read it carefully." 
 
 "Did you see any declamations in dat letter 'bout de fif- 
 teenf remembyment an' de Affican citizan, sah ?" 
 
 "We don't remember." 
 
 "Dar it is, sah. De nigger he watches mighty close fur 
 dat, an' lo ! an' beholden, sah, an' it tain't dar ! Dat's what's 
 de matter now, jess shore !" 
 
 "Well, what's the trouble about?" 
 
 "De trouble am dat man don't onderstand de nigger. He 
 nebber owned no niggers; what do he knows 'bout 'em? 
 Anybody dat knows a nigger, knows dat he'd rudder be 
 ^used twice dan lef alone once. Mr. Hazes done lef 'em 
 alone now, and dey'll lef him alone when de 'lection comes. 
 Dat's business !" 
 
 Two other negroes nodded to us approvingly, and we had 
 gained a new campaign idea. 
 
 UNCLE REMUS' S POLITICS 2 
 
 "You ain't heerd de news, is you?" asked a well-dressed 
 darky of old Uncle Remus yesterday. 
 "W'at news is dat ?" 
 
 1 Constitution, July 21, 1876. 2 Constitution, November 28, 1876, 
 
126 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Why, Giner'l Grant's gwine ter 'naugarate Chamberlain." 
 
 "Gwine ter do w'ich ?" 
 
 "Gwine ter 'naugarate Chamberlain." 
 
 "Who's Chamberlain?" 
 
 "Dat Souf Carliny man." 
 
 "En' who's gwine ter 'naugarate Grant ?" 
 
 "Dunno. Hayes, I spec." 
 
 "Well, dey ain't no kin ter me," said Uncle Remus thought- 
 fully, "an' I ain't oneasy 'bout none uv 'em. Gimme a two- 
 dollar bill, an' I'm in favor uv free guv'ment and red licker 
 right erlong ; but w'en I'm a-hankerin' arter a dram I kinder 
 disremember w'ich is w'ich an' who is who, an' dat's de 
 d'sease what I got now." And then Uncle Remus walked 
 off singing : 
 
 "We is all a-waitin' fer de las' great day, 
 
 Oh, Lord! Hallylujarum! 
 But hit ain't no use fer de niggers fer ter stay, 
 
 Oh, Lord! Hallylujarum! 
 No use fer ter wait fer de glory crown 
 While Gabrile's a-shooin' dem angels all aroun', 
 
 Oh, Lord! Hallylujarum!" 
 
 This kind of character sketch, then, was the first thing 
 that Mr. Harris attempted in negro dialect, and he continued 
 it with increasing success after Mr. Small, some months 
 later, returned with "Old Si" to the Constitution. 1 "Uncle 
 Remus Succumbs to the Epidemic," May 3, 1878, followed 
 the author's sickness with the measles, and is to be found in 
 his book as "A Case of Measles" ("Sayings," X.). In the 
 book are reproduced twenty-one of these sketches, published 
 in the Constitution before 1880, which show how Mr. Har- 
 ris had mastered the work. Says he : 
 
 The difference between the dialect of the legends and that 
 of the character sketches, slight as it is, marks the modifica- 
 
 \January 30, 1877. See the Constitution of that date. "Old Si" 
 continued for some years to appear in the Constitution irregularly. 
 
Biographical 127 
 
 tions which the speech of the negro has undergone even 
 where education has played no part in reforming it. Indeed, 
 save in the remote country districts, the dialect of the leg- 
 ends has nearly disappeared. I am perfectly well aware that 
 the character sketches are without permanent interest, but 
 they are embodied here for the purpose of presenting a 
 phase of negro character wholly distinct from that which I 
 have endeavored to preserve in the legends. Only in this 
 shape and with all the local allusions would it be possible ad- 
 equately to represent the shrewd observations, the curious 
 retorts, the homely thrusts, the quaint comments, and the 
 humorous philosophy of the raee of which Uncle Remus is 
 the type. 1 
 
 Sidney Lanier, who was, like Mr. Harris, a native of Mid- 
 dle Georgia, wrote : 
 
 Uncle Remus, a famous colored philosopher of Atlanta, 
 ... is a fiction so founded upon fact and so like it as to 
 have passed into true citizenship and authority along with 
 Bottom and Autolycus ; ... it is real negro talk and not 
 that supposititious negro minstrel talk which so often goes 
 for the original. It is as nearly perfect as any dialect can 
 well be. . . . Nothing could be at once more fine in hu- 
 mor and pointed in philosophy. 2 
 
 Yet Mr. Harris could never become unconscious of the 
 artificiality in these sketches. 3 There was before him the 
 work of Irwin Russell, whom he regarded as the pioneer of 
 Southern writers in the literary representation of the negro. 
 And it was Russell's accurate conception of character that 
 drew forth his admiration. "The dialect is not always the 
 best ; it is often carelessly written," writes Mr. Harris ; "but 
 the negro is there, the old-fashioned, unadulterated negro, 
 
 1 "Uncle Remus : His Songs and His Sayings," Introduction, xvi. 
 "Scribner's Monthly, Vol. XX., page 847 (October, 1880), "The 
 New South," Sidney Lanier. 
 
 S C (institution, September 17, 23, 1879. 
 
128 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 who is still dear to the Southern heart." 1 So it was Mr. 
 Harris's great desire faithfully to present the negro, and to 
 that achievement he advanced as he took up new phases of 
 the character. 
 
 When Mr. Small again had "Old Si" talking through the 
 columns of the Constitution upon contemporary affairs, Mr. 
 Harris began to draw more upon his memory of the old 
 plantation ; to reproduce not only the language, but also the 
 thought of the old negroes. During the year 1877 he pub- 
 lished several dialect songs. The sketch reproduced above 
 closed with Uncle Remus's singing. That stanza was Mr. 
 Harris's first experiment. For some reason it was not in- 
 cluded among those given in the book. On January 11, 
 1877, the sketch "Politics and Collection Plates" closes with 
 Uncle Remus's singing a stanza, to which, on January 18, 
 were added three other stanzas, making up "Uncle Remus's 
 Revival Hymn." Since the book form shows interesting 
 changes that indicate the keen observation which made Mr. 
 Harris, according to universal verdict, the most perfect mas- 
 ter of tke negro dialect, and for the sake of preserving the 
 original, the Constitution form is here reproduced : 
 
 UNCLE REMUS'S REVIVAL HYMN 2 
 
 Oh, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes, 
 
 Wid de blowin' uv de trumpits an' de bangin' uv de drums ? 
 
 How menny po* sinners will be cotched out late 
 
 An' fine no latch to de goldin gate ? 
 
 1 "Poems by Irwin Russell." Harris's introduction. Two selections 
 from Russell's contemporary work were published in the Constitution 
 about the time Harris made his first efforts. 
 
 ' Constitution, January 18, 1877. Of course an occasional typo- 
 graphical error occurred. Mr. Harris once complained {Constitution, 
 "Round about in Georgia," November 8, 1876) : "The sketch writer of 
 the Constitution is ill. He has endeavored to impress upon the Intel- 
 ligent Compositor that the negroes use such a word as 'mout' ; but the 
 
Biographical 129 
 
 No use fer ter wait 'twell to-morrer ! 
 De sun mus'n't set on yo' sorrer ; 
 Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo brier — 
 Oh, Lord ! fetch de mo'ners up higher ! 
 
 Wen de nashuns uv de earf is a stannin' all aroun', 
 Who's a gwinter be chossen fer ter war de glory-crown? 
 Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed an' bol, 
 An' answer to dere name at de callin' uv de roll ? 
 
 You better come now ef you comin' — 
 
 Ole Satun is loose an' a bummin' — 
 
 De wheels uv destruction is a hummin' — 
 
 Oh, come along, sinners, ef you comin' ! 
 
 De song uv salvashun is a mighty sweet song, 
 An' de Pairidise wins blow fur an' blow strong, 
 An' Aberham's buzzum is saf an' it's wide, 
 An' dat's de place whar de sinners oughter hide ! 
 
 No use ter be stoppin' an' a lookin' ; 
 
 Ef you fool wid Satun you'll git took in; 
 
 You'll hang on de edge an' git shook in, 
 
 Ef you keep on a stoppin' an' a lookin'. 
 
 De time is right now, an' dis here's de place — 
 Let de salvashun sun shine squar' in yo' face ; 
 Fight de battles uv de Lord, fight soon an' fight late, 
 An' you'll allers fine a latch to de goldin gate. 
 
 No use fer ter wait 'twell to-morrer ; 
 
 De sun mus'n't set on yo' sorrer — 
 
 Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier ; 
 
 Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher ! 
 
 I. C. persistently asserts, in the glaring perversity of his daily typog- 
 raphy, that the word is 'won't.'" "Won't" was printed instead of 
 "mout" in the sketch of November 7 preceding. But this was at the 
 very beginning of Mr. Harris's work. Sam Small wrote of him : "He 
 is laborious and careful in the preparation of his matter and has 
 caused less profanity than almost any other high moral editor in the 
 United States." Scrupulous effort has been made here, as in every 
 other instance in this book, to reproduce the original form, letter foi 
 letter, as it appeared in the Constitution. 
 
 9 
 
130 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 This song was recognized at once as a masterpiece. It 
 was reprinted in papers all over the country. In the Novem- 
 ber (1877) Harper's Monthly Magazine it was published in 
 "The Editor's Drawer" as the work of a man in Ilion, New 
 York. This fact was discovered by the Constitution, whose 
 editorial column of November 6 dealt briskly with the matter 
 under the heading "A Literary Theft." The original form 
 of the song was reproduced in full, and the first stanza of 
 the mangled form from Ilion was shown. One paragraph of 
 the editorial reads : 
 
 We cannot wonder at the Ilion man wanting the credit for 
 producing so excellent and popular a piece of dialect work 
 as this "Hymn." It has had as wide circulation in the press 
 as any production of recent years, and the author has been 
 written to from long distances for copies of it. 1 
 
 The Chicago Tribune fell under the illusion that this was 
 really one of the hymns "sung by negroes during religious 
 excitement." 2 Mrs. Charles W. Hubner, of Atlanta, set the 
 "Hymn" to music in a way that caused Mr. Harris to write 
 to her: "It sings itself to me at all hours of the day, and I 
 sing it to my children." It was this "Hymn" that first fixed 
 upon Mr. Harris the name of "Uncle Remus," who now be- 
 came another of the Constitution's established characters. 3 
 One month later came another song, almost equally as good 
 as the former, "Uncle Remus's Camp Meeting Song." 4 In 
 November the "Revival Hymn" was republished, as stated 
 
 1 See also Constitution, March 7, 1878. Editorial, "A New Literary- 
 Attraction," reproduced on page 121. 
 
 "Constitution, December 2, 1879. When the songs are transcrip- 
 tions, Mr. Harris so classifies them in his book. 
 
 * Constitution, "Announcement for 1878" : " 'Old Si' will continue 
 to air his quaint philosophy, . . . and 'Uncle Remus' will occasion- 
 ally warble one of his plantation songs." 
 
 4 Constitution, February 18, 1877. 
 
Biographical 131 
 
 above. In December came "Uncle Remus's Corn-Shucking 
 Song." 1 During most of the next year Mr. Harris was en- 
 gaged with "The Romance of Rockville." But at the time 
 of the concluding installment of that story, on September 8, 
 1878, the "Revival Hymn" was again republished; and on 
 October 6 he produced "Uncle Remus's Plantation Play 
 Song/' of which the Baltimore Gazette said : "Finer than 
 anything Joaquin Miller ever wrote." 2 A transcription, 
 "Time Goes by Turns," appeared July 2j, 1879, and on Oc- 
 tober 12 the "Christmas Play Song as Sung by Uncle Re- 
 mus." Then "The Plough-Hand's Song" was published in 
 the issue of October 17, 1880, with the note : "Bartlett Place, 
 Jasper County, 1857. From 'Uncle Remus : His Songs and 
 His Sayings,' by Joel Chandler Harris. New York: D, Ap- 
 pleton & Co. 1880." (The book had not then come from 
 the press.) 3 
 
 The sketches and the songs presented very effectively cer- 
 tain phases of the negro character, but they would not have 
 preserved the name of their author in literature. It was 
 when he struck the treasure trove of folklore that his fame 
 was made secure through all time to come. Mr. Harris in 
 later life declared that his authorship was wholly accidental.' 
 So it may have been, but it was such an accident as logically 
 befell him. The circumstances were as follows: It being 
 a part of Mr. Harris's work for the Constitution to review 
 
 "'■Constitution, December 30, 1877. Inquiries about references in 
 this song were noted and answered February 6, 1879. Compare note 
 in book. 
 
 2 Constitution, October n, 1878. 
 
 3 In discussing Sidney Lanier's "Science of English Verse" Mr. 
 Harris made applications to "Uncle Remus's" songs. See Constitu- 
 tion, May 20, 1880, "Notes of New Books." 
 
 'Lippincott's Monthly Magazine, April, 1886, Vol. XXXVII., page 
 417, "An Accidental Author," J. C. Harris. 
 
132 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 books and current magazines, he came upon the December, 
 1877, number of Lippincott's Magazine and found an article 
 which at once engaged his interest. His review of this Mag- 
 azine, published in the editorial columns of the Constitution 
 of November 21, 1877, included the following paragraph: 
 
 William Owens contributes an article on the "Folklore 
 of the Southern Negroes," which is remarkable for what it 
 omits rather than for what it contains. The author is at a 
 loss even to account for the prefix "Buh," as he puts it, 
 which the negroes give to the animals who figure in their 
 stories, as "Buh Rabbit," "Buh Wolf," etc. We judge from 
 the tone of Mr. Owens's article that he is familiar only with 
 the lore of the nondescript beings who live on the coast; 
 otherwise he would have no difficulty in determining the 
 derivation of the word "Buh." The real Southern darky 
 pronounces the word as though it were written "Brer," and 
 he confines its use to the animals themselves. For instance : 
 "Den, bimeby, Mr. Fox he see Mr. Rabbit comin' 'long, an' 
 he say: 'Howdy, Brer Rabbit — how you gittin' 'long dese 
 days?'" It is unquestionably a contraction of the word 
 "brother." 1 
 
 Harris could write with authority, because he had become 
 familiar with the African myths and animal stories during 
 his boyhood in old Putnam County. While in Forsyth the 
 presence of eight hundred blacks to seven hundred whites 
 gave him sufficient opportunity to keep his memory fresh. 
 And in Savannah, where again the blacks were in the ma- 
 jority, he learned the coast negro, to whom Mr. Owens's 
 knowledge seemed limited. 2 However, despite this superior 
 
 1 Constitution, November 21, 1877. But an examination of Mr. 
 Harris's work shows that he did not follow this rule as to the use 
 of "Brer." 
 
 2 "Uncle Remus and the Savannah Darky" shows Harris's own 
 knowledge of the coast negro. This sketch appeared in the Consti- 
 tution November 14, 1876. 
 
Biographical 1 33 
 
 knowledge of his own, and though there had been published 
 other discussions of folklore that came to his notice at 
 least previous to the publication of his book, 1 he gives to 
 Mr. Owens the credit of arousing in him a conception of 
 the possibility of turning the material at his command to 
 literary use. Says Harris : 
 
 It was on this [Turn wold] and neighboring plantations 
 that I became familiar with the curious myths and animal 
 stories. ... I absorbed the stories, songs, and myths that 
 I heard; but I had no idea of their literary value until, 
 sometime in the seventies, Lippincotfs Magazine printed an 
 article on negro folklore containing rough outlines of some 
 of the stories. This article gave me my cue, and the legends 
 told by Uncle Remus are the result. 2 
 
 It will be highly interesting and worth while to have be- 
 fore us one of the stories as written by Mr. Owens, the sto- 
 ry of "The Tar Baby" : 
 
 Of the "Buh" fables, that which is by all odds the great- 
 est favorite and which appears in the greatest variety of 
 forms is the "Story of Buh Rabbit and the Tar Baby." 
 Each variation preserves the great landmarks, particularly 
 the closing scene. According to the most thoroughly Afri- 
 can version, it runs thus: Buh Rabbit and Buh Wolf are 
 neighbors. In a conversation one day Buh Wolf proposes 
 that they two shall dig a well for their joint benefit, instead 
 of depending upon chance rainfalls or going to distant 
 pools or branches, as they often have to do, to quench their 
 thirst. To this Buh Rabbit, who has no fondness for labor, 
 though willing enough to enjoy its fruits, offers various 
 objections and finally gives a flat refusal. 
 
 1 See references in his Introduction to "Uncle Remus : His Songs 
 and His Sayings." See also Popular Science Monthly, April, 1881, 
 "Plantation Folklore," T. F. Crane. 
 
 2 Lippincotfs Monthly Magazine, April, 1886, Vol. XXXVIL, page 
 417, "An Accidental Author," J. C. Harris. 
 
134 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Well," says Buh Wolf, who perfectly understands his 
 neighbor, "if you no help to dig well, you mustn't use de 
 water." 
 
 "What for I gwine use de water?" responds Buh Rabbit 
 with affected disdain. 
 
 "What use I got for well ? In de mornin' I drink de dew, 
 an' in middle o' day I drink from de cow tracks." 
 
 The well is dug by Buh Wolf alone, who after a while 
 perceives that some one besides himself draws from it. He 
 watches and soon identifies the intruder as Buh Rabbit, who 
 makes his visits by night. "Ebery mornin' he see Buh Rab- 
 bit tracks — ebery mornin' Buh Rabbit tracks." Indignant 
 at the intrusion, he resolves to set. a trap for his thievish 
 neighbor and to put him to death. Knowing Buh Rabbit's 
 buckish love for the ladies, he fits up a tar baby, made to 
 look like a beautiful girl, and sets it near the well. By 
 what magical process this manufacture of an attractive- 
 looking young lady out of treacherous adhesive tar is ac- 
 complished we are not informed. But listeners to stories 
 must not be inquisitive about the mysterious parts; they 
 must be content to hear. 
 
 Buh Rabbit, emboldened by long impunity, goes to the 
 well as usual after dark, sees this beautiful creature stand- 
 ing there motionless, peeps at it time and again suspiciously, 
 but, being satisfied that it is really a young lady, he makes 
 a polite bow and addresses her in gallant language. The 
 young lady makes no reply. This encourages him to ask if 
 he may not come to take a kiss. Still no reply. He sets 
 his water bucket on the ground, marches up boldly and ob- 
 tains a kiss, but finds to his surprise that he cannot get 
 away. His lips are held fast by the tar. He struggles and 
 tries to persuade her to let him go. How he is able to speak 
 with his lips sticking fast is another unexplained mystery; 
 but no matter, he does speak, and most eloquently, yet in 
 vain. He now changes his tone and threatens her with a 
 slap. Still no answer. He administers the slap, and his 
 hand sticks fast. One after the other, both hands and both 
 feet, as well as his mouth, are thus caught, and poor Buh 
 Rabbit remains a prisoner until Buh Wolf comes the next 
 morning to draw water. 
 
Biographical. 135 
 
 "Eh! eh! Buh Rabbit, wah de matter?" exclaims Buh 
 Wolf, affecting the greatest surprise at his neighbor's woe- 
 ful plight. 
 
 Buh Rabbit, who has as little regard for truth as for hon- 
 esty, replies, attempting to throw all the blame upon the de- 
 ceitful maiden by whom he has been entrapped, not even 
 suspecting yet — so we are to infer — that she is made of tar 
 instead of living flesh. He declares with all the earnestness 
 of injured innocence that he was passing by in the sweet, 
 honest moonlight in pursuit of his lawful business when 
 this girl hailed him and decoyed him into giving her a kiss 
 and was now holding him in unlawful durance. 
 
 The listener ironically commiserates his captive neighbor 
 and proposes to set him free, when, suddenly noticing the 
 water bucket and the tracks by the well, he charges Buh 
 Rabbit with his repeated robberies by night and concludes 
 by declaring his intention to put him to immediate death. 
 
 The case has now become pretty serious ; and Buh Rabbit 
 is, of course, woefully troubled at the near approach of the 
 great catastrophe. Still, even in this dire extremity, his 
 wits do not cease to cheer him with some hope of escape. 
 Seeing that his captor is preparing to hang him — for the 
 cord is already around his neck, and he is being dragged 
 toward an overhanging limb — he expresses the greatest joy 
 by capering, dancing, and clapping his hands, so much so 
 that the other curiously inquires : "What for you so glad, 
 Buh Rabbit?" 
 
 "Oh," replies the sly hypocrite, "because you gwine hang 
 me and not trow me in de brier-bush." 
 
 "What for I mustn't trow you in de brier-bush?" in- 
 quires Mr. Simpleton Wolf. 
 
 "Oh," prays Buh Rabbit with a doleful whimper, "please 
 hang me. Please trow me in de water or trow me in de fire, 
 where I die at once. But don't — oh don't — trow me in de 
 brier-bush to tear my poor flesh from off my bones !" 
 
 "I gwine to do 'zactly wat you ax me not to do," re- 
 turns Buh Wolf in savage tone. Then, going to a neighbor- 
 ing patch of thick, strong briers, he pitches Buh Rabbit head- 
 long in the midst and says : "Now let's see de flesh come off 
 de bones." 
 
136 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris. 
 
 No sooner, however, does the struggling and protesting 
 Buh Rabbit find himself among the briers than he slides 
 gently to the ground ; and, peeping at his would-be torturer 
 from a safe place behind the stems, he says : "Tankee, Buh 
 Wolf — a tousand tankee — for bring me home. De brier- 
 bush de berry place where I been born." 1 
 
 Mr. Harris did not begin immediately and without delib- 
 eration to publish folklore. For more than a year he was 
 recalling the old tales, writing them out in practice, and 
 providing for them a desirable setting. We remember how 
 peculiarly intimate and affectionate had been the relation- 
 ship of this "morbidly sensitive" boy — who had also a 
 "strange sympathy with animals of all kinds" — with the 
 simple-minded, warm-hearted old slaves who "used to sit 
 at night and amuse the children with . . . reminiscences 
 and . . . stories." Instinctively, then, and with the wis- 
 dom of genius he committed the narration of the legends to 
 a venerable ex-slave who had only fond memories of the 
 former period. This genuine old negro, with his general 
 proprietary attitude toward whatever was his beloved former 
 master's and with his unoffensive air of superiority natural 
 and becoming to such a character, charms the little boy of 
 the new generation by unfolding to him the mysteries of 
 plantation lore. And thus the erstwhile printer and tempora- 
 ry journalist was now about to perpetuate in abiding litera- 
 ture, for the happiness of succeeding generations, the old- 
 time association of the negroes, the children, and the animals. 
 The negro dialect was to be used because, said he, "the dia- 
 lect is a part of the legends themselves, and to present them 
 in any other way would be to rob them of everything that 
 
 Reproduced from Lippincotfs Magazine, by permission from 
 the publishers. 
 
Biographical. 137 
 
 gives them vitality." 1 And, of course, it was "Uncle Remus," 
 already known and loved both South and North for his 
 "Sayings" and "Songs," whom Mr. Harris now introduced 
 with his "Negro Folklore," publishing in the Constitution 
 of July 20, 1879, " Th e Story of Mr. Rabbit and Mr. Fox 
 as Told by Uncle Remus." 2 Of "Uncle Remus" Mr. Har- 
 ris once said he was "a human syndicate ... of three or 
 four old darkies whom I had known. I just walloped them 
 together into one person and called him Uncle Remus." 3 
 
 Of the ideal portrait of the character painted by Mr. 
 James Henry Moser he said : 
 
 It is really a notable piece of work. Its characteristics are 
 typical, so much so that the first impression of those who 
 are familiar with the peculiarities of the negro is that it is 
 painted from life and that they have seen the original. . . . 
 Although the negro features are broadly emphasized, the 
 face is not without a certain suggestion of intellectual possi- 
 bilities; and while it is full of humor — not the humor of the 
 artist, but the humor of the type — a certain shrewd reserve 
 makes itself apparent. The portrait, in short, is a serious 
 attempt to reproduce the characteristics of the old planta- 
 tion negro, so dear to the memory of the Southern people, 
 and the result is the only genuine reproduction of the typical 
 negro we have ever seen upon canvas. The painting is full 
 of that quaintly pathetic dignity that cannot be described in 
 words. Singular as it may seem, the face is almost identical 
 with that which had identified itself with Uncle Remus in 
 the mind of the author of the sketches, and an engraving of 
 the portrait will appear in the forthcoming volume, to be 
 issued by the Appletons.* 
 
 1 "Nights with Uncle Remus," Introduction, page xxxii. 
 2 Constitution, July 20, 1879, and "Uncle Remus: His Songs and 
 His Sayings," first legend. 
 
 3 Boston Globe, November 3, 1907. 
 'Constitution, May 9, 1880 (editorial column). 
 
138 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 The .first story was thrown out, as it were, to test the 
 popular fancy. Nor did Mr. Harris offer another until he 
 had read the exchanges and awaited for four months the 
 expressive response from readers. In his self-criticism he 
 was severe; 1 but he must have felt very much encouraged 
 when, along with words of praise from all sides, he read in 
 the Cartersville (Georgia) Free Press the following: 
 
 We heard a most distinguished gentleman (it was the 
 Hon. A. H. Stephens) remark last Friday that "Uncle Re- 
 mus" (who is Mr. J. C. Harris, of the Atlanta Constitution) 
 was one of the most original and natural characters now 
 before the public. Furthermore, Mr. Stephens said he 
 wanted all of Uncle Remus's articles to put in his scrap- 
 book for preservation, and Joe Harris ought to feel proud 
 of the compliment. 2 
 
 Soon afterwards Mr. Harris gave the second story under 
 "Uncle Remus's Folklore : Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox, and the 
 Tar Baby." 3 Students of folklore claim to have traced this 
 legend back to the Sanskrit and to Buddha, four hundred 
 and seventy years before Christ, but never had there been 
 imparted to it such picturesque beauty and charm as now. 
 Henceforth an Uncle Remus tale was a regular feature of 
 the Sunday and Weekly Constitution, being devoured by 
 old and young in thousands of homes. There are to-day few 
 men or women in the South of the mature generation who 
 cannot recall the joy that the Atlanta paper with these ani- 
 mal stories brought every week into their hearts, and it has 
 been pointed out elsewhere how they have carried delight 
 
 3 Constitution, September 17, 23, 1879; January 20, 1880. See page 
 
 145- 
 
 2 Cartersville Free Press, as quoted in the Constitution September 
 26, 1879. 
 
 * Constitution, November 16, 1879, and "Uncle Remus : His Songs 
 and His Sayings," second legend. 
 
Biographical 139 
 
 around the world. 1 The original Constitution form of Leg- 
 ends I., II., and IV. are here reproduced : 
 
 NEGRO FOLKLORE* 
 The Story of Mr. Rabbit and Mr. Fox, as Told by Uncle Remus 
 
 Yesterday the la.dy whom Uncle Remus calls "Miss Sal- 
 ly" missed her little six-year-old. Making search for him 
 through the house, she heard the sound of voices on the back 
 piazza and, looking through the window, saw the child sit- 
 ting by Uncle Remus. His head rested against the old man's 
 arm, and he was gazing with an expression of the most in- 
 tense interest into the rough, weather-beaten face that 
 beamed so kindly upon him. This is what "Miss Sally" 
 heard : 
 
 "Bimeby, one day, arter Mr. Fox bin doin' all dat he could 
 fer ter ketch Mr. Rabbit, an' Mr. Rabbit bin doin' all he 
 could to keep 'im fum it, Mr. Fox say to hisse'f dat he'd 
 put up a game on Mr. Rabbit; an' he hadn't mo'n got de 
 wuds out'n his mouf twell Mr. Rabbit come a-lopin' up de 
 big road lookin' [des] ez plump an' ez fat an' ez sassy ez a 
 Morgan hoss in a barley patch. 
 
 " 'Hoi' on dar, Brer Rabbit,' sez Mr. Fox, sezee. 
 
 " 'I ain't got time, Brer Fox,' sez Mr. Rabbit, sezee, sor- 
 ter mendin' his licks. 
 
 " 'But I wanter have some confab wid you, Brer Rabbit,' 
 [sez Brer Fox,] sezee. 
 
 " 'All right, Brer Fox ; but you better holler fum whar 
 you stan'. I'm monst'us full uv fleas dis mawnin,' [sez 
 Brer Rabbit,] sezee. 
 
 " T seed Brer B'ar yistiddy,' sez Mr. I£ox, sezee, 'an' he 
 sorter raked me over de coals kase you an' me didn't make 
 frens an' live naberly, an' I tole 'im dat I'd see you.' 
 
 introduction to the present volume. 
 
 2 Scrupulous effort has been made to reproduce, letter for letter, 
 the original Constitution form. See footnote on page 129. Italics 
 have been used in this first legend to indicate forms that are changed 
 in the book ; brackets indicate insertions made in the book. 
 
140 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Den Mr. Rabbit scratch one year wid his off hine foot 
 sorter jub'usly, an' den he ups an' sez, sezee : 
 
 " 'All a-settin', Brer Fox. Spose'n you drap roun' ter- 
 morrer an' take dinner wid me. We ain't got no great doin's 
 at our house, but I speck de ole 'oman an' de chilluns kin 
 sorter scramble roun' an' git up sump'n fer ter stay yo' 
 stummuck.' 
 
 " 'I'm 'gree'ble, Brer Rabbit,' sez Mr. Fox, sezee. 
 
 " 'Den I'll 'pen' on you,' sez Mr. Rabbit, sezee. 
 
 "Nex' day Mr. Rabbit an' Miss Rabbit got up soon, 'fo' 
 day, an' raided on a gyarden, like Miss Sally's out dar, an' 
 got some cabbage, an' some roas'n years, an' some sparrer- 
 grass, an' dey fixed up a smashin' dinner. Bimeby one er 
 de little Rabbits, playin' out in de back yard, come runnin' 
 in hollerin' : 'Oh ma ! Oh ma ! I seed Mr. Fox a-comin' !' 
 An' den Mr. Rabbit he tuck de chilluns by dere years an' 
 made um set down, an' den him an' Miss Rabbit sorter dal- 
 lied roun' waitin' for Mr. Fox. An' dey kep' on waitin,' 
 but no Mr. Fox [ain't come] . Arter 'while Mr. Rabbit goes 
 to de do', easylike, an' peep out; an' dar, stickin' out fum 
 behine de cornder, wuz de tip eend uv Brer Fox's tail. Den 
 Mr. Rabbit shot de do' an' sot down an' put his paws behine 
 his years an' begin fer ter sing : 
 
 " 'De place wharbouts you spill de grease, 
 Right dar youer boun' ter slide ; 
 An' whar you fine a bunch uv ha'r, 
 You'll sholy fine de hide.' 
 
 "Nex' day Mr. Fox sont word by Mr. Mink an' skuse 
 hisse'f kase he wuz too sick fer ter come, an' he ax Mr. 
 Rabbit fer to come an' eat dinner wid him, an' Mr. Rabbit 
 say he wuz 'gree'ble. 
 
 "Bimeby, when de shadders wuz at dere shortes', Mr. 
 Rabbit he sorter bresh up an' santer down unto Mr. Fox's 
 house ; an' when he got dar, he hear somebody groanin', an' 
 he look in de door, an' dar he see Mr. Fox settin' up in a 
 rockin' cheer all wrapped up wid flannels, an' he look 
 mighty weak. Mr. Rabbit look all 'roun', [he did,] but he 
 don't see no dinner. De dish pan was settin' on de table, 
 an' close by was a kyarvin' knife. 
 
Biographical 141 
 
 " 'Look like you gwinter have chicken fer dinner, Brer 
 Fox/ sez Mr. Rabbit, sezee. 
 
 " 'Yes, Brer Rabbit. Deyer nice, an' fresh, an' tender,' 
 sez Brer Fox, sezee. 
 
 "Den Mr. Rabbit sorter pull his must ash, an' sez: 'You 
 ain't got no calamus root, is you, Brer Fox? I [done] got 
 so now that I can't eat no chicken 'cept she's seasoned up 
 wid calamus root.' An' wid dat Mr. Rabbit lipt out er de 
 do' and dodged 'mong de bushes an' sot dar watchin' fer Mr. 
 Fox; an' he didn't watch long nudder, kase Mr. Fox flung 
 off de flannels an' crope out er de house an' got whar he 
 could cloze in on Mr. Rabbit, an' bimeby Mr. Rabbit hol- 
 lered out : 'O Brer Fox ! I'll [des] put yo' calamus root out 
 here on dis [yer] stump. Better come git it while hit's 
 fresh,' and wid dat Mr. Rabbit galloped off home. An' Mr. 
 Fox ain't never cotch 'im yit; an', w'at's more, honey, he 
 ain't gwinter." 
 
 UNCLE REMUS FOLKLORE 
 
 Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox, and the Tar Baby 
 
 II 
 
 "Didn't the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" 
 asked the little boy to whom the old man delights to relate 
 his stories. 
 
 "He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you bawn — Brer 
 Fox did. One day atter Brer Rabbit fooled 'im wid dat 
 calamus root Brer Fox went ter wuk en got 'im some tar, 
 en mixt it wid some turkentime, en fixt up a contrapshun 
 dat he call a Tar Baby ; en he tuck dis yer Tar Baby en sot 
 'er in de big road, den he laid off in de bushes fer to see wat 
 de news wuz gwine to be. En he didn't hatter wait long, 
 nudder, caze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de 
 road lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity, des ez sassy ez a hotel 
 nigger. Brer Fox he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin' 
 'long twell he spied de Tar Baby, en den he fotch up on his 
 behime legs like he wuz 'stonished. De Tar Baby he sot dar, 
 en Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 " 'Mawnin',' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Nice wedder dis 
 mawnin',' sezee. 
 
142 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Tar Baby ain't sayin' nothin', en Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 "'How duz yo' sym'tums seem ter segashuate?' sez Brer 
 Rabbit, sezee. 
 
 "Brer Fox he wink his eye slow en lay low, en de Tar 
 Baby he ain't sayin' nuthin'. 
 
 " 'How you come on, den? Is you deaf?' sez Brer Rab- 
 bit, sezee. 'Caze ef you is, I kin holler louder,' sezee. 
 
 "Tar Baby keep quiet, en Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 "Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says Brer Rabbit, 
 sezee, 'en I'm gwine to kyore you, dat's w'at I'm a gwineter 
 do,' sezee. 
 
 "Brer Fox he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, but Tar 
 Baby ain't sayin' nuthin'. 
 
 " 'I'm gwineter larn you howter talk ter 'spectoble peo- 
 ple ef hit's de las' ack,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Ef you 
 don't take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I'm gwineter bus' 
 you wide open,' sezee. 
 
 "Tar Baby set still, en Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 "Brer Rabbit keep on axin' 'im, en de Tar Baby keep on 
 sayin' nuthin', twell present'y Brer Rabbit draw back wid 
 his fis', en blip ! he tuck him side er de head. Right dar's 
 whar he broke his molassas jug. His fis' stuck, en he 
 couldn't pull loose. De tar hilt 'im. 
 
 " 'If you don't lemme loose, I'll hit you agin/ sez Brer 
 Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch him a wipe wid de udder 
 han', en dat stuck. Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 " 'Turn me loose fo' I kick de natal stuffm' outen you,' 
 sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.; but de Tar Baby hilt on, en den 
 Brer Rabbit los' de use un his feet in de same way. Brer 
 Fox he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squalled out dat ef de 
 Tar Baby didn't turn 'im loose he'd butt him crank-sided. 
 En he butted, en his head got fastened. Den Brer Fox he 
 sa'ntered fort' lookin' des ez innercent ez wunner yo' mam- 
 my'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 en laft twell he couldn't laff no mo'. T 
 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. 
 
Biographical 143 
 
 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 
 'long en loosed 'im ; some say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally 
 callin'. You better run 'long." 
 
 UNCLE REMUS FOLKLORE 
 Showing How Brer Rabbit Was Too Sharp for Brer Fox 
 
 IV 
 
 "Uncle Remus," said the little boy who plays the part of 
 an appreciative audience to the old man, "did the fox kill 
 and eat the rabbit when he caught him with the Tar Baby ?" 
 
 "Law, honey, didn't I tell you 'bout dat?" replied the old 
 darky, chuckling slyly. "I 'clar' ter grashus, I ought er tole 
 you dat; but old man Nod wuz ridin' on my eyelids twell a 
 little moen I'd a dis'member'd my own name, en den on to 
 dat here come yo' mammy hollerin' atter you. 
 
 "Wat I tell you w'en I fus' begin? I tole you Brer Rab- 
 bit wuz a monstus soon beas' — leas'ways dat's w'at I laid 
 out fer ter tell you. Well, den, honey, don't you go en 
 make no udder calkalashuns, kaze in dem days Mr. Rabbit 
 en his fambly wuz at de head er de gang w'en enny racket 
 wuz on han,' en dar dey stayed. To' you begins fer ter 
 wipe yo' eyes 'bout Mr. Rabbit, you wait en see whar'bouts 
 Mr. Rabbit gwine ter fetch up at. But dat's needer here 
 ner dar. 
 
 "W'en Brer Fox fine Brer Rabbit mixt up wid de Tar 
 Baby, he feel mighty good, en he roll on de groun' en lafr. 
 Bimeby he up'n say, sezee : 
 
 " 'Well, I speck I got you dis time, Brer Rabbit/ sezee. 
 'Maybe I ain't, but I speck I is. You been runnin' roun' 
 here sassin' atter me a mighty long time, but I speck you 
 done come ter de end er de row. You bin cuttin' up yo' 
 capers en bouncin' roun' in dis naberhood ontwell you come 
 ter b'leeve yo'sef de boss er de whole gang. En den youer 
 allers some'rs whar you got no bizness,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 
 
144 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 'Who axed you fer ter come en strike up a 'quaintance wid 
 dis yer Tar Baby ? En who stuck you up dar whar you iz ? 
 Nobody in de roun' worril. You des tuck en jamed yo'se'f 
 on dat Tar Baby widout waitin' fer enny invite/ sez Brer 
 Fox, sezee, 'en dar you is; en dar you'll stay twell I fixes 
 up a bresh pile and fires her up, fer I'm gwineter barbecue 
 you dis day, sho'/ sez Brer Fox, sezee. 
 
 "Den Brer Rabbit talk mighty 'umble. 
 
 " T don't keer w'at you do wid me, Brer Fox,' sezee, 'so 
 you don't fling me in dat brier patch. Roas' me, Brer Fox,' 
 sezee, 'but don't fling me in dat brier patch/ sezee. 
 
 " 'Hit's so much trouble fer ter kindle a fire/ sez Brer 
 Fox, sezee, 'dat I speck I'll hatter hang you/ sezee. 
 
 " 'Hang me des ez high as you please, Brer Fox/ sez Brer 
 Rabbit, sezee, 'but do, fer de Lord's sake, don't fling me in 
 dat brier patch/ sezee. 
 
 " 'I ain't got no string/ sez Brer Fox, sezee, 'en now I 
 speck I'll hatter drown you/ sezee. 
 
 " 'Drown me des ez deep ez you please, Brer Fox/ sez 
 Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'but do don't fling me in dat brier patch,' 
 sezee. 
 
 " 'Dey ain't no water nigh/ sez Brer Fox, sezee, 'en now 
 I speck I'll hatter skin you/ sezee. 
 
 " 'Skin me, Brer Fox/ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee ; 'snatch out 
 my eyeballs, t'ar out my years by de roots, an' cut off my 
 legs,' sezee, 'but do please, Brer Fox, don't fling me in dat 
 brier patch,' sezee. 
 
 "Co'se Brer Fox wanter hurt Brer Rabbit bad ez he kin, 
 so he cotch 'im by de behime legs en slung 'im right in de 
 middle er de brier patch. Dar wuz a considerbul flutter 
 whar Brer Rabbit struck de bushes, en Brer Fox sorter 
 hang 'roun' fer ter see w'at wuz gwineter happen. Bimeby 
 he hear somebody call 'im, en 'way up de hill he see Brer 
 Rabbit settin' cross-legged on a chinkapin log koamin' de 
 pitch outen his har wid a chip. Den Brer Fox know dat 
 he'd ben swopt off mighty bad. Brer Rabbit wuz bleedzed 
 fer ter fling back some er his sass, en he holler out : 
 
 " 'I gotter go home en bresh up fer Sunday, Brer Fox/ 
 sezee, 'but I'll see you later. So long! Be sho' en save me 
 some er dat calamus root !' sezee, en wid dat he skipt out 
 des ez lively ez a cricket in de embers." 
 
Biographical 145 
 
 The creation of "Uncle Remus" was now perfected. But 
 Mr. Harris had never conceived of the magnitude of this 
 achievement, nor had he the faintest fancy of the fame that 
 it would immediately bring to him. So late as two months 
 after he had published the first folklore tales, though doubt- 
 less thinking rather of the sketches, he depreciated his 
 work thus : 
 
 A correspondent of the Milledgeville Union and Recorder 
 has some remarks on the negro dialect as it appears in the 
 newspapers, which, so far as they apply to "Uncle Remus," 
 are eminently just and proper. It will not be considered 
 invidious for the writer hereof to say that, so far as the 
 efforts of "Uncle Remus" to reproduce the dialect of the 
 old plantation negro — the flavor and essence of his thought 
 and style — are concerned, they are flat and dismal failures 
 from beginning to end — no more representative in an ar- 
 tistic sense than the stale jokes of the end man of a negro 
 minstrel show. 1 
 
 Several months later he referred to the legends as "tri- 
 fles." 2 But trifles never took hold upon men and women 
 and children as did these tales, and in the face of a universal 
 popular verdict no dictum from the critics was needed to 
 bring men to a recognition of the value of this contribution 
 to American literature. 
 
 The creation of this character was a logical sequence in 
 the progress of Mr. Harris's writings. Much of his writing 
 for the Constitution had been in kind anticipated by what he 
 had done first for the little old Countryman, for the Adver- 
 tiser, and for the News. In Forsyth, before he committed 
 
 '■Constitution, September 17, 1879, "Round about in Georgia" col- 
 umn. See a repetition of this self-criticism in the issue of Septem- 
 ber 23. 
 
 s Constitution, January 20, 1880, 
 IO 
 
146 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 himself to journalism, he had dreamed of a literary career 
 in which he would "cultivate the tale, the essay, the review, 
 and the novel." That dream had faded during the succeed- 
 ing years of intense newspaper work, and to have reminded 
 him of it now would have been to overwhelm him in con- 
 fusion and shame ; but through his daily work for the Con- 
 stitution it was, in fact, approaching realization. In For- 
 syth he wrote his first tale, writing of the fox hunts from 
 the joy and excitement of which he had freshly come. 1 In 
 Atlanta he was entertaining his Sunday readers with fox 
 hunt 2 and other stories based mostly upon his own expe- 
 rience and observation. 3 In addition to his humor (re- 
 calling his very first prose contribution to The Country- 
 man, "Grumblers"),* it was his "thorough knowledge of 
 Southern character," agreed the readers, that made his 
 work so popular. Awaiting "The Romance of Rockville," 
 Colonel Thompson wrote from Savannah : "We have a 
 right to expect in a story from his pen, laid amid scenes 
 with which he is familiar, and illustrative of Georgia life 
 and character, a rare literary treat." 5 Through his ''review'" 
 column Mr. Harris was proclaiming that great fundamental 
 principle of literary work which he had been taught during 
 the first year of his quasi-college course under Mr. Turner, 6 
 On two successive Sundays during the fall of 1879 he had 
 written of "Major Jones," associating him with "Hosea 
 Bigelow," and declaring these to be "characters that will 
 
 1 See page 270. 
 
 s Sunday Constitution, December 16, 1877, "A Georgia Fox Hunt." 
 This story, with some changes, was republished in "On the Planta- 
 tion." 
 
 8 See reproductions in Part II. 
 
 "Reproduced on page 38. 
 
 B W. T. Thompson, Savannah Morning News, March, 1878. 
 
 "See page 147. 
 
Biographical 147 
 
 live because they are locally perfect and typically nation- 
 al." 1 He had thus caught a wider vision than his war- 
 embittered teacher of '62 ; and just as he began the folklore 
 series, like another Emerson, he wrote for literary workers 
 of the South and of the nation the following splendid and 
 irreproachable declarations of independence : 
 
 LITERATURE IN THE SOUTH 2 
 
 The very spice and flavor of all literature, the very mar- 
 row and essence of all literary art is its localism. No lit- 
 erary artist can lack for materials in this section. They are 
 here all around him, untouched, undeveloped, undisturbed, 
 unique and original, as new as the world, as old as life, as 
 fair as flowers, as beautiful as the dreams of genius. But 
 they must be mined. They must be run through the stamp 
 mill. Where is the magician who will catch them and store 
 them up? You may be sure that the man who does it will 
 not care one copper whether he is developing and building 
 up Southern or Northern literature, and he will feel that his 
 work is considerably belittled if it be claimed by either on 
 the score of sectionalism. In literature, art, and society, 
 whatever is truly Southern is likewise truly American ; and 
 the same may be said of what is Northern. Literature that 
 is Georgian or Southern is necessarily American, and in the 
 broadest sense. The sectionalism that is the most marked 
 feature of our modern politics can never intrude into liter- 
 ature. Its intrusion is fatal, and it is this fatality that has 
 pursued and overtaken and destroyed literary effort in the 
 South. The truth might as well be told. We have no 
 Southern literature worthy of the name, because an attempt 
 has been made to give it the peculiarities of sectionalism 
 rather than to impart to it the flavor of localism. 
 
 ^Constitution, September 28, October 5, 1879. See reproductions, 
 Part II., "Georgia Crackers" and "Puritan and Cracker." 
 
 'Constitution, November 30, 1879 (editorial). Compare Constitu- 
 tion, March 4, 1880, review of "The Georgians" (by Mrs. Hammond, 
 of Atlanta). 
 
148 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 PROVINCIALISM IN LITERATURE— A DEFENSE OF 
 BOSTON 1 
 
 We suggest that serious inquiry be made why it is neces- 
 sary for the son of the New York soap boiler or glue maker 
 or tobacco cutter (as the case may be) to have a coat of 
 arms upon his carriage or a crest upon his stationery; and 
 why, if it is absolutely necessary to have these things, a 
 platter of chitterlings in relief or a bull's hoof or a navy 
 plug, each or all worked in with the American bird of free- 
 dom, would not be as appropriate and as respectable as a 
 crest stolen from a foreigner. Why should there not be 
 American crests? Why should there not be an American 
 culture as distinctive in its way as the culture that is Eng- 
 lish? Why should Americans strive to be anything else 
 than Americans? Why not insist that the provinciality of 
 American literature is the essential quality of all literature, 
 the one quality that gives distinctiveness to literary effort? 
 
 It seems almost like sacrilege to hear Mr. James making 
 excuses for Hawthorne ["Essay on Hawthorne/' by Henry 
 James, Jr. ; two previous essays] to English readers by 
 enumerating the surroundings that the American lacked. 
 He had no sovereign, no court, no personal loyalty, no aris- 
 tocracy, no Church, no clergy, no diplomatic service, no 
 palaces, no castles, no manors, no cathedrals, no abbeys. 
 All these things and many more are catalogued by Mr, 
 James to show the difficulties under which Hawthorne la- 
 bored, this man who had before him all the ruins of human 
 passion and who was surrounded by the antiquity of the 
 soul. How paltry, how shriveled and shrunken does the 
 swallow-tail culture of the literary snob appear in contrast 
 with the provinciality which invests the works of Haw- 
 thorne with the swift passion of New England's summers, 
 the wild, desolate beauty of her autumns, and the strange, 
 penetrating gloom of her winters ! 
 
 With no pretentions whatever, but with the spontaneity 
 of genius, Mr. Harris was, as we have seen, in his own 
 writing illustrating this principle of localism. The pathos 
 
 1 Editorial, Sunday Constitution, January 25, 1880, 
 
Biographical 149 
 
 attending the close of Mr. Turner's life at the untimely age 
 of forty-two is heightened when we think of how he might 
 have lived to less than sixty and have seen the fulfillment 
 of his prophecy that Joe Harris would be one of those to 
 do the writing that he would not be spared to do, and in 
 part through Joe's writing the fulfillment of his desire for 
 a distinctively Southern literature, even the fulfillment of his 
 more specific desire, "And prominent in our books I wish 
 the negro placed." 1 For now Mr. Harris came to place 
 alongside the Georgia cracker, "Major Jones," the Georgia 
 negro, "Uncle Remus." There was an intimation of a 
 forthcoming volume from Mr. Harris in the Darien (Geor- 
 gia) Timber Gazette, which, early in the summer of 1879, 
 suggested that he was "revising the songs and sayings of 
 Uncle Remus for publication." 8 In December there came 
 from him an expression of his desire to collect and preserve 
 in permanent form the plantation legends, when his "Round 
 about in Georgia" column carried this request: 
 
 We would be glad if any of our readers who may chance 
 to remember any of the negro fables and legends so popu- 
 lar on the plantations would send us brief outlines of the 
 same. No matter how trivial and nonsensical the story may 
 seem when an attempt is made to give the outline, we shall 
 be glad to have it all the same. Many of our readers have 
 doubtless had such stories recalled by reading the folklore 
 of Uncle Remus, and they will confer a great favor if 
 they will send to us brief outlines of the main incidents and 
 characters. . . . The purpose is to preserve these quaint 
 myths in permanent form. Address J. C. Harris, care of 
 Constitution. 3 
 
 1 See page 147. 
 
 fi Darien (Georgia) Timber Gazette, as quoted in the Constitution, 
 June 8, 1879. 
 
 s "Round about in Georgia," December 18, 1879, and January 20, 
 1880. 
 
150 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 It is interesting to note that Colonel Thompson was 
 among the very first to respond to this request — immediate- 
 ly. 1 In its prospectus for 1880 the Constitution announced 
 a series of the legends. On January 20 the editorial column 
 carried a paragraph that shows how Mr. Harris was en- 
 gaged in working up the outlines into the finished forms 
 which were given in the paper : 
 
 Those interested in the trifles that appear in the Constitu- 
 tion under the title of "Uncle Remus's Folklore"' were 
 doubtless surprised as well as mystified to find that in the 
 legend printed Sunday there was no sort of connection be- 
 tween the heading and the text. . . . The heading was 
 intended for a story to follow, in regular serial order, the 
 one over which it was placed. . . . Not a line nor a word 
 of that story is yet written. Brer Rabbit himself, with all 
 his shifts and expedients, would fail to give a satisfactory 
 explanation. . . . The proper heading of the legend is 
 "Brer Wolf Appears upon the Scene." 
 
 Not later than March, Mr. J. C. Derby, an alert member 
 of the firm of D. Appleton & Co., saw the desirability of 
 publishing Mr. Harris's work in book form, corresponded 
 with him, and went to Atlanta to assist in selecting the ma- 
 terial from the files of the Constitution. 2 And in Novem- 
 ber, 1880, just twelve months after the "Tar Baby" story 
 (No. II.) had appeared in the Atlanta paper, the sketches, 
 songs, and proverbs, 3 and thirty-four of the legends were 
 issued from the press in the first edition of "Uncle Remus : 
 His Songs and His Sayings." 4 
 
 1 "Round about in Georgia" column, December 20, 1879. 
 
 2 "Fifty Years among Authors, Books, and Publishers," J. C. Der- 
 by. New York, 1884. Pages 433-440. (Errors in dates; see Consti- 
 tution, April 2, 1880.) 
 
 8 Negro proverbs had been first published in the Constitution De- 
 cember 18, 1879. 
 
 4 See editorial announcements of the book, Constitution, April 9 
 and November 19, 1880. Also see editorial November 28, 1880. 
 
Biographical 151 
 
 During the twenty-eight remaining years of his life, twen- 
 ty of which were still devoted to his regular work as an edi- 
 tor of the Constitution, Mr. Harris redeemed the promises 
 of his earlier years and published many other works of con- 
 siderable merit. 1 It is not the purpose of this volume to 
 discuss those works. "Uncle Remus" was his supreme ac- 
 complishment. Had he done nothing else, his name would 
 have been no less prominent. He had done a work essential 
 to American literature, because it reflected an integral part 
 of life in America. He enshrined in literature the ante- 
 bellum negro, giving a precious record of his dialect and 
 folklore and projecting him upon such a background as to 
 give us a glimpse of the dear departed days of plantation 
 life in the South. He did it with such fidelity as to receive 
 from his contemporaries universal approval. He did it with 
 such art as to put it beyond restrictions of tongue or time. 
 He did it at the one moment when it could be done. The old 
 negro character, which the world so soon took to its heart, is 
 replete, notwithstanding its humor, with the deep pathos 
 that attends the passing of a well-loved type. Therefore, not 
 unlike "Hiawatha" and "The Last of the Mohicans," "Uncle 
 Remus" has a place distinctively his own in our literature 
 as long as that literature shall live. 
 
 But surely no other author ever took his place among the 
 great so unconsciously. Surely no other was ever so embar- 
 rassed by sudden fame. Surely no other ever clung so im- 
 movably to simplicity and humbleness. The profits from 
 his book quickly enabled him to buy a home in West End, 
 Atlanta ; and, except as his regular duties demanded, rarely 
 was he to be found elsewhere. Always protesting that he 
 was not a literary man, endeavoring, with the aid of his 
 wife, to escape from all "literary interviews," and shrinking 
 
 x See "Bibliography." 
 
152 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 from strangers, social functions, and any kind of personal 
 prominence, but, writing with spontaneous interest and 
 pleasure, holding his friends in warm affection, tenderly 
 considerate of every creature, loving little children, and 
 befriending the needy, he went modestly about his daily 
 duties and sought to live in quiet happiness with his family 
 at "The Sign of the Wren's Nest." Here he died on July 
 3, 1908. His grave, in Westview Cemetery, is fittingly 
 marked by an unhewn granite bowlder. On a bronze tablet 
 appear his own words : 
 
 / seem to see before me the smiling faces of 
 thousands of children — some young and fresh, and 
 some wearing the friendly marks of age, but all 
 children at heart — and not an unfriendly face 
 among them. And out of the confusion, and while 
 I am trying hard to speak the right word, I seem 
 to hear a voice lifted above the rest, saying: "You 
 have made some of us happy." And so I feel my 
 heart -fluttering and my lips trembling, and I have 
 to bow silently and turn away and hurry back into 
 the obscurity that fits me best. 
 
PART II 
 
 EARLY LITERARY EFFORTS 
 
Harris's Earliest Verse and Prose Compositions, from 
 the Age of Fourteen, as Published in The Country- 
 man (1862-1866) 
 
 FROM an exhaustive search through the files of The 
 Countryman, (seven issues lacking), there is listed 
 below every contribution of Mr. Harris to that won- 
 derful little paper with which his career began. 1 Reproduc- 
 tions not appearing in Part I. are given here. It will be 
 observed how consistently the various forms of signature 
 are used, apparently showing a preference for the efforts 
 in verse: 
 
 Vol. III., No. 10, December I, 1862, the first signed con- 
 tribution : 
 
 INK 
 
 Mr. Countryman: In looking over a file of an old paper 
 I find the following recipe for making black ink, which may 
 prove valuable to you as well as your readers, owing to the 
 scarcity of the fluid. Will you give it a trial and report the 
 result? J. C. Harris. 
 
 [The recipe follows.] 
 
 Vol. III., No. 12, December 15, 1862: "Grumblers," J. C. 
 Harris. The second signed contribution. Reproduced in 
 Part I. 
 
 Vol. IV., No. 8, February 17, 1863 : "Sabbath Evening in 
 the Country," J. C. Harris. Reproduced in Part I. 
 
 Vol. IV., No. 10: "Death" (two-thirds column; reflec- 
 tive). 
 
 x See full description of The Countryman and Harris's connection 
 with it in Part I. 
 
 (155) 
 
156 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Vol. IV., No. 11: "A Dream" (Carnival-Lent; prices 
 before the war and present prices). 
 
 Vol. IV., No. 14: "The Progress of Civilization" (one 
 column and a half). 
 
 Vol. V., No. 2, April 14, 1863 : 
 
 Why do the Yankees delay their attack upon the chief 
 Rebel port? 
 
 Because they find a Charleston too heavy for their gun- 
 boats to carry. Countryman's Devil. 
 
 Vol. V., No. 3 : More than a column of "Whys" from the 
 "Countryman's Devil." 
 
 Vol. V., No. 4: A number of "Whys" not signed. 
 Vol. V., No. 5 : 
 
 Says the Constitutionalist: "Our brother of The Country- 
 man has been publishing a number of sharp sayings of late 
 which he uniformly ascribes to 'our devil. ' " Whereupon 
 the Confederate Union propounds as follows : 
 
 "Why is the editor of The Countryman like the enemy's 
 fleet when they attacked Charleston? 
 
 "Because he puts his 'devil' foremost." 
 
 The Countryman editor replied : "The Confederate Union 
 is disposed to undervalue the services of The Countryman's 
 devil. If it only knew what a smart devil The Countryman 
 has, it would not do so. Just ask your 'Jim' about it, Broth- 
 er Nisbit. He knows 'our devil.' " 
 
 Vol. V., No. 8: "Disputants" (ten lines against wrangling 
 over trivialities, like dogs over a bone). 
 
 Vol. V., No. 9 : Further word plays, as above. 
 
 Vol. V., No. 1 1 : Further word plays. 
 
 Vol. V., No. 13: "Lost!" J. C. Harris. Reproduced in 
 Part I. 
 
 Vol. VI., No. 9, September 1, 1863: "Hypocrites" (one- 
 third column; reflective). 
 
 Vol. VI., No. 10 : "We have received from 'J. C. H.' a 
 critique to show that 'Hindoo' is not a rhyme to 'window' " 
 (one-half column discussion by the editor). 
 
 Vol. VI., No. 11: "Prodigality" (ten lines declaring the 
 prodigal worse than the miser, because the miser hurts only 
 himself). 
 
Early Literary Efforts 157 
 
 SENSUAL PLEASURES 
 
 Sensual pleasures twine around our virtues, as the boa- 
 constrictor does the antelope, and leave them lubricated in 
 their slime, only awaiting a favorable opportunity to swal- 
 low them whole. Of such pleasures it may be said that they 
 sustain us in our youth only to destroy us in our old age. 
 They should be avoided with a wholesome dread only 
 equaled by the fear of an endless torment. T . C. Harris. 
 
 Vol. XL, No. 1, November 3, 1863 : 
 
 PARTYISM 
 
 Three years ago partyism ran high in Georgia. The last 
 Presidential campaign in the old United States was one of 
 the most hotly contested elections ever held in this State; 
 and our people, seeing the effect of such political struggles, 
 resolved, when Georgia seceded, to remember no old party 
 differences, to draw no new lines of party faction. Some 
 of the most influential men and presses in the State advo- 
 cated this course. For one -year things went on very 
 smoothly in their new channel ; but at the end of that time 
 any one, to notice closely, could see a faint indication of the 
 revival of old party lines and differences. This indication 
 increased day by day, until it became almost general; and 
 in 1863, at the last gubernatorial campaign, it burst out in a 
 perfect tornado of fanatical partyism. New differences 
 were brought forth and old ones renewed. Political fury 
 was at its height. Even those who were the first to propose 
 to lay aside all bickering and strife were the first to break 
 their own rules ; and even as they broke them they warned 
 others of the results of party differences. Such was their 
 fanatical furor about the gubernatorial candidates ! 
 
 "I'll have Hill," says one editor. "No, you won't!" an- 
 swers another. "But I'll be if I don't!" rejoins the 
 
 first. And thus they go. The above may apply to the 
 supporters of Brown also. 
 
 To be an editor requires sense and a knowledge of right; 
 but if it isn't wanting in the craniums of some of the edi- 
 torial fraternity, then we don't know what it requires to be 
 an editor, J. C. Harris. 
 
158 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Vol. XIX., No. 10, March 8, 1864: Two moralizings 
 (eight lines each). 
 
 Vol. XIX., No. 39: "Nelly White." (Written for The 
 Countryman.) By Joel C. Harris. (Poem; see page 159.) 
 
 Vol. XXI., No. 5 : "The Battle Bird," by Joel C. Harris, 
 Turnwold, Georgia, 1864. (Poem; see page 159.) 
 
 Vol. XXL, No. 7 : "Nature," by Joel C. Harris, Turn- 
 wold, Georgia, 1864. (Sonnet; see Part I.) 
 
 Vol. XX., No. 3, January 17, 1865 : "Ruaene ! Ruaene !" 
 by Joel C. Harris. (Five stanzas and four-line refrain.) 
 
 Vol. XX., No. 4: "Macaria," J, C. H. (Reproduced in 
 Part I.) 
 
 Vol. XX., No. 13: "Accursed," by Joel C. Harris. 
 (Poem; see page 161.) 
 
 Vol. XX., No. 14: "Moonlight," by Joel C. Harris, Turn- 
 wold, Georgia. (Poem; see page 162.) 
 
 Vol. XX., No. 16 : "Murder," by Joel C. Harris. (Poem ; 
 see page 163.) 
 
 Vol. XX., No. 20: "Obituary," by J. C. H. (On the 
 death of a child at Turnwold; see page 164.) 
 
 Vol. XXL, No. 4 : "Christmas," by J. C. H., December 25, 
 1865. (One and one-third column; see Part I.) "The 
 Old Year and the New," by J. C. H., midnight, December 
 31, 1865. (See page 164.) 
 
 Vol. XXL, No. 2, February 6, 1866 : "A Vision," by Joel 
 C. Harris, Turnwold, Georgia. (Poem; see page 165.) 
 
 Vol. XXL, No. 3 : "Poe and Griswold," J. C. H. (One 
 column and a fifth; unfavorable comments on Griswold's 
 biography of Poe; see page 167.) 
 
 Vol. XXL, No. 4 : "Moselle," by Joel C. Harris. (Poem ; 
 reproduced in Part I.) 
 
 Vol. XXL, No. 6 : "Our Minnie Grey," by Joel C. Harris, 
 Turnwold, Georgia. (Poem; reproduced in Part I.) 
 
 "There are two things continually before our eyes which 
 we never see : our own faults and our neighbors' virtues." 
 —J. C. H. 
 
 Vol. XXL, No. 7 : "Mary," by Joel C. Harris, Turnwold, 
 Georgia. (Poem; see Part I.) 
 
Early Literary Efforts 159 
 
 NELLY WHITE 1 
 (Written for The Countryman) 
 
 BY JOEL C. HARRIS 
 
 The autumn moon rose calm and clear, 
 
 And nearly banished night, 
 While I with trembling footsteps went 
 
 To part with Nelly White. 
 
 I thought to leave her but a while, 
 
 And, in the golden West, 
 To seek the fortune that should make 
 
 My darling Nelly blest. 
 
 For I was of the humble poor, 
 Who knew that love, though bold, 
 
 And strong and firm within itself, 
 Was stronger — bound in gold ! 
 
 And when I knelt at Mammon's shrine, 
 
 An angel ever spake 
 Approvingly — since what I did, 
 
 I did for Nelly's sake ! 
 
 Again I neared the sacred spot 
 
 Where she and I last met — 
 With merry laugh does Nelly come 
 
 To meet her lover yet ? 
 
 Again the moon rose in the sky 
 
 And gave a pitiful light, 
 Which shone with dreary gleam upon 
 
 The grave of Nelly White! 
 
 THE BATTLE BIRD 
 
 BY JOEL C. HARRIS 
 
 It is related that at the battle of Resaca a mocking bird 
 perched itself within the Confederate lines and maintained 
 
 *Not unlikely his first poem, three efforts in the composition of 
 the verses appearing in his exercise book of those days. 
 
160 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 its position throughout the whole of the fight, giving utter- 
 ance at times to wild and varied melody common to birds of 
 its species. The fearlessness of the bird, combined with the 
 singularity of the incident, renders it a fit subject for a 
 poem. Hence these humble lines. 
 
 Resaca ! on thy bloody battle plain 
 
 How many a scene of rueful, sad disaster, 
 When groan to groan was echoed back again, 
 
 And Death was there as master ! 
 
 How many a youth in battle proudly fell, 
 
 Who, lying in his blood as dying victor, 
 Gave back in agony the vengeful yell 
 
 As brave as Roman lictor ! 
 
 How many a soldier in his death sleep dreamed 
 That once again he trod "the realms of fairy," 
 
 While down his careworn, sunburnt cheek there streamed 
 A tear — perchance for "Mary"! 
 
 And many an infant, tranquilly at play, 
 
 Ne'er dreamed that Woe and Grief and Death were flying, 
 But played the while, nor thought that "father" lay 
 
 Among the dead and dying ! 
 
 But 'mid the roar and clash and din of fight, 
 While rifle shot and bugle call were mingling, 
 
 Perched on a lonely tree top, full in sight, 
 The Battle Bird was singing! 
 
 The fight raged on; but still the soothing song 
 Rang peacefully, with cadence soft and mellow, 
 
 Above the groan and curse of weak and strong 
 And brazen cannon's bellow ! 
 
 Withal it was a gentle lay and sad ; 
 
 Its peaceful swell the horrid day was mocking. 
 O ! what was there to make the bird so glad ? 
 
 Its happiness was shocking ! 
 
 But ah ! it prophesies a time to come 
 
 Which has been wept for by our fathers hoary, 
 
 When Peace with weary feet shall cease to roam 
 And take her seat in glory 
 
Early Literary Efforts 161 
 
 Within our nation's gashed and bleeding breast — 
 The dawning of a glorious, glad to-morrow — 
 
 And speak, in angel tones, a queen's behest: 
 "Release the Land from Sorrow!" 
 Turn wold, Georgia, 1864. 
 
 ACCURSED 
 
 BY JOEL C. HARRIS 
 
 A man and a woman met in the wood, 
 Where the virgin blooms of spring begin : 
 
 The woman was weak, but pure and good; 
 In the heart of the man was sin. 
 
 They met at the trysting place to woo, 
 
 And the moon hid her face behind a cloud ; 
 
 The wind held its breath and never blew, 
 And the moon waned away in her shroud. 
 
 And they parted there at the trysting tree, 
 
 And the moon shone out with her blessed light, 
 
 And the gray owl shrieked with fiendish glee 
 At the sight she saw that night. 
 
 A woman in tears paced up and down — 
 Paced up and down her narrow room ; 
 
 Her face was dark with a wicked frown, 
 Making wretched and darker the gloom. 
 
 Her flowing hair, with its ebon dyes, 
 
 Had broken the bands of its golden clasp ; 
 
 The tears fell fast from her great black eyes, 
 And she breathed with a heaving gasp. 
 
 She looked like the Lady does in the Play 
 When she tells her husband to murder the King ; 
 
 And she sobbed and wept in the twilight gray 
 And scowled at her lover's ring. 
 
 A man paced up and down in his room 
 
 And clasped his hands to his aching head; 
 
 He shrunk from a shade in the dusky gloom, 
 For the woman he wronged is dead ! 
 
 11 
 
162 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 She died as all women die on earth 
 Whom men have wronged with deceitful lies, 
 
 And she left a babe on her father's hearth — 
 She died as a floweret dies. 
 
 Whene'er men wrong a sinless soul, 
 
 You know, they forever curse their own ; 
 
 For fate on fate must ever roll — 
 Men reap what they have sown ! 
 
 A man paced up and down a stream, 
 
 A man 'neath the weight of a curse bowed down; 
 
 His eye shone bright with a maniac gleam, 
 And despair was in his frown. 
 
 A shivering glance at the rushing river, 
 A longing look at the bright, green world, 
 
 A leap, and the man was hid forever 
 Where the eddies foamed and curled. 
 
 Turn wold, Georgia. 
 
 MOONLIGHT 
 
 BY JOEL C. HARRIS 
 
 It falleth in the valley; 
 
 It resteth on the hill; 
 It lies with placid sadness 
 
 Where sleep the dead so still. 
 
 It floats with mystic grandeur 
 Around the village church; 
 
 It shrouds with silver splendor 
 The tall and ancient birch. 
 
 It floods with pensive radiance 
 
 The climbing cypress vine, 
 And peeps in at the lattice 
 
 Where sleeps a love of mine. 
 
 Among the moldering gravestones 
 
 It trails a dreamy haze, 
 Hiding the souls immortal 
 
 From sinful human gaze. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 163 
 
 It flingeth ghostly shadows 
 
 Beneath the grave old oaks, 
 Where hides the owl in daylight, 
 
 And where the raven croaks. 
 
 But blessed be the moonlight, 
 
 And may it nightly shine 
 Upon the creeping cypress 
 
 And on that love of mine ! 
 
 Turnwold, Georgia. 
 
 MURDER 
 
 BY JOEL C HARRIS 
 
 Up through the woods, from out the glen, 
 
 Came a quick and a stifled shriek 
 Which broke but faintly on the ear, 
 
 It was so short and weak, 
 As if some hand had frightened back 
 
 The words it tried to speak. 
 An ominous bird on the leafless oak 
 Suddenly hushed its dismal croak 
 
 And whetted its horny beak. 
 
 From out the woods, from out the vale 
 
 Came the sound upon the night, 
 Striving to call some living thing 
 
 To see the awful sight 
 Of a human body lying in blood, 
 
 With its face so ghastly white. 
 The screech owl saw the deathly scene, 
 Saw the stain of blood on the grass so green, 
 
 And shivered with affright. 
 
 'Twas but a step down in the glen, 
 
 From the old birch tree but a rod. 
 The murderer had a knife in his hand; 
 
 And at his feet, on the sod, 
 Lay the body of the murdered man, 
 
 Now but a lifeless clod ; 
 For the horrid deed had been done well, 
 While the soul of the man took its flight and fell 
 
 At the very feet of God. 
 
164 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Now on the murderer's sinful eyes 
 
 Be forever placed a ban ! 
 No more shall they be closed in sleep; 
 
 But nightly shall they scan 
 The face and form of the shrieking one 
 
 Whose life he made a span, 
 And the ghastly wounds that his hate had made, 
 The print of his hand, the work of his blade 
 
 In the breast of the murdered man ! 
 
 Turnwold, Georgia. 
 
 OBITUARY 1 
 
 Died in Putnam County, Georgia, April 27, 1865, Joseph 
 Addison Turner, infant son of Burges and Emily Eskew, 
 aged one year and two months. Christ has said: "Suffer 
 the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: 
 for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Therefore, when 
 little children go to their Heavenly Father we should not 
 mourn. Rather let us weep for the living, who are left 
 here in this cold, cruel world without the cheering smiles 
 of those who have drawn their mantles around them and 
 lain down "to pleasant dreams." And although little Joe's 
 body lies in the ground, his soul rests in the bosom of his 
 God. 
 
 Between him and the ills of life 
 
 He saw an angel stand; 
 He, smiling, reached his little arms 
 And grasped the angel's hand. 
 
 J. C. H. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW" 
 
 I love and reverence the past, notwithstanding there is 
 something of sadness and, withal, of grief in the cup it has 
 pressed to my lips. In reverencing the past I am suspicious 
 of the future. And who is not? As our friend the gentle 
 
 Compare "Juliette" and "In Memoriam," Part I., pages 109, no. 
 
 2 This theme was worked over again and again in editorials and 
 verse. See Part I., pages 72, and 107, and Atlanta Constitution, 
 December 30, 1877 (editorial). 
 
Early Literary Efforts 165 
 
 Elia has remarked : "The future, being everything, is noth- 
 ing ; the past, being nothing, is everything." What have we 
 to do with the future? It belongs to God. The past be- 
 longs to us ; though, it is true, we have rendered it into the 
 hands of the Almighty for safekeeping, nevertheless it is 
 ours. With these thoughts I grasp the old year by the hand 
 and cry in the words of the sweet Tennyson : 
 
 "He frothed his bumpers to the brim — 
 
 A jollier year we shall not see; 
 
 But though his eyes are waxing dim, 
 
 And though his foes speak ill of him, 
 
 He was a friend to me. 
 
 Old Year, you shall not die ! 
 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 
 I've half a mind to die with you, 
 
 Old Year, if you must die!" 
 
 Yes, we've all "half a mind to die with you, Old Year, if 
 you must die," for we know you have got our dear friends 
 with you. Treat them gently, Old Year, for our sakes. 
 Keep them close to your bosom, away from the driving 
 snow and ice which the New Year will beat in our faces. 
 You have a spectral band along with you, Old Year; for 
 cherries will wither, and roses will fade, but you knew them 
 in their brightest days. So handle their ashes carefully. 
 
 The heart of Time is beating the knell of the Old Year. 
 Twelve chimes, and he will be no more. Shake him by 
 the hand. Send your love to the ashes of your friends — 
 Gone! 
 
 But the soul of the Old Year has transmigrated into the 
 New, and, by a metempsychosis of Memory, our dear de- 
 parted friends will still walk with us. J. C. H. 
 
 Midnight, December 31, 1865. 
 
 A VISION 
 
 BY JOEL C HARRIS 
 
 Methinks I see, cloud-capped, the tower of Fame, 
 
 Her glory banner flouting the dim air, 
 Inscribed upon its folds her empty name, 
 
 For that alone hath its existence there. 
 
1 66 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 And there I see pale-faced Ambition stand 
 With gleaming eye upon that mountain height, 
 
 Holding a quivering heart in either hand, 
 And gloating on them with a fierce delight. 
 
 Gnashing with rage his foaming, famished teeth, 
 Close by, I hear the bloodhound Hunger's bay, 
 
 While the deep bosom of the vale beneath 
 Kennels his howlings as they die away. 
 
 Not far away Disaster writhes and groans 
 
 While fiercely clutching at the throats of men; 
 
 She seizes one, and now his dismal moans 
 Rise for a moment, then subside again. 
 
 Here Avarice presses to his palsied breast 
 The orphan's gold, the widow's souvenir, 
 
 And mutters in his sleep with dark unrest, 
 As if the fiends were in his heart astir. 
 
 I see the lofty, gaudy plumes of Pride 
 Waving above a bosom white as snow — 
 
 Surf-beaten rock, where Feeling wrecked and died, 
 Leaving but hollo wness of heart below. 
 
 I see the pearls of Riches flashing by; 
 
 Her rustling silks and trailing robes I hear — 
 Her rustling silks the echoes of a sigh, 
 
 Her glistening pearls fit emblems of a tear. 
 
 Fair Beauty blooms like the first flower of morn, 
 And from her eye shines forth a gentle trust; 
 
 But Slander points at her the hand of Scorn, 
 And Beauty droops and fades away to dust. 
 
 Here Sorrow sits and hums a solemn tune, 
 Gazing on all things with a vacant stare, 
 
 Moaning beneath the pale-faced, weeping moon, 
 With her black mantle floating in the air. 
 
 Here gaunt Despair, the child of Sorrow, sits 
 And makes loud wailings in the ear of night ; 
 
 And here Revenge with ceaseless movement flits, 
 But never takes a grand nor lofty flight. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 167 
 
 Here base Ingratitude flies through the air 
 And holds on high her fiery, treacherous dart, 
 
 Ready to strike some, however fair, 
 
 And on its point impale some human heart. 
 
 Remorse is walking in the fading light ; 
 
 Her scowling cries are echoing far and wide; 
 She clasps some mortal to her breast to-night 
 
 Whose frightened screams roll down the mountain side. 
 
 I see red War binding upon his brow 
 
 The reeking laurel and the gory bay ; 
 The widow and the orphan meekly bow 
 
 Before his frown and wildly weep and pray. 
 
 Behind red War grim Desolation stands 
 
 Amid the ruins of a thousand years, 
 And, waving in the air his magic hands, 
 
 The crumbling home of man quick disappears. 
 
 Thus each and all their horrid orgies hold 
 
 And shriek and curse and vent their vengeful spleen, 
 
 Till one more pure, the boldest of the bold, 
 Stalks in among them with a fearless mien. 
 
 Above them all brave Virtue boldly rears 
 Her throne and gazes on the frightful scene ; 
 
 And now each demon swiftly disappears 
 Before the glances of her eye serene. 
 
 Turnwold, Georgia. 
 
 POE AND GRISWOLD 
 
 One of the most miserably gotten-up affairs, perhaps, that 
 ever intruded itself upon the reading public of America was 
 Griswold's biography of Edgar Allan Poe, affixed to the 
 works of that lamented genius. Leaving altogether out of 
 view the heartless malignity and maliciousness which it 
 contains, there is enough of nonsensical mediocrity, patron- 
 izing inferiority, and ridiculous envy to damn it forever in 
 the mind of any reader of taste. Griswold does not enter 
 at all into the humor of Poe, nor does he appreciate the 
 
i68 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 idiosyncrasies of that author's diction. For instance, when 
 Poe defies the literary clique of Boston and then, as if to 
 appease and ridicule them at the same time, tells them he 
 was born in their town, Griswold, with a grave sagacity 
 truly laughable, sagely informs us that Poe could not have 
 been in his right mind when he stated Boston was the place 
 of his nativity; for, persists Griswold, he was born in Bal- 
 timore ! And, to crown the absurdity of the whole affair, 
 the consistent Puritan divine, after holding before the eye 
 of the public and greatly aggravating every little misde- 
 meanor of Poe — after doing all this, the Rev. Rufus W. 
 Griswold cries in the overflowing benevolence of his heart: 
 "De mortuis nil nisi bonum!" It is plain that Griswold was 
 — just what one might expect from the company he kept. 
 
 It is to be regretted that we are indebted alone to a crea- 
 ture of romance for the description of Poe's temper and 
 habits as given by Griswold. In his life of Poe he says, 
 "He was in many respects like Francis Vivian in Bulwer's 
 novel of 'The Caxtons,' " and gives us the description of 
 Bulwer's creation of romance without using quotation 
 marks or in any manner only the most doubtful letting us 
 know that he is copying from Bulwer word for word. 
 
 Again, to show his critical ability and to parade before 
 the reader his analytical astuteness, he says, speaking of the 
 author of "The Raven": "He was not remarkably original 
 in invention." This is of a piece with Griswold's whole 
 production and similar to his criticisms upon several of the 
 prose writers of America, where he mentions an author 
 altogether mediocre, "whose style," he says, "if not possess- 
 ing the simplicity and smoothness of Goldsmith, at least is 
 more vigorous and terse than that of Addison." 
 
 Upon the whole, it is to be regretted that the writing of 
 Poe's biography fell into the hands of Griswold ; and I hope 
 even yet that we may have an edition of the works of that 
 great genius honorable alike to his memory and to us as an 
 honest people. J. C. H. 
 
II 
 
 Harris's First Short Stories, Literary Criticisms, Etc., 
 as Published in the Atlanta Constitution 
 
 FROM a careful search through the files of the 
 Atlanta Constitution from 1876 to 1881, there are 
 listed below all of Mr. Harris's signed contributions 
 to the paper during that period, including some distinctive 
 editorials, literary reviews, etc., not signed, but generally 
 known to be his. Practically all these were published in the 
 Sunday issues, and it is safe to say that he did no other 
 writing at this time. In the reproductions that follow it is 
 especially interesting to trace the development of Mr. Har- 
 ris's talent for narrative writing. It will be seen how he 
 proceeded from fact to fiction. Characters, incidents, and 
 setting, with more or less camouflage, were taken from life, 
 generally as they had fallen under his observation in and 
 near his boyhood home in Putnam County, Georgia. No 
 attempt has been made to designate here any of his "heavy" 
 editorials; and the "Uncle Remus" matter, having been 
 fully discussed in Part I., is not included. 
 
 1876 
 
 October 26 : The "Round about in Georgia" column of 
 brief paragraphic news and comment began. Harris's first 
 negro sketch, "Jeems Robinson," appeared. 
 
 December 5: "A Remembrance," J. C. Harris. (First 
 signed contribution; see Part L, page 99.) 
 
 1877 
 
 January 14: "Juliette," J. C. Harris. (See Part I., page 
 109.) 
 
 (169) 
 
170 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 February 14: "An Electoral Ballad," J. C. Harris. (Six 
 stanzas.) 
 
 February 15 : "A Legislative Idyl," J. C. Harris. (Eight 
 stanzas.) 
 
 March 4: "An Atlanta Poet." (Review.) 
 March 18: "Love in Idleness." (Review.) "A Country 
 Newspaper." (Editorial narrative.) 
 
 April 1 : "Seward's Georgia Sweetheart." (Editorial 
 narrative.) 
 
 April 15: "Sassafras in Season." (Editorial.) 
 April 22: "The May Magazines." (Review.) 
 May 6 : "A Summer Mood." (Editorial.) "A Guzzled 
 Guest," J. C. H. (Narrative.) 
 
 May 13 : "On Wings of Wind," J. C. H. (Narrative.) 
 May 20 : "Tale of Two Tramps," J. C. H. (Narrative.) 
 May 27: "Proemial to Putnam," J. C. H. (Narrative.) 
 "Cornfield Peas." (Editorial.) 
 June 3 : "One Man's History," J. C. H. (Narrative.) 
 June 10: "A Romantic Rascal," J. C. H. (Narrative.) 
 October 14: "Uncle Remus as a Rebel," J. C. H. (Nar- 
 rative.) 
 
 October 28 : "An Autumn Mood." (Editorial.) 
 November 25: "A Country Church." (Editorial.) 
 December 9 : "The Old Plantation." (Editorial.) 
 December 16: "A Georgia Fox Hunt," J. C. H. (Narra- 
 tive. ) 
 
 1878 
 
 January 1 : "The Old Year and the New," J. C. Harris. 
 (See page 164.) 
 
 April 16-September 10: "The Romance of Rockville," by 
 Joel Chandler Harris." (Serial story in the Weekly Con- 
 stitution. ) 
 
 August 3 : Political correspondence from Gainesville, 
 Georgia, signed J. C. H. and H. 
 
 September 14-17: Political correspondence from Barnes- 
 ville, Georgia, J. C. H. 
 
 1879 
 March 22: "The Art of Murder." (Editorial.) 
 September 28 : "Georgia Crackers : Types and Shadows." 
 (Editorial.) 
 
Early Literary Efforts 171 
 
 October 5 : "The Puritan and the Cracker." (Editorial.) 
 
 November 23: "My Sorrow's Sign (Vilanelle)," J. C. 
 Harris. (Six stanzas.) 
 
 November 30: "A Ballad of Youth," J. C. Harris. 
 (Twenty-eight lines.) "Literature in the South." (Edi- 
 torial; see Part I., page 147.) 
 
 December 7 : "A Word to the Wise," J. C. Harris. (Nine 
 stanzas.) 
 
 December 25 : "Christmas Time." (Editorial.) 
 
 1880 
 
 January 25 : "Provincialism in Literature : A Defense of 
 
 Boston." (Editorial; see Part I., page 148.) 
 March 4: "A Pair of Books." (Editorial.) 
 March 28: "Hopkins's Heifers." (Narrative.) 
 June 20-24: Political correspondence from Cincinnati, 
 
 Uncle Remus and J. C. H. 
 
 1881 
 
 January 26 : Magazine reviews. 
 
 February 20: "As to Southern Literature." (Editorial.) 
 
 June 29: "The Georgians." (Editorial review.) 
 
 CHARACTERISTIC SUNDAY EDITORIALS 
 
 SASSAFRAS IN SEASON 
 
 After all, think it over as you may, the seasons of the 
 year are mere sentiments; and sentiment, the sterner logi- 
 cians say, is a mere delusion. And yet spring, whether it 
 be a season or a sentiment, is no delusion. When a prac- 
 tical jay bird erects his efficient topknot and gives it out to 
 his neighbors in tones loud and shrill enough to be emphatic 
 and portentous that spring has come to stay, fidicious house- 
 wives, regarding with some solicitude the health of their 
 various families, will begin to watch for the vendors of the 
 sassafras. This has come to be so much the custom with 
 those who dwell in these higher latitudes of health and re- 
 pose that, in the absence of either jay bird or sassafras 
 root, summer would be upon us ere we knew that spring 
 had fairly begun. Sassafras is one of the accessories of 
 
172 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the season — nay, it is one of the necessities. Only the pun- 
 gent and fragrant odor of the root could make the delusion 
 complete. Let the winds that March hath left behind howl 
 as they may. Let the rains of December beat upon the bare 
 head of April. It is all one until sassafras tea is ordered by 
 the head of the household as a part of the daily regimen. 
 According to a superstition well grounded — and, we may 
 say, well founded — the strict and continuous use of sassa- 
 fras tea is calculated to cool the blood and prevent that ac- 
 cumulation of boils which seems to be among the results of 
 the quickening season which with impartial dispensation 
 produces alike the modest violet and the gaudy carbuncle. 
 As for us, give us sassafras tea. There is nothing in the 
 season more fragrant or more stimulating. It is well 
 enough for those who have leisure forever standing at their 
 elbows and smiling an invitation to wander in the pomp 
 and pride of lonely circumstance among the majestic woods, 
 inhaling the piquant flavor of the honeysuckle, enjoying the 
 resinous balm that the tall pines dispense with every sigh, 
 and envying the suppleness of the ground squirrel — a sup- 
 pleness, gentle reader, that seems to know no superannua- 
 tion — it is well enough, we say, for those who are addicted 
 to these things to prate about the beauties of nature; but 
 when all these can be found concentrated in one single cup 
 of the beverage known as sassafras tea and can be enjoyed 
 in a dozen ravenous gulps, how unnecessary it is for one 
 to trust himself among the spiders and the red bugs, which, 
 unmindful of the year, the season, or the day, stand ever 
 ready, when the sun is out, to fall upon man with teeth 
 and toenail ! 
 
 Thus it happens that the odor of sassafras is one of the 
 truest harbingers of spring. Sentiment — ah ! thou knowest 
 it well, romantic young vagabond ! — whether of time, place, 
 or season, is closely allied to the sense of smell, else where- 
 fore doth even a mention of the shrub known as life ever- 
 lasting bring back to thee vague memories of the serene and 
 stately old lady who, mysteriously enough to thy remem- 
 brance, called herself thy grandmother? Confess it now or 
 go thy way. Did she not, ere thy childishness had outgrown 
 its inquisitiveness, send thee forth upon many a despondent 
 tour to gather life everlasting, the which she carefully scat- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 173 
 
 tered through the capacious trunks, the contents of which 
 for years and years afterwards were a subject of consider- 
 ably more interest than the contents of the cavern into 
 which the lamp-cleaning propensities of Aladdin precipitat- 
 ed him? Deny it not. It is known of all men and is fresh 
 in the experience of those who, somewhat foolishly, treasure 
 up these things as precious memories. 
 
 As to the sassafras, it would be well to remember that it 
 is not good to brew it into a beverage when, as now, the 
 season is as cold as the tips of a barber's fingers. Wait 
 until the poplar leaves have grown as large as squirrels' 
 ears; wait until the barley gets knee-high to the awkward 
 goslings; wait, in short, until our barometrical jay bird 
 poises himself on one leg and bawls forth to the world that 
 the sap of spring has begun to permeate and quicken the 
 dry bones of autumn. 
 
 A SUMMER MOOD 
 
 Happily, we can trust easily to appearances in this genial 
 clime, where the bluebird whistles no unseasonable note, 
 where the sparrow knows where to build her little nest of 
 wool and hay and moss and how to lay the little twigs 
 across, and where the red bird, dressed in his scarlet suit, 
 knows precisely when to flit through the green leaves of 
 the trees like an animated fireball. We read of snows in 
 Quebec and on the plains and of perpetual ice at the antip- 
 odes; but what are they to us? Are we not provided 
 against inclemency ? Spring is most effectual and eloquent- 
 ly symbolized in the prevailing fashions. A fair young 
 girl trips laughingly by in a white dress trimmed with 
 flowers; a precocious youth prances along with a rose in 
 his buttonhole, a tempting bait for the girls to nibble at; 
 and, lo! spring is upon us, a season at once delusive and 
 delightful, impalpable and yet precious. And yet, when 
 spring melts into summer, what compliments shall we 
 frame to the memory of the poor, frayed damsel who 
 amused our youth? How can we forego the delights of 
 one season long enough to remember the beauties of an- 
 other? Ask us not, when summer takes the year to her 
 amorous bosom, to deplore the fatality which hurries the 
 
174 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 sun to the meridian of the season. After all, spring has 
 nothing but promises. What if the bud should fail to blos- 
 som? What if the flower should fail to fruit? Ah! but 
 you say the summer days are long and languishing. Only 
 to a few, gentlest of gentle readers — only to a few. Those 
 who are stricken with melancholia or dyspepsia or ennui 
 may, perhaps, wish themselves well over the weather; but 
 the lusty ones who enjoy themselves, who take deep de- 
 light in whatsoever bounties that nature (the bountifulest 
 of all mothers) furnishes them, welcome the approach of 
 summer and partake of her moods and all the phases of 
 her moods with an enjoyment beyond expression. Let the 
 sun beat down upon the housetops and the pavements never 
 so fiercely. Let the mercury climb never so high. They 
 have only to betake themselves to the breezy and balm- 
 bearing woods to be rid of the heat and the dust and the 
 desperation that appertain to the city. A Partaga of 
 orthodox brand and a substantially bound copy of Sir 
 Thomas Browne's quaint and curious essays are enough to 
 banish all thoughts of the summer solstice. If you know 
 not Sir Thomas, gentle reader, we pray you to hasten to 
 make his acquaintance. He is more original and more cap- 
 tivating in his quaintness than Shakespeare. The latter, it 
 is true, wrote for all time and for the millions; but Sir 
 Thomas, more particular and more patient, wrote for all 
 time and for the few. Cultivate him ere the summer over- 
 takes you, otherwise you may have occasion to deplore the 
 languor of the summer that is just ahead. It will be a 
 season for contemplation; and all contemplation tends to- 
 ward the time when, to use the words of Sir Thomas, "the 
 iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy." Let the 
 season have her sway. Let the days be long and languish- 
 ing. Whatsoever is to be, let it be ; but give not your time 
 to ignoble perspiration and useless repinings. Trust us for 
 this and fall into our summer mood. 
 
 CORNFIELD PEAS 
 
 It may be that we speak too late, but that instinct which 
 has thrilled epicureans since daintiness of taste was ac- 
 quired prompts us to suggest to the gentle husbandmen of 
 
Early Literary Efforts 175 
 
 Georgia that they be unusually lavish this season in sowing 
 peas — not that delicate variety known as the lady pea, but 
 that lustier and hardier species known far and wide as the 
 cornfield pea. We have no advice to offer as to how they 
 shall be planted — in fact, we are utterly ignorant as to the 
 process. Moreover, even if we did know ever so much 
 about it, it would ill become us as fair-minded men to usurp 
 the functions of our agricultural editor, who is no doubt 
 prepared at any moment to write an essay upon the proper 
 mode of scattering these attractive seeds broadcast over the 
 land. We merely insist that they shall be planted, and 
 planted circumspectly. 
 
 If we have any weakness at all — which heaven forbid! — 
 it is a love for cornfield peas. Worldly-wise proprietors of 
 caravansaries may ignore these savory and delicious glob- 
 ules in their bills of fare, and purveyors of dinners may 
 scorn to give them a place in their menus, but nothing that 
 the art of cookery has ever invented can at all approach in 
 delicacy and deliciousness a mess of cornfield peas. We 
 speak advisedly. In addition to this, they are suggestive. 
 One whiff of the steam that arises from the pot (they must 
 be boiled in an old-fashioned washpot and not in one of 
 these newfangled tin boilers) sets memory adrift, and, 
 borne upon the pungent aroma, she goes back to the days 
 of the old plantation, those wonderful days when pleasure 
 waited upon anticipation and when peace held the land 
 under the shadow of her white wings. It was in those days 
 that the cornfield pea won upon our affections, twining, as 
 it were, the gentle tendrils of its luxuriant vine around our 
 appetites. 
 
 There are few people nowadays, unhappily, who know 
 how to prepare this savory vegetable for the table. The 
 recipe is simple. First, be certain that you have peas 
 enough. This is quite important, because, when once your 
 guests have sniffed the odor of the dish and caught the 
 flavor upon their palates, they will rise up as one man — or 
 several women, as the case may be — and unanimously call 
 for more. We will take it for granted, however, that you 
 have peas enough. The next thing is to cook. For this you 
 want a brisk fire, an iron pot (these tin boilers are an abomi- 
 nation), a generous slice of bacon streaked with lean and 
 
176 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 fat, three or four pods of red pepper, and a judicious per- 
 son to superintend the whole business. They are sufficient- 
 ly cooked when one, placed between the thumb and fore- 
 finger, will melt away at the bare suggestion of pressure. 
 They are to be seasoned according to taste and served 
 smoking hot with substantial pones of corn bread and fresh 
 buttermilk. Some there are who affect a preference for 
 the white variety of this most delightful vegetable; but, 
 for our part, we will take the speckled pea. We fancy they 
 are more substantial and pungent, but it may all be fancy. 
 We are not going to quarrel over the variety. Give us the 
 cornfield peas, and we will be satisfied. Cook them as they 
 should be cooked, season them as they should be seasoned, 
 and, our word for it, no person of refined taste will refuse 
 to nibble at them. If they should refuse, then, Oh, shade of 
 Epicurus, smite them with thy pewter spoon ! Deaden their 
 palates and banish them to some sterile land where cornfield 
 peas neither bud nor blossom nor fruit. 
 
 A COUNTRY CHURCH 
 
 Somewhere in this broad land, gentle reader, away from 
 the dust and smoke of the cities, away from the turbulence 
 of trade and traffic, is a little church that is far dearer to 
 your heart than the costly and brilliantly appointed edifice 
 in which you worship your Maker, a little church that 
 serves as a memorial of your past. It is useless to deny it. 
 We know the church. It is deeply embowered in the woods, 
 a sanctuary within a sanctuary. Upon one side a breezy 
 land leads to the door; upon the other side a white, sandy 
 road glistens through the trees. It is not an imposing edi- 
 fice, this rude little temple. The roof is gray with age, and 
 the rains and storms have left the somber impress of their 
 varying visits upon shingle and sill and lintel. The rough 
 window shutters hang ungracefully upon their storm-twisted 
 and rust-eaten hinges. The benches are hard and uncom- 
 fortable. And here and there some youth, more thoughtless 
 than irreverent, has satisfied an instinct, which moves much 
 wiser folk, by a preposterously rude attempt to carve his 
 initials in the yield pine; or, mayhap, prematurely smitten 
 by the subtle flame which sooner or later touches all hearts, 
 he has wrought in bungling fashion a monogram wherein 
 
Early Literary Efforts 177 
 
 appear the talisman signs of some coy maiden's name. The 
 pulpit has a cold and cheerless appearance to your metro- 
 politan eye. Its Puritan plainness is unrelieved by mold- 
 ings or hangings or cushions or tassels. No chandelier 
 swings from the rafters, but in lieu thereof long lines of 
 sunlight stream downward from crevices in the roof. There 
 is no carpet on the floor, and the walls are stained by age. 
 Sitting in your old seat where you sat so many years ago, 
 and realizing the rudeness and the discomfort of everything 
 you see, you fall to wondering at the impulse that brought 
 you hither. It is dull — it is more than dull ; it is tiresome. 
 It would have been better — 
 
 But the preacher has arisen in his place. He is an old 
 man. He has held you on his knee in that past which you 
 have almost forgotten. You know that he is an earnest 
 man ; you know that he is a good man. You know that he 
 serves the little flock around him without money and with- 
 out price, and you know that his hands are hard from toil. 
 He reads his text with the same laborious care that you 
 know so well, and your trained ear invites you to smile at 
 some of the peculiarities of accent which it is quick to de- 
 tect. You do not accept the invitation; and when the 
 preacher closes the book with the old gesture of impatience, 
 as though he were anxious to free himself as quickly as 
 possible from the barriers of print, you find yourself curious 
 to hear what he has to say — curious rather than anxious, 
 for since the days when you heard the old man's voice your 
 belief has drifted into devious and disastrous ways. You 
 have followed the scientists through their discoveries and 
 deductions and fallen into the pessimist pitfalls laid for 
 your reason by the philosophers. You have read Tyndall 
 and Darwin and Huxley, to say nothing of the vast herd of 
 commentators who follow in their train. 
 
 And yet, almost before the old man has announced his 
 thesis, your fine theories of philosophy and your scholarly 
 reasoning with respect to the connection of mental and 
 physical phenomena are all forgotten. You remember 
 nothing save the preacher and his sermon. A boyish trick 
 of the mind repeats itself, and you imagine he is addressing 
 himself particularly to you. How plain his words, and yet 
 how forcible! How simple his illustrations, and yet how 
 12 
 
178 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 vivid! How rude and rugged his style, and yet how apt 
 and eloquent ! How clear his explanations ! How impres- 
 sive his earnestness ! How deftly he shapes his logic, and 
 how vigorously he presses home his conclusions ! It is al- 
 most like a new revelation to you. Here is a man without 
 culture and almost without education who has forged logic 
 that has crushed your theories like a trip hammer — a grand- 
 ly gray old optimist who in a few unstudied sentences has 
 swept away all your well-seasoned and oft-tested props of 
 philosophy. The fire of utter belief that burns and glows 
 in his soul has made itself felt upon the cold fibers of the 
 doubt that fits you as a garment. You cannot gainsay the 
 fervor of his faith, the beautiful simplicity of his creed, or 
 the sweet reality of his religion. You know what his reply 
 would be to your methods of reasoning, and almost invol- 
 untarily you reply for him, carrying on silently a curious 
 argument : "Sir, I do not understand your philosophy, and 
 therefore I will not try to combat it. I am an old man and 
 an ignorant man. It is not given me to understand the 
 intellectual mysteries of your reasoning. If it gives you 
 comfort, that is enough. My belief is a part of myself. If 
 I am wrong, nevertheless I shall have enjoyed much happi- 
 ness in my error, which, after all, is a harmless one. If I 
 am right, with what ecstasy shall I turn and thank Death, 
 in whatever shape he may appear, for breaking down the 
 barriers of heaven!" But even in framing this reply for 
 the preacher you smile to think how consciously you have 
 avoided the hearty strength and emphasis which are his 
 characteristics. 
 
 But the sermon is over and the prayer, and then comes 
 the grandly sonorous anthem of dismission. All sense of 
 discomfort caused by the prim plainness of the building and 
 its surroundings has vanished. Your lost youth rises and 
 stands before you. A woman's voice, strong and sweet and 
 clear, rises above the others and lifts itself to the roof on 
 waves of purest melody. It is as if some one had laid a 
 fair garland of the past at your feet. You remember an- 
 other voice whose marvelous sweetness has long been lost 
 to this old building and this little congregation. You re- 
 member a ride one Sabbath morning years ago through the 
 long lane that stretches smilingly to the west. You remem- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 179 
 
 ber the timid words of a fair young girl who rode by your 
 side. You remember how in your boyish fancy the elder 
 bushes with their milk-white crowns of blossoms nodded 
 to you on either hand as though they shared your secret and 
 your triumph. And then the congregation sweeps by you, 
 the little church fades from view, and you are once more a 
 pessimist with unscrupulous worldly tendencies. 
 
 Gentle readers — thrice gentle must you be, indeed, to 
 have followed us thus far — believe us, that which hath not 
 opportunity to happen is often dreamt of, and slumbers that 
 precipitate the airy riots of the mind have no need to sue 
 the law for pardon. 
 
 GEORGIA CRACKERS: TYPES AND SHADOWS 
 
 Correspondents of Northern newspapers, wandering aim- 
 lessly through the South in search of political material, for- 
 get their mission when they reach Atlanta. The town and 
 its people are revelations to them. They seem to have sud- 
 denly entered a new world, and they pause to reflect over 
 their discovery and to unravel the mystery. They find At- 
 lanta a problem, and they straightway proceed to search 
 for the solution. After a reasonable time they retire to the 
 writing desks, kindly furnished by the obliging hotel men, 
 and inform their expectant journals that in the heart of the 
 South they have found a Northern town. They allude to 
 it as a sign that business is bridging the bloody chasm and 
 make much ado over the Northern energy and enterprise 
 that have sought the place since the war and redeemed it 
 from the dullness and death that have stood guard over 
 nearly every other Southern city. This appears to be such 
 a happy solution of the problem that the thrift, enterprise, 
 energy, and growth of Atlanta are no longer regarded as 
 phenomena to be seriously and philosophically studied. The 
 solution is not only happy, in so far as it relieves the corre- 
 spondents of their perplexities, but it is handy for our neigh- 
 bors who do not care to be perplexed about anything. And 
 so the general impression is that Atlanta is the product of 
 Northern genius and enterprise, that her growth is the result 
 of Northern energy, and that the city is what it is to-day by 
 reason of Yankee pluck and capital. It seems to be general- 
 
180 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ly accepted, moreover, that the absence of narrow political 
 prejudices from our business and social life is due to the 
 same influences. 
 
 But these matters, so suggestive of reflection, will bear 
 discussion. Did it ever occur even to our own people that 
 the growth and material progress of Atlanta since the war 
 are something more than astonishing; that, wholly apart 
 from any independent or any sectional element or local 
 comparison, they are among the most striking phenomena of 
 the period? Show us the city, either North or South, East 
 or West, that has relatively kept pace with Atlanta. Take 
 the city as it stood in 1865, destroyed and well-nigh desert- 
 ed, and compare it with the Atlanta of to-day. Take the 
 city as it stood in 1870 and compare it with the Atlanta of 
 1879. Not a town or city in the country, so far as our 
 knowledge and observation extend, has kept pace with us. 
 Such progress as we have made would be accounted phe- 
 nomenal in any section of the country. It is not at all sur- 
 prising, therefore, that Northern correspondents should be 
 eager to attribute such results to the spirit and impulses of 
 their own civilization, or that our neighbors, who ought to 
 be better influenced, should, in order to gratify the com- 
 plaining ghost of a prejudice that the people of Georgia 
 have long since buried, point to Atlanta as a city that owes 
 everything to Northern energy and capital. In point of 
 fact, to take an instance at random, there are ten Northern 
 men in Atlanta, and the proportion holds good as to the 
 capital invested; though, if we mistake not, Savannah has 
 more than once pointed her aristocratically scornful finger 
 in this direction and sneered about Northern people. 
 
 The point we desire to make, however, is that, in spite of 
 all that is said, Atlanta remains a typical Georgia city. She 
 is this above and beyond everything. The people who 
 founded her, the people who have made her what she is, 
 who have contributed the basis of her growth, energy, and 
 prosperity, are Georgia crackers. They plowed heifers. 
 They used the hoe, the pick, and the spade. They wore 
 wool hats and walked barefoot through the keen frosts and 
 over the chestnut burrs. They worked among the moun- 
 tains of North Georgia and toiled on the red hills of Middle 
 Georgia. They buttered their property with hope and laid 
 
Early Literary Efforts 181 
 
 the foundation of their fortunes in the rugged lands around 
 us and through it all faced the future with sturdy and un- 
 tiring industry. The Atlanta of to-day is the result of the 
 brains and energy of Georgia crackers, whose unique sim- 
 plicity of character has run steadily to thrift and prosperity, 
 whose quaint and homely methods have caught a cosmopoli- 
 tan flavor, whose inquisitive shrewdness has flowered into 
 an insatiable thirst for enterprise. In other words, Major 
 Joseph Jones, of Pineville, settling in a favorable point in 
 his native State, has there surrounded himself with a city. 
 He has grown comfortable, and his children and grand- 
 children have become model men and women. Thus it is 
 that the business and social elements of Atlanta show the 
 Georgia cracker at his best and highest development. 
 
 It is this development which deceives the superficial ob- 
 server into classing Atlanta as a city where Northern men 
 and Northern influences control everything; and this view 
 is helped along by the further fact that the intensely typical 
 character of Atlanta is not only Georgian, but national. 
 Did any of our readers of a thoughtful turn ever take the 
 trouble to discover the remarkable points of resemblance 
 between the typical down-easter and the typical Georgia 
 cracker? If not, it is a matter which may well engage their 
 serious attention. Does our friend Colonel Thompson, of 
 Savannah, believe that Major Joseph Jones, of Pineville, a 
 character study unsurpassed in our own literature, is popu- 
 lar merely because a Georgia cracker is aptly painted? 
 Nonsense! Not one edition of the book would have been 
 sold. The character is not only typically Georgian, but typ- 
 ically national; and for this reason the book has passed 
 through manifold editions, and the demand is not yet sup- 
 plied. Major Jones is Brother Jonathan thinly disguised 
 in a suit of Georgia linsey-woolsey. We might compare the 
 Major with Sam Slick; but we prefer to stand him up 
 alongside of Hosea Bigelow, a serious literary study of the 
 typical Yankee. Examine them critically, and the parallel 
 is complete. Bring Hosea Bigelow to Georgia, turn him 
 loose in a pine thicket, show him a bunch of dogwood blos- 
 soms, make him acquainted with the joree and the jay, give 
 him a suit of jeans (which he would probably bring in his 
 carpetsack), and then you have your Major Joseph Jones, 
 
182 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 of Pineville, who is "yours till deth." Take the Major to 
 New England, let him tamper with the climate and learn 
 how to save his tobacco instead of giving it away, and there 
 is your Hosea Bigelow. Being typical, they are national; 
 being national, they are well-nigh identical. In thought, 
 feeling, and expression they are nearly the same; and the 
 quaint homeliness, pathetically identical in both, is, in the 
 present unhappy state of affairs, absolutely distressing to 
 those who look above and beyond the partisan strife of the 
 hour. Both Thompson and Lowell were building better 
 than they knew — the one showing a shrewd, observing Yan- 
 kee who courted and married Miss Mary Stallings in Pine- 
 ville, and the other introducing to us a ready-witted, simple- 
 mannered Georgia cracker in New England. The parallel 
 is apt to be confusing; and in the midst of the confusion 
 we desire to repeat that Colonel Thompson's Pineville Yan- 
 kee, and not Lowell's Georgia cracker from New England, 
 has built Atlanta and given her progress wings. Naturally 
 enough, the Major Joseph Joneses and their relations have 
 opened their doors to the Georgia crackers from Maine and 
 Massachusetts ; and the result has been so fruitful that they 
 want more to come with their money, their pluck, and their 
 talent. Nevertheless, it will not do, in the face of facts, to 
 deny that the Pinevillians and their progeny are responsible 
 for Atlanta — her past, her present, and her future. Major 
 Jones, proverbially genial, has become hospitable quite on 
 the European plan in consequence of his commercial con- 
 nection ; and as in his business he knows neither North nor 
 South, nor considers where the sectional line is drawn, he 
 doesn't feel alarmed when his next-door neighbors allude 
 to him as a Northern man and is only ashamed that the 
 allusion should be accompanied by a sneer which may be 
 misinterpreted and misapplied by the sensitive Mr. Bigelow. 
 At the same time the Major is not too modest to have it 
 known that he is the author of as smart a town as Atlanta. 
 
 THE PURITAN AND THE CRACKER 
 
 In endeavoring last Sunday to do tardy justice to the 
 achievements of the Georgia cracker to be seen in the 
 growth, thrift, enterprise, and prosperity of Atlanta we 
 
Early Literary Efforts 1&3 
 
 made casual allusion to the remarkable similarity existing 
 between the type of genuine Georgia cracker, as represent- 
 ed by Major Joseph Jones, of Pineville, and the type of 
 down-east Yankee, as represented by Hosea Bigelow. As 
 then pointed out, we might have drawn the comparison be- 
 tween Major Jones and Sam Slick, or between Major Jones 
 and Jack Downing. But Sam Slick is a caricature, and 
 Downing a mere lay figure. Both are inartistic, and neither 
 is representative. But Major Jones and Hosea Bigelow are 
 characters that will live because they are locally perfect and 
 typically national. Each represents a section, and each is 
 as identically American as the other. Their characters are 
 the same. Their identity is the more striking because of 
 the contrast between them. One is the hero of an episode 
 purely pastoral in its surroundings, and the other is a pro- 
 vincial politician of the most intense pattern. The humor 
 of both is unconscious, but there is a professional literary 
 twang to Bigelow that somewhat mars the effect of the 
 character. We are frequently aware of the fact that Hosea 
 is waiting for applause when he says something unusually 
 smart, and this is a defect. Major Jones, on the other hand, 
 retains his quaint simplicity to the last, and his perfect se- 
 riousness remains undisturbed. If he had paused at the 
 crossroads grocery to talk politics, perhaps he, like Hosea, 
 would have talked for effect. Certainly his remarks would 
 have been as shrewd and as homely and would have been 
 pitched in precisely the same key, from his point of view. 
 This contrast between the pastoral instincts of Major Jones 
 and the political pretensions of Hosea Bigelow, while it does 
 not disturb their resemblance to each other, is, nevertheless, 
 perplexing in another direction. The popular idea at the 
 North is that every Southern man is engaged in political 
 discussion, while every Yankee is shrewdly attending to his 
 private affairs. And yet here is Mr. Hosea Bigelow, the 
 typical Yankee, discoursing of politics continually; while 
 Major Joseph Jones, the typical Southern cracker, is en- 
 gaged in imparting confidentially to his friend, the country 
 editor, the installments of the only pastoral love story in 
 American literature. How utterly these things confuse us ! 
 But this is by no means the most startling of sectional con- 
 tradictions, as we shall presently see. 
 
184 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 There were two men made famous by the events of the 
 late war whose names will be familiar to the American peo- 
 ple for all time to come — so familiar, indeed, that it would 
 savor somewhat of ofhciousness for even the muse of his- 
 tory to go through the form of presenting them. The won- 
 derful possibilities of life and the mysterious opportunities 
 of death have already clothed them with the immortality of 
 romance and lifted them above and beyond the influence of 
 history. It is not fame that will preserve the names of 
 these two men, but some subtler result of the essence of 
 individuality, some occult quality of personal influence. We 
 allude to Stonewall Jackson and Abraham Lincoln. His- 
 tory will no doubt do ample justice to the other great names 
 of the war, but history need not pause to pay any tribute to 
 these two. Her records are not needed to preserve their 
 names or to tell their story. And yet observe how fate 
 plays cross purposes with our prejudices. Recall the men 
 and the time. The grim Puritan, flashing along the front 
 of war, fighting the battles of the South! The quaint Ken- 
 tucky cracker piloting the North to victory ! How farcical 
 these small prejudices that flare up and endeavor to burn 
 where there is nothing for their weak embers to feed upon ! 
 How unhappy the pretense of sectionalism that would build 
 barriers where none exist ! 
 
 Can we doubt that, as the Puritan rode up and down the 
 valley, smiting here and there through the wavering but 
 persistent lines of blue, the psalms that were sung in old 
 Salem when Satan seemed to encompass the Church rose 
 once and again to his lips ? Can we doubt that the pensive 
 Southern cracker, who confused people with his humor, and 
 whose homeliness was a perpetual surprise to men who 
 found themselves powerless to resist his will — can we doubt 
 that the pensive Southern cracker hummed "Dixie" to test his 
 thoughts ? It seems to us that sectionalism must stand con- 
 founded in the presence of the memory of these two men; 
 and it is a little singular, considering the fuss of the poli- 
 ticians, that the character of the Confederate Puritan should 
 be tenderly treated at the North, and that all the qualities 
 that gave Lincoln his success should be keenly appreciated 
 in the South. These things cannot be dwelt upon too fre- 
 quently or too freely. The politico-climatic line which is 
 
Early Literary Efforts 185 
 
 supposed to divide Americans does not exist except in the 
 imaginations of those who have an interest in the perpetu- 
 ation of sectional animosities and prejudices that grew and 
 should have died with slavery. There is neither hatred nor 
 prejudice between the people. They fought, and they were 
 very much in earnest about it. They ended the war when 
 the time came, and they were very much in earnest about 
 that. And the stalwart editors and politicians who are 
 engaged in abusing and misrepresenting the South do daily 
 violence to every instinct of patriotism and outrage every 
 impulse of true nationalism. But, after all, what pitiful 
 figures they cut! How ineffectual their fury! How boot- 
 less their paper victories ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS TIME 1 
 
 There would be no reason, were the times ever so dull, 
 why the Constitution should not turn aside from the hurly- 
 burly of ordinary newspaper discussion to wish its readers 
 and friends a merry Christmas. With the tide of prosperity 
 turning in this direction, and with all the prospects fair for 
 the future, Christmas promises to be merry enough, whether 
 or no we make formal expression of the wish. Neverthe- 
 less, it is a good old custom, hearty and friendly, and we 
 follow it, not formally, but gladly and cordially. To us 
 who are old enough to be filled with reverence and affection 
 for the past, such greetings savor somewhat of a blessing — 
 of such poor blessing as man can bestow upon his brother. 
 A merry Christmas ! Would that ours could be borne far 
 and wide upon the gentle winds to all the homes in the land ! 
 Would that it might hover over every hearthstone with all 
 the graciousness of a benediction! In the olden times, to 
 which we all fondly turn as the years lengthen out behind 
 us, it was the custom of the little children to pass from 
 house to house, singing the Christmas carols. Our children, 
 like ourselves, unhappily, have become far too practical for 
 that, and, except in the remote country settlements, their 
 sweet young voices are no longer lifted up in song. Let us 
 hope, nevertheless, that if the song is not upon their lips this 
 blessed day it is in their happy hearts. 
 
 1 Compare contribution to The Countryman, Part I., page 58. 
 
i86 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 A merry Christmas ! And yet it should be borne in mind 
 by those whom fortune hath favored that in many a home 
 only the wand of charity can conjure up even the ghost of 
 charity. There are homes in this prosperous land of ours, 
 homes here in the comfortable city of Atlanta, where Santa 
 Claus never distributes his gifts. Many little ones awake 
 this morning to find that the good St. Nicholas is not as 
 generous as he has been represented to be; and who shall 
 endeavor to explain to them why it is that he loves to lavish 
 his gifts upon the children of the rich and passes by the 
 children of the poor? 
 
 Once upon a time, more than a thousand years ago, 
 a star stood in the east one Christmas night; and the 
 wise men who saw it followed where it led until they 
 came upon a Babe in a manger, a little Child whose 
 mother was so poor that she was compelled to shelter her- 
 self in a stable; and yet this Child was the great Lord of 
 all, the blessed Saviour. There is still a legend in the East 
 which tells of how, when his birth night comes, he descends 
 from the glory of heaven and passes out over the earth, 
 from city to city and from house to house, bending over the 
 little ones as they sleep and giving them his benediction as 
 once he gave it in Galilee. Can this beautiful legend be no 
 more than the dream of some Oriental poet? Perhaps if 
 we who are comfortable contrive to bring the Christmas of 
 charity to some desolate childish heart to-day, perhaps if 
 we minister to the happiness of some lonely little one, the 
 gracious Presence whose movements are chronicled in the 
 Eastern legend will not forget to lean above us with a pre- 
 cious benediction when we grow tired even of the happiness 
 of life. 
 
 Well, well ! At least the boy with the tin horn is happy — 
 happier than the poor woman who carries a mackerel home 
 for dinner as the uttermost and most expensive luxiiry she 
 can afford to buy. And the little children on the streets are 
 happy. It is worth while to pause upon the crossings and 
 watch their pretty antics, their delightful unconscious ca- 
 pers. Here is life and innocence and mirth for you. The 
 birds that twitter in the springtime are not more blithe. The 
 breezes that whirl the dust and smoke away are not more 
 abandoned to freedom than they. A few more merry Christ- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 187 
 
 mases, and they will be standing in our places, watching 
 the procession of their own youngsters as it files gayly by, 
 blowing its tin horns, beating its small drums, waiving its 
 silken banners, and firing its toy cannon. Perhaps they will 
 not be able to extract quite as much happiness and mirth 
 from the Christmases to come as they do from the Christ- 
 mas that is here. But why not? Why should there not be 
 old boys and girls as well as young boys and girls? It is 
 false pride, we warn you! Nothing else! Simply and 
 solely false pride ! 
 
 For our part, we are free to confess that nothing but a 
 proper sense of decorum prevents us from flinging our hat 
 under a dray, snatching a tin horn from the hands of a 
 careless urchin, and blowing such a blast as was perhaps 
 never heard even by the most venerable policeman on the 
 Atlanta force. And it isn't our sense of decorum that pre- 
 vents it, either. It is other people's decorum we are afraid 
 of outraging. Bless you! there is no decorum in the Con- 
 stitution editorial rooms on such a day as this. The Politi- 
 cal Professor, 1 who is engineering the country through the 
 dangers of sectionalism and warning the ambitious Demo- 
 cratic financiers not to smash things by tampering with the 
 greenbacks, can caper as nimbly as the best of them; and 
 we believe, if one of our commencement orators were to 
 issue a challenge to that effect, that the Editorial Presence 1 
 itself would skip down from its antisciatic chair and make a 
 brief but fierce attack upon the joyous movement technical- 
 ly known as the pigeon wing. 2 These are among the rea- 
 sons, apart from a decent respect for editorial custom, why 
 the Constitution is so eager to see a merry Christmas dis- 
 tributed equally among old and young, rich and poor. It 
 would be a pity if those who have left childhood behind had 
 also lost the faculty of becoming a child again with the 
 children; and if there is ever a time when manhood and old 
 age can afford to renew their frolics, that time is to-day. 
 
 Intent upon some such mission as this, the busy hands 
 
 *Mr. Harris referred to Mr. Grady as the Political Professor and 
 to Mr. Evan P. Howell as the Editorial Presence. 
 
 2 See Mr. Stanton's statement as to Mr. Harris's dancing negro 
 shuffles, Part I. 
 
188 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 that are engaged in making the Constitution will have a 
 brief season of rest to-day. If they cannot renew their 
 youth, at least they can contribute somewhat to the general 
 fund of merriment afloat, and to do this they must have 
 leisure. In order, therefore, that mince pieces may be prop- 
 erly digested and the general hilarity be sustained by the 
 presence of the Constitution delegation, no paper will be 
 issued to-morrow. We cannot better inaugurate the day 
 than by wishing one and all a merry Christmas. 
 
 LITERARY CRITICISMS, ETC. 
 AN ATLANTA POET 1 
 
 It always affords us peculiar pleasure to chronicle the 
 appearance of a Southerner among the guild of authors, and 
 in the present instance the pleasure is heightened by the fact 
 that the author is a citizen of Atlanta. Under the modest 
 and not inappropriate title of "Wild Flowers," the Author's 
 Publishing Co., of New York, has envolumed the fugitive 
 poetry of Mr. Charles W. Hubner, embalming it neatly, 
 conveniently, and attractively. Mr. Hubner has long been 
 known as an occasional contributor of verses to the period- 
 ical literature of the day; and the popularity of these con- 
 tributions has been the means of giving him considerable 
 reputation, not only in the South, but throughout the coun- 
 try, albeit, owing to an oversight more singular than credi- 
 ble, his name does not appear among Davidson's sketches of 
 "Living Writers of the South." 
 
 We have carefully examined Mr. Hubner's pretty little 
 volume of poems, and we can most heartily commend it to 
 those who delight to dally with the muse in her soberer and 
 quieter moods. The modern school of minor poets, with 
 Algernon Swinburne and Gabriel Rossetti at their head, 
 seems to have had absolutely no influence whatever over 
 Mr. Hubner. His poetry is altogether reflective. There is 
 not even the suspicion of sensuousness about it. All is 
 chaste, pure, and refined. He takes the hints that nature so 
 lavishly bestows upon her lovers and attunes them to song, 
 
 1 Major Charles W. Hubner, now associated with the Carnegie 
 Library, Atlanta, continues to write short poems. He recalls Mr. 
 Harris's sending him a marked copy of this review. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 189 
 
 and the notes are none the less sweet and tender because 
 they are set to a minor key. Comparing Mr. Hubner to 
 other Southern poets who have become famous as builders 
 of verse, we may say that, while his philosophy is less ab- 
 sorbing and elaborate than that of Requier, while he lacks 
 the fiery pungency of Randall, while he does not possess 
 the power of nervous condensation 1 so apparent in the poetry 
 of Harry Flash or the wonderful concentration and indus- 
 try of Paul Hayne, there is, nevertheless, in a majority of 
 the lyrics in the little volume before us an element of fresh- 
 ness and simplicity that is characteristic of none of the 
 writers named. Mr. Hubner's verse is strengthened by the 
 faith and earnestness that find expression therein. His 
 methods are legitimate and artistic and invariably have for 
 their object the exaltation of the beautiful, the good, and 
 the true. 
 
 We have not the space to review Mr. Hubner's little vol- 
 ume as it deserves to be reviewed; and we are, therefore, 
 compelled to content ourselves with a critical summary 
 which must, in the very nature of things, be vague and un- 
 satisfactory. 
 
 The initial pages of the little volume are taken up with a 
 drama in three acts entitled "The Maid of San Domingo," 
 which, we suspect, is one of Mr. Hubner's earliest produc- 
 tions. As a drama simply, it is a failure ; but as a poem in 
 dramatic form it is vigorous, energetic, and well sustained. 
 It is as a writer of lyrics, however, that Mr. Hubner is at 
 his best. His contributions to this form of poetry are con- 
 spicuous for their grace, tenderness, and felicity of style 
 and versification, and in many instances they have the com- 
 pleteness of sonnets without their coldness. A fair speci- 
 men of his work in this direction is his poem entitled 
 
 To a Mocking Bird 
 
 "Sweet bird ! that from yon dancing spray 
 Dost warble forth thy varied lay, 
 From early morn to close of day 
 Melodious changes singing. 
 
 ] See Mr. Turner's note to Harris, Part I., page 
 
 49- 
 
190 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Sure thine must be the magic art 
 That bids my drowsy fancy start, 
 While from the furrows of my heart 
 Hope's fairy flowers are springing. 
 
 As changeful as the sounds thy throat 
 Sets on the charmed winds afloat, 
 Till valleys near and hills remote 
 
 Attest thy peerless powers, 
 Have been to me the sights and scenes, 
 The cloudy thoughts and starry dreams, 
 The winter and the summer gleams 
 
 Of life's ephemeral hours. 
 
 But all thy sad or merry lays, 
 Sweet bird ! in thy Creator's praise 
 Thou pourest from the trembling sprays 
 
 With love's delicious art; 
 Thus, too, will I, whate'er my fate — 
 In sorrow prone or joy elate — 
 To God my being dedicate 
 
 And give to him my heart." 
 
 This is as good in its way as the poems of Meek, Wilde, 
 and Flash upon the same subject. Mr. Hubner's little vol- 
 ume closes with a collection of ^Esop's fables in rhyme, 
 which, simply as specimens of neat versification, are very 
 fine. The book is for sale at Phillips & Crews's. 
 
 "LOVE IN IDLENESS" 
 
 Of book-making there is no end, and the grief of it is 
 that it seems to make very little difference with the public 
 whether the result is good, bad, or indifferent. The mania 
 at present is to write novels, and it is perhaps just as well 
 that it should take this mild form. There is nothing harm- 
 less about a harmless novel, an axiom in criticism that might 
 be spun out by saying that there is nothing remarkable in a 
 work of fiction that is commonplace. We can, therefore, 
 without fear of raising a literary riot, commend Miss Ellen 
 W. Olney's "Love in Idleness," which is published by 
 Messrs. J. B. Lippincott and sent to us through the courtesy 
 
Early Literary Efforts 191 
 
 of Messrs. J. and S. P. Richards, booksellers. Perhaps the 
 most remarkable thing about this volume (bound in paper 
 and sold at the low price of fifty cents) is that it first ap- 
 peared in serial form in Lippincott's Magazine. It is called 
 "A Summer Story," and such undoubtedly it is — a story 
 just fitted for the long afternoons when the drowsy gyra- 
 tions of a small community of house flies warn the small 
 pretenders to humanity that it is time to doze. We have not 
 the patience to remember the plot of this summer story. 
 There is a man engaged, in a sort of commercial and busi- 
 ness way, to a vague woman whom he does not love and 
 who takes advantage of this absence of affection to become 
 desperately smitten with another vague woman who has 
 encountered the fancy of his brother. We use the word 
 "encountered" in this connection advisedly. There is no 
 other word that so aptly explains the process of love-making 
 as set forth in the modern storybook. In the volume before 
 us all ends happily, or unhappily, as the case may be. The 
 hero marries the woman to whom he was engaged, and the 
 brother marries the girl who loves the other fellow. Of 
 course nothing could be neater than this ; and if the reader 
 isn't satisfied, it is because he hasn't gone through a regular 
 course of this sort of stuff. We take it for granted, how- 
 ever, thai the author is capable of much better things. Her 
 style is graphic, picturesque and terse, and there seems to 
 be no reason why she should not at least succeed in writing 
 a fair novel. 
 
 NOTES OF NEW MAGAZINES (ATLANTIC MONTHLY) 
 
 The peculiar interest with which the editor of the Atlan- 
 tic Monthly manages to invest that publication was never 
 more manifest than in the February number. This peculiar 
 interest is simply the result of the fact that the Atlantic has 
 somehow created an atmosphere of its own. We do not mean 
 to say that this is due to what is sometimes sarcastically 
 called the "Boston influence," but to exceptionally careful 
 editing. So real is this atmosphere that there is always a 
 smart shock when a foreign amateur, like Mr. Richard 
 Grant White or Mr. Ben : JPerly Poore, with his indefati- 
 gable and irresistible colon, gains admission into the maga- 
 
192 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 zine. Thus, for instance, while everything Mr. White writes 
 is good, and while our friend Poore's reminiscences of 
 Washington are of abundant interest, they seem to be some- 
 what out of place in the Atlantic, and they jar unpleasantly 
 upon the nerves of enthusiastic readers of that periodical. 
 In the February number Mr. Henry James, Jr., continues 
 to dissect in a very entertaining manner the puppets which 
 he compels to caper for our amusement in "The Portrait of 
 a Lady." In the January installment of this serial there 
 were dangerous symptoms that Mr. James would allow his 
 puppets the latitude that human beings under similar condi- 
 tions sometimes enjoy; but he has resolutely, if not heroi- 
 cally, overcome this tendency, and now his paper people are 
 definitely attached to the artistic string upon which Mr. 
 James has suspended them. In "Friends : A Duet," of which 
 the fourth and fifth parts are here given, we have a piece of 
 work in direct contrast to the colorless but unmistakable 
 art of Mr. James; and it may be regarded as the most char- 
 acteristic, the most perfectly adjusted of Miss Phelp's es- 
 says in fiction. . . . Mr. Richard Grant White, who seems 
 to be unmerciful in matters of this kind, is "In London 
 Again," and he writes about it so coolly and dispassionately 
 that we cannot refrain from the suspicion that he is endeav- 
 oring to win the admiration of Mr. Lathrop's literary Bos- 
 ton. ... In "The Contributor's Club" some kind soul 
 pays a tribute to the memory of Washington Allston, the 
 South Carolina poet and painter. 
 
 AS TO SOUTHERN LITERATURE 
 
 An interesting phase of the continual call for what is 
 technically known as "Southern literature" is the accompa- 
 nying demand for controversial fiction. Whether this is 
 owing to the lack of healthy criticism or to the fact that we 
 have been put upon the defensive so long that anything in 
 relation to the South, its condition or its institutions, past 
 or present, which is suspiciously critical or even severely 
 impartial, is construed into an attack, we have not time here 
 to consider. We suspect, however, that it is due rather to 
 the social and political isolation in which the South sought 
 to preserve its peculiar property investment. It is natural 
 
Early Literary Efforts 193 
 
 that such isolation should produce remarkable pride of opin- 
 ion and a belief that our civilization was perfect. The truth 
 of the matter, however, is that the Southern people are hu- 
 man beings and inherited, along with the rest of the world, 
 their full share of the virtues as well as the faults of human 
 nature; and when the Southern novelist comes to depict life 
 in the South as it really was and is, his work, if he be a gen- 
 uine artist, will be too impartial to suit the ideas of those 
 who have grown fat by feeding upon the romantic idea that 
 no additional polish could be put upon our perfections. 
 The Southern Thackeray of the future will doubtless be 
 surprised to learn that if he had put in an appearance half a 
 century sooner he would probably have been escorted be- 
 yond the limits and boundaries of our sunny Southern clime 
 astraddle of an indignant rail. Thackeray satirized the so- 
 ciety in which he moved and held up to ridicule the hollow 
 hypocrisy of the lives of his neighbors. He took liberties 
 with the people of his own blood and time that would have 
 led him hurriedly in the direction of bodily discomfort if 
 he had lived in the South. It is probable, moreover, that if 
 Addison's essays had appeared in a Southern spectator 
 there would have been a most emphatic protest against their 
 slanderous hints and covert allusions to the foibles of the 
 Miss Nancy Joneses and the Sweet Williams of society; and 
 if the scenes of "The Vicar of Wakefield'' had been laid in 
 any Southern community, a solemn protest against the genu- 
 ineness of the rattling young villain that pursued Miss Oli- 
 via Primrose would have been filed in the public prints. 
 Now, the spice of exaggeration in these comparisons is just 
 sufficient to bring the reality forcibly to the attention of 
 those who are acquainted with the conditions to which we 
 allude, but further than this it is no exaggeration. This is 
 the reason our novelists and story writers are all romancers. 
 This is the reason why St. Elmo, who is really a figure taken 
 out of the "Arabian Nights" and disguised as a Southern 
 man, builds him an impossible palace in a Georgia wilder- 
 ness and opens up business by shooting a North Carolina 
 colonel (or some other obscure person) through the haslet. 
 It would probably be an exaggeration to say that there 
 would have been no social safety for a native writer who set 
 13 
 
194 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 himself down to draw an impartial picture of Southern civ- 
 ilization, its lights and its shadows; but every thoughtful 
 person who has any interest in Southern literature is per- 
 fectly well aware of the limitations by which our writers 
 have been surrounded — limitations, let us hasten to add, 
 that fitted perfectly and exactly the inclinations and ambi- 
 tions of the writers themselves. 
 
 The South knows now that slavery was a continual men- 
 ace to our society, a drawback upon our civilization and a 
 drain upon our resources, but it is not too late to say that 
 there never was any reasonable discussion of the slavery 
 question. The position of the South in such a discussion 
 was impregnable. The Southern people were not responsi- 
 ble for the existence of slavery nor for its continuance. 
 They purchased it from the thrifty philanthropists of New 
 England and had no means of getting rid of it. To free 
 them there was an impossibility; to send them back to Af- 
 rica was inhuman. There were hundreds of Abolitionists 
 among the slave owners, but they could do nothing. It was 
 never discovered, until after the war, that Mrs. Stowe's 
 attack upon slavery was a practical and genuine defense of 
 the Southern slave owner. She painted him as merciful, 
 almost imprudently lax in his discipline. The monsters in 
 her book are of Northern birth, a fact that is not very flat- 
 tering to our versatility. 
 
 We have before us as we write a remarkable example of 
 that curious self-consciousness which is responsible for the 
 literary limitations of our writers and which in its most 
 strenuous shape is not less pathetic than amusing. Some 
 time ago Mr. George W. Cable, a Southern man, wrote a 
 novel entitled "The Grandissimes," purporting to be a pic- 
 ture of Creole life in Louisiana at about the period of the 
 cession of that State to the United States. In some re- 
 spects this novel is a unique work of art ; in others it is not. 
 For one thing, it is altogether too populous not to be confus- 
 ing; for if the inhabitants of the book were added to the 
 census, Louisiana would be entitled to another representa- 
 tive in Congress. The work is avowedly a piece of fiction, 
 but this has not prevented the Creoles of the present day 
 from protesting against it. Some one has sent us, indeed, a 
 violently trashy little pamphlet embodying an anonymous 
 
Early Literary Efforts 195 
 
 attack upon Mr. Cable for presuming to put the Creoles in 
 a book. It is very clear that the Creoles of New Orleans 
 look upon the novel as a personal affront. Mr. Cable's book 
 may or may not be a genuine picture of Creole life. We 
 know nothing as to that. But, consciously or unconscious- 
 ly, he has photographed the South as it existed a little while 
 ago. And if the Northern critics knew as much about us as 
 they pretend, this feature of a remarkable book would have 
 been dwelt upon with more or less emphasis. 1 
 
 But we have wandered away from the point we intended 
 to make, which is this, that if the South is ever to make any 
 permanent or important contribution to the literature of the 
 world, we must get over our self -consciousness and so con- 
 trol our sensitiveness as to be able to regard with indiffer- 
 ence — nay, with complacence — the impulse of criticism 
 which prompts and spurs every literary man and woman 
 whose work is genuine. We must not forget that real lit- 
 erary art is absolutely impartial and invariably just. None 
 other can endure. 
 
 "THE GEORGIANS" 2 
 
 Some young person with well-defined purpose wrote to 
 the Constitution the other day concerning the status and 
 prospects of "Southern" literature, so called. We have no 
 time just now to fish the matter from the depths of the 
 wastebasket; but the core of the communication, as we re- 
 member, was the difficulty which Southern writers experi- 
 ence in making their way at the North. Following hard 
 upon the announcement authorized by the editor of Scrib- 
 ner's Monthly that the July number of that magazine would 
 contain articles from seven Southerners, and that, in addi- 
 tion, the editor had on hand enough acceptable matter from 
 Southern writers to fill several issues of the Monthly, it was 
 thought best to give the communication over to oblivion, al- 
 beit it would have served admirably as an excuse for some 
 exceedingly suggestive comments. The idea that there is a 
 
 1 Compare Cable's attitude toward Harris, Introduction, page 6; 
 also compare another reference to Cable in "The Georgians." 
 2 By Mrs. Hammond, of Atlanta. 
 
196 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 disposition either in Boston or in New York to ignore ac- 
 ceptable literary matter because it happens to be from the 
 pen of a Southern writer is absurd. The great difficulty 
 has been and is for Southern writers to rid themselves of 
 certain tendencies to romanticism which are not only pre- 
 posterous in themselves, but deadly in their effects upon 
 literary art. When Southern writers divest themselves 
 thoroughly of every trace of sectionalism and view all things 
 from the artistic standpoint, they will find no difficulty in 
 making their way. In fact, they will find less difficulty than 
 the writers of any other section. Circumstances have in- 
 vested everything in the literature and life of the South 
 with profound interest, and the writer who shall truthfully 
 present and reproduce the characters and conditions by 
 which he has been surrounded, however narrow and pro- 
 vincial they may be, is sure of fame. This is true of any 
 and all sections, but the circumstances to which we have 
 alluded have made it particularly true of the South. 
 
 We have before us a volume (Round Robin Series: "The 
 Georgians"; Boston, James R. Osgood & Co., 1881 ; pages, 
 322; price, $1) which is in some sort an exemplification of 
 what we have said. It is the first book of a Georgia author, 
 and it is printed in Boston ! It is published anonymously, 
 in accordance with the plan of the series of which it is a 
 part; but there are evidences in the volume itself which, 
 while they will not be detected by the uncritical reader, are 
 sufficient to show that the book is the first studied effort of 
 a young writer. These evidences, let us hasten to say, are 
 not in the shape of blemishes, but consist of a certain 
 hasty treatment which in one or two instances, and only one 
 or two, gives excessive formality to ordinary conversation 
 between ordinary people. 
 
 As a whole, "The Georgians" is an admirable piece of 
 literary work, and as such we commend it to those who are 
 ambitious to write a novel of Southern life and society. It 
 is at once entertaining and instructive, restful to the mind 
 and refreshing to the moral sense, and its twofold purpose 
 is carried out within such limitations and under such cir- 
 cumstances as to bring into unusual prominence the author's 
 exquisite sense of artistic proportion. It is rare — and we 
 say it in sorrow — that a story of Southern life is worth ana- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 197 
 
 lyzing. As a general rule, such stories are either grossly 
 exaggerated in style and statement, or they are silly and 
 insipid. But here is a story which challenges attention and 
 piques curiosity. It is not a great novel. It does not at- 
 tempt to deal with the profound problems of human nature. 
 It is absolutely unpretentious. But within the limitations 
 fixed by the author it is the most satisfactory piece of liter- 
 ary work that has been done in the South since the war. 
 We do not even except "The Grandissimes," although Mr, 
 Cable's work betrays genius, while "The Georgians" merely 
 drops a hint now and then that possibly its author is a gen- 
 ius. Mr. Cable's story is powerful and picturesque, but it 
 is unsatisfactory as a work of art. It has too many inhabit- 
 ants. As an attempt to use the novel as an allegorical 
 painting it is unique, but its success here is inadequate. In 
 "The Grandissimes" we have projected upon a tropical Cre- 
 ole background a series of pictures of Southern society as 
 it existed up to the war and for a time thereafter. We have 
 the cession of Louisiana and the disturbance it created 
 standing for the Reconstruction. The result cannot but be 
 confusing. We had almost said "distressing." It is not the 
 pictures of society to which we object, but to the confusing 
 timidity which suggests a totally foreign background. To 
 take away the Creole surroundings may destroy in some 
 degree the picturesque features of the story, but it would 
 add greatly to its veracity as a study of Southern society. 
 Genius, however, will have its own way, and we allude to 
 these things here to show wherein "The Georgians" is more 
 satisfactory as a pure literary work. 1 
 
 "The Georgians," as its title indicates, deals with the his- 
 tory of a Georgia family, the scene being laid in and around 
 Atlanta. Even the Russian countess, Madame Felicia Or- 
 lanoff, who is the heroine of the story, is a Georgian, and 
 the fact that she is a countess at all rather detracts from 
 the serious interest of the volume. It is no more necessary 
 to the effect of the story that she should be a countess than 
 that Marcus Laurens, the hero, should be an Italian noble- 
 man instead of a Georgia farmer. The fact that the study 
 
 Compare Cable's attitude toward Harris, Introduction, page 6; 
 also compare another reference to Cable, page 196. 
 
198 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 of Georgia life and character is to all appearance strictly 
 incidental and subordinate to the narrative adds zest and em- 
 phasis to its almost literal truthfulness. Within certain limi- 
 tations — and very unnecessary ones, it seems to us — there is 
 no more faithful picture of certain phases of Southern so- 
 ciety than are given in this book. There are hints here and 
 there — elusive and vague when we come to examine them 
 closely — that the impulses as well as the intentions of the 
 author have been studiously restrained, and these give a cer- 
 tain degree of piquancy to the people [?] that in another 
 volume the social characterization, which is subordinate in 
 "The Georgians," will be pursued with a firmer hand and 
 freer purpose. 
 
 We judge that the author of "The Georgians" is a wom- 
 an. Indeed, it is simply impossible that the remarkable 
 analysis of Madame OrlanofFs character and emotions 
 should have been written by a man. This analysis is keen 
 and vivid and subtle enough to rank as a psychological 
 study. The author of "The Georgians" has that facility of 
 expression which is as valuable to a novelist as imagination, 
 and here and there throughout the volume are evidences of 
 a humor which is at once sly and discreet. There are no 
 elaborate efforts to render the cracker and negro dialects; 
 but wherever the attempt is made, it is successful. "The 
 Georgians" is a genuine picture of certain phases of life and 
 society in the South. The author seems to possess lively 
 Southern sympathies, but these are mellowed and chastened 
 by tenderly severe Puritan touches here and there that are 
 altogether delightful. 
 
 In addition, and in conclusion, "The Georgians" is a pure 
 and wholesome book from beginning to end. 
 
 NARRATIVES AND SHORT STORIES 
 
 A COUNTRY NEWSPAPER 1 
 
 In the history of American journalism, as strange as the 
 statement may seem, there has been but one country news- 
 paper. There is a large class of journals technically known 
 
 'Compare discussion of The Countryman in Part L, pages 48ff. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 199 
 
 as country papers; but most of them are published within a 
 stone's throw of a post office, and all of them, by force of 
 necessity, are issued in some village or town. So far as we 
 know, there has been but one exception to this, and this 
 exception was unique in its way, not only in the place of its 
 publication, but in the style of its editorials and the method 
 of its arrangement. It was published in the State of Geor- 
 gia, county of Putnam, nine miles from any post office or 
 town, and its success was wholly dependent upon the indi- 
 viduality of its editor. It originated in a desire on the part 
 of a Southern gentleman of ample means and large culture 
 to address the people on matters of public concern. The 
 name of this unique little publication was The Countryman, 
 and it was published upon the plantation of Mr. J. A. Tur- 
 ner, nine miles from Eatonton. In the prospectus printed 
 in the first number, which was issued in the spring of 1862, 
 it was announced that The Countryman would be modeled 
 after Addison's little paper, The Spectator, and Johnson's 
 little paper, The Bee, and for a while the promises of the 
 prospectus were fulfilled. But The Countryman gradually 
 grew even beyond the anticipations of its editor. It became 
 immensely popular, was enlarged, and, suiting himself to 
 the demands of a larger and less cultivated audience, the 
 style of the editor became less intensely literary, until finally 
 he came to write almost entirely in what Mr. James R. Ran- 
 dall, the poet, who is quite a dandy among literateurs, called 
 "the choice Georgia dialect." The style, therefore, albeit 
 the editor was a scholar in the truest and widest sense of 
 that word and possessed to a most remarkable degree the 
 gift of expression, became as unique as the publication 
 itself. Word fanciers would have called it hopelessly com- 
 monplace. Fine writing was altogether ignored, and collo- 
 quialisms took the place of the diction of the schools. This 
 peculiarity was intensified by the announcement of the edi- 
 tor that, following the example of William Cobbett, he 
 would use the pronoun "I" instead of the royal pronoun 
 "we," and thenceforth the essays were as remarkable for 
 their personality as for their originality. 
 
 But the country paper thrived. The echoes of the clash 
 and clang of war never reached the quiet printing office 
 buried in the deep woods of a Southern plantation. The 
 
200 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 brown squirrels rushed over the roof with the untameable 
 and yet uncertain velocity that seems natural to the wind 
 and to wild animals. The birds twittered in the trees. The 
 melodious voice of the negro rose from the green depths of 
 the long and level cornfields. The peace of an eternal Sab- 
 bath brooded perpetually over the pastoral scene, and it was 
 only when one more beloved than the rest had starved in 
 the cold and grim fastnesses of Laurel Hill or breasted the 
 sultry thunder of Gettysburg that the people of that quiet 
 plantation remembered the war that was raging upon the 
 outside. The bright-eyed country girls came to view the 
 mysterious workings of the clumsy hand press; and their 
 mild wonder seemed to protest against the possibility that a 
 brawny-armed printer, humbly aided by a blushing roller 
 boy, could accomplish such a remarkable result as the manu- 
 facture of a newspaper. It was a golden time. The com- 
 positors, imported from sections where the rules of society 
 had been crystallized into canons, gradually made advances 
 to the timorous maidens who came to investigate the mys- 
 teries of the black art, and more than one pure and sweet 
 little love idyl was enacted in that section before the sum- 
 mer's victory had faded into the autumn of defeat. The 
 sweetness of peace dwelt in the air. Somewhere in the dim 
 distance war was trailing his black mantle across the dusty, 
 sun-smitten regions of the South. But in the neighborhood 
 of this country newspaper its dismal rustle was not heard; 
 and if perchance a warrior was slain in the Virginia valley, 
 he was mourned as one who had fought and fell in a for- 
 eign land. The tall pines nodded to the passing breeze and 
 dispensed the balm of their resinous odors to the lovers be- 
 low. The flowers bloomed, the sun shone, and the birds 
 sang. Of the compositors who aided in giving to the public 
 this original little newspaper, two (Heaven rest their souls !) 
 are dead. One, who by his rollicking mood gave zest to 
 many a long evening and whose congeniality endeared him 
 to his companions, is now the proprietor of the most widely 
 circulated religious newspaper in Georgia. 1 Another is edit- 
 ing a weekly newspaper in West Virginia. Another is at 
 
 1 Mr. J. P. Harrison. See references in Part I. and account of life 
 in Forsyth. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 201 
 
 the head of a paper in North Georgia. Another is a suc- 
 cessful shoemaker, and still another has drifted into agri- 
 culture. While, last and least, he who remembers all these 
 things perhaps more keenly than the rest sits at the feet of a 
 fat professor of politics and contributes to the trash that 
 constitutes the newspaper literature of the day. 
 
 SEWARD'S GEORGIA SWEETHEART 1 
 
 In an article which appeared in these columns some days 
 ago reference was made to "A Country Newspaper," an 
 ideal journal of the pastoral regions that flourished in Put- 
 nam County during the war. This country newspaper was 
 edited and printed almost within a stone's throw of the ruins 
 of the rude academy which some years before had resound- 
 ed to the voice and ferrule of William H. Seward, a politi- 
 cian who afterwards played such an important part in shap- 
 ing the affairs of the country at a most critical period of its 
 history. 
 
 Seward, it appears, becoming vexed, as young men will, 
 at the too practical precepts of a Puritanical father, cut 
 loose from the ties of home and came to the South in the 
 somewhat frayed role of the prodigal son. Fresh from col- 
 lege and familiar with the books, he betook himself to teach- 
 ing; and, answering an advertisement of the trustees of 
 Union Academy, he became the principal thereof and for a 
 period essayed to enlighten and mold the plastic minds of 
 those whom he afterwards alluded to as Southern barba- 
 rians. He was hospitably treated, however, and, as the tra- 
 dition goes, became warmly attached to many of those whom 
 he regarded as no less his benefactors than his patrons. The 
 parental wrath which had driven him from his home was 
 soothed by that great healer of large and small quarrels, 
 Time, and ere he had brandished the rod many months 
 he received an invitation from his father to return to his old 
 home and receive the parental blessing. A teacher named 
 Woodruff was sent out to take his place ; and young Seward 
 went back to his father's house, became a politician, was 
 elected Governor of New York, and finally became Lin- 
 
 1 Compare "Proemial to Putnam," page 221. 
 
202 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 coin's Secretary of State, with a little bell at his hand that 
 became the terror of the "nation." Some years before the 
 war he revisited the scene of his youthful experience as a 
 pedagogue and renewed his old acquaintances among his 
 patrons and pupils. 
 
 Years and years afterwards a young man, one of the com- 
 positors upon The Countryman, wandering through an old 
 country mansion in the neighborhood, came upon an old and 
 much-worn duodecimo copy of Marryat's "Jacob Faithful." 
 Turning over its yellow leaves curiously and carelessly, he 
 came upon a lock of yellow hair, that in another age and in 
 a stronger light might have been called red or auburn, en- 
 closed in a yellow letter. This letter was written by young 
 Seward to a country lass in the neighborhood ; and albeit its 
 style took color from the somewhat coldly polite forms of 
 that day, it breathed unmistakably of the true love that 
 comes to a man, whether he be peasant or prince, but once 
 in a lifetime. The diplomacy that the young lawyer and 
 politician saw fit to use in addressing an unsophisticated 
 country lass whom he was nevermore destined to meet 
 could not hide the fervency of his feelings, and it seems 
 more than probable that the Putnam County maiden re- 
 ceived the first, last, and only real love letter ever written 
 by William H. Seward. There is reason, moreover, for be- 
 lieving that in all the turmoil of politics in which he after- 
 wards engaged he never forgot the sweetheart of his youth, 
 who lived and died in the pastoral obscurity of Putnam. 
 She never married; but for many and many a summer, 
 stirred by the sultry winds or shaken loose by the wander- 
 ing bees, the apple blossoms have drifted down upon her 
 resting place, which lies hid by the tall and tangled grasses 
 of the old orchard. Her name is a memory, her life a 
 dream, her love a myth ; but neither memory nor myth can 
 disturb her slumbers now. 
 
 A GUZZLED GUEST 
 
 How Toombs Protected a Mild Young Man from the Ku-Klux 
 
 Smalley's Adventures in a Bad Georgia Hamlet— Marching to the 
 Music of the Town Boys and Trembling upon the Brink of Un- 
 certainty — A Vigil with the Doughfaces and an Early Ride Out of 
 the Country. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 203 
 
 Once upon a time a correspondent, of the New York 
 Tribune, whose surname was Smalley, journeyed South 
 upon an "interviewing" mission. He had been instructed — 
 or at least let us suppose that he had been instructed — to 
 visit various prominent Southern leaders at their homes, 
 converse with them, and embody their ideas in a series of 
 sensational articles purporting to be "interviews." The 
 correspondent selected to perform this delicate task was 
 named Smalley ; and, for all we know to the contrary, he is 
 named Smalley to this day. His career through the South 
 was a great success until he reached Washington, in Wilkes 
 County, and there he made a failure. He pounced upon 
 Toombs; and Toombs, it is not too much to say, sat down 
 upon him with considerable vehemence. Smalley, I am 
 told, is a right clever young man. He is from Philadelphia 
 and has probably associated a good deal with Chevalier For- 
 ney and other journalistic bucks of that saintly city. As to 
 his personal appearance, I know nothing; but, judging from 
 the descriptions I have had of him, he parts his hair in the 
 middle, wears side whiskers, chews cinnamon, and has alto- 
 gether the appearance of the haughty man of genius who 
 plays the base violin in a negro minstrel troupe. 
 
 Washington, it must be remembered, is a bad town. It is 
 the dwelling place of such unscrupulous patriots as Dr. 
 Henry F. Andrews, of the Gazette, who carries his medicine 
 chest around with him to press conventions, and is the abode 
 of such fierce citizens as Col. Fred J. Ludette, who writes, 
 compiles, and arranges pretty much all the local matter 
 for the Doctor's paper. Washington, as I have said, is 
 a bad town. It was a bad town before the war and still 
 prides itself upon the distinctive features by which it has 
 been made famous. It was to this bad town on one fine 
 morning not many years ago that Mr. Smalley came. At 
 that time the boys were rather wild, and as the Tribune 
 correspondent marched up the street he became suddenly 
 aware that he was involuntarily keeping time to the music 
 of a well-organized band of whistlers. It was embarrassing, 
 to be sure ; but what could he do? When a parcel of young 
 men conclude to whistle a stranger down the wind, he has 
 no possible remedy, albeit it is exceedingly aggravating to be 
 
204 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 compelled to keep time to music which is neither of your 
 making nor choosing. In a small and bad town like Wash- 
 ington you cannot help yourself. You are compelled either 
 to march to the tune the young men provide for you or sit 
 bodily down upon the sidewalk. The first is embarrassing 
 and the latter exceedingly undignified. Smalley chose to 
 be embarrassed, and the consequence was that he paced up 
 the sandy street to the hotel in a manner quite as uncon- 
 sciously humorous as the party who affected to play an im- 
 aginary trombone at the funeral of "Tennessee's Partner." 
 
 In spite of all this, however, Smalley reached the tavern 
 in safety, wiped the dust and perspiration from his chin, 
 ate a hearty dinner of corn bread and buttermilk, and then 
 sallied forth to find General Toombs. 
 
 "Can you tell me," said he, addressing the expressive 
 jowl which stood forth as the most important and prominent 
 feature of the landlord's physiognomy, "can you tell me 
 where I can find General Toombs ?" 
 
 "Why, Lor' bless you! Ef Bob's in town, I kin tell. 
 He 'lowed the other day that he wuz gwine off ter 'ten' cote ; 
 but ef he's 'roun', I kin p'int him out to you in two shakes 
 of a sheep's tail." 
 
 With this the landlord with a hearty jowl stepped briskly 
 to the door and, shading his eyes with his hand, soon singled 
 out in one of the various groups a portly old gentleman 
 crowned with a mass of silvery gray hair. 
 
 "Bob ! O Bob ! Drap over ; here's a man wants to see 
 you." 
 
 General Toombs, with a half-chewed cigar in his mouth 
 and a pleasant smile on his expressive face, rose from the 
 discussion of some political question and approached. 
 
 "Is this Gen. Robert Toombs ?" asked Smalley. 
 
 "That is my name," answered the General. 
 
 "My name is Smalley," said the stranger. "Probably you 
 have heard of me." 
 
 "Probably," said the General. "I hear of a good many 
 people. I am always hearing of people. I hear of every- 
 body, and a good many hear of me." 
 
 "I am the correspondent of the Tribune," explained 
 Smalley with a little flourish, "and I have come here to in- 
 vestigate these Ku-Klux matters." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 205 
 
 "Ah!" replied the General. "And do you propose to re- 
 main with us long? I shall be glad to see more of you. As 
 to these Ku-Kluxes, now" — smiling one of his sweetest 
 smiles — "how do you propose to catch them ? and what are 
 you going to do with them when they are captured? I'm a 
 little interested in the result. Quite a number of my friends 
 are mixed up in that business." 
 
 "So, then, there is really such an organization?" queried 
 Smalley with considerable animation. 
 
 "Why, my dear sir," said General Toombs, lowering his 
 voice to a confidential tone and glancing around cautiously, 
 "if you were to compel me to turn State's evidence, there 
 are fifteen men in sight at this moment who would be your 
 prisoners in less than an hour." 
 
 "Why, you don't mean to say, General" — 
 
 "Yes, sir. This is unquestionably the warmest climate on 
 the globe for niggers and Northern men. Why, even the 
 fleas wear pistols around their waists, and the mosquitoes 
 are malicious enough to hunt for blood with daggers." 
 
 Smalley smiled and complacently stroked his mutton chop 
 whiskers. General Toombs, however, was earnest. 
 
 "Mr. Smalley," said he, "do you propose to remain in 
 town to-night?" 
 
 "Certainly, sir." 
 
 "Have you your permit ?" 
 
 "My what?'; 
 
 "Your permit. Strangers who visit our town, especially 
 strangers from the North, are generally murdered in their 
 beds, but I think I can show you a way out of your difficul- 
 ty. Do you see that man over there?" pointing to a dapper 
 little German Jew, who was standing in front of a dry goods 
 store and who looked as though he would faint if circum- 
 stances compelled him to slaughter even a bedbug. "Do you 
 see that man? He is the Grand Cyclops of all the Klans in 
 this region ; and if you are to remain here all night, it would 
 be only prudence on your part to see him and get what we 
 call a 'certificate of safety.' Otherwise I am afraid it would 
 be impossible for me to promise any protection." 
 
 Here Smalley began to show symptoms of great uneasi- 
 ness and seemed anxious to make arrangements for secur- 
 ing the certificate. 
 
206 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Just go to Mr. Franklin," said General Toombs, "intro- 
 duce yourself, and apply for protection. Of course he 
 doesn't desire to implicate himself in this Ku-Klux business, 
 and it is likely he will pretend to be greatly astonished and 
 mystified and will protest that he knows nothing at all of 
 the matter. You seem to be a right clever fellow, and it is 
 possible that you will be able to convince Franklin that it is 
 his duty to protect you. If you fail," continued the Gener- 
 al, looking grave and thoughtful, "come around to my house. 
 I'll see what I can do. But don't mention my name." 
 
 The seriousness with which General Toombs imparted 
 this information had its effect upon Smalley, who became 
 thoroughly frightened before the evening was over. It 
 would be well, however, to allow General Toombs to tell the 
 story in his own words : 
 
 "He was a right starchy fellow ; but even his side whis- 
 kers couldn't hide his conceit, and I thought it would be 
 well to give him a Ku-Klux primer and start him to the 
 school of experience." 
 
 "Was he an apt scholar, General?" 
 
 "The best you ever saw. He went to Franklin for his 
 certificate of safety, and Franklin was astonished beyond 
 measure. Smalley was persistent, so persistent, indeed, 
 that Franklin became frightened, and it seemed to be only a 
 question of time as to which would get out of town first." 
 
 "Did you see Smalley after this?" 
 
 "See him? Why, the man haunted me. He was even 
 afraid to go to the hotel, and I met him about dusk wander- 
 ing near my house. Of course I invited him in. He re- 
 fused to go to bed, however, and I was compelled to sit up 
 with him. But it was my fault. I told him that my house 
 was liable to be attacked at any moment by a crowd of Ku- 
 Klux murderers, and the consequence was I couldn't even 
 persuade the man to nod in his chair. It was very amusing." 
 
 "And yet, General, Smalley paid you some high compli- 
 ments in his report of the interview?" 
 
 "Why, of course. What else could he do? I treated him 
 well and saved him from the vengeance of the Ku-Klux 
 Klan and, for my own amusement, sent him off in my buggy 
 the next morning before day." 
 
 "Before day?" 
 
Early Literary Efforts Hoy 
 
 "Why, certainly. I told him it would be well to leave 
 town as soon as possible after the occurrences of the day 
 before, and he left. He ought to be grateful. But he 
 amused me, and I like to be amused. Sometimes I laugh at 
 Smalley just before I go to sleep, and I have had so much 
 fun out of the fellow that I really think I ought to give him 
 a pension. A man ought to pay for his pleasures." 
 
 Such is a brief and hastily written account of Mr. E. V. 
 Smalley's interview with General Toombs. It may be that 
 both of them will claim that it is inaccurate; but if so, I 
 shall plead a lapse of memory, for it has been many weeks 
 since the General in his inimitable way related to me the 
 particulars of the stuffing. 
 
 ON WINGS OF WIND 
 
 Cleaving to the Air at the Rate of a Mile to the Minute 
 
 An Hour with Tom Bnssey on the Foremost Position — What Tom 
 Is Like and Who He Is — Breathing Mechanism's Response to the 
 Caressing Touch — A Mistaken Cow and a Very Badly Mistaken 
 Passenger. 
 
 It is possible you don't know Tom Bussey; and if you 
 did, it would make no sort of difference. I should write 
 about him all the same. Of course it would be impossible 
 for me, single-handed and alone, to stand up and defy a 
 community of gentle readers, especially on Sunday; but I 
 must have my say about Tom Bussey, the man who upon a 
 certain occasion some months ago drove a special train from 
 Atlanta to Chattanooga. In all probability you have never 
 been an engineer — that is to say, you have never been the 
 driver of a locomotive. I make this remark with great con- 
 fidence, for the reason that it falls to the lot of a few men in 
 this wide, wide world of ours to lay a confident hand upon 
 the polished lever that controls and directs the impatient pal- 
 pitations of a steam engine. These few are necessarily men 
 of great experience, nerve, and courage, ready for any 
 emergency, and prepared at a moment's warning to encoun- 
 ter one of those direful accidents or collisions that now and 
 then send a thrill of horror through the land. The driver 
 of a locomotive, you must remember, assumes grave respon- 
 sibilities. He must not only be familiar with the mysteries 
 
208 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 of machinery, he must not only be alert and watchful, but 
 he must be a man of extraordinary nerve and coolness. By 
 a mere motion of his hand he can send hundreds of souls 
 into eternity, or he can save them from the most horrible of 
 calamities. The slightest miscalculation, a moment of for- 
 getfulness, a puff of steam too much is sufficient to precipi- 
 tate a dire mishap. You who travel on railroads are little 
 used to allow your minds to dwell upon the dusty man in 
 whose blackened hands your safety lies. Leaning placidly 
 back in an elegantly furnished parlor car, it would be un- 
 pleasant to you to conjure up the ghastly probabilities that 
 signal you at every curve and that gather thick and ominous 
 at every crossing. Ah, no! The subject would be unpleas- 
 ant. You prefer to allow your thoughts to rhyme and chime 
 to the rhythmical clatter of the wheels beneath you until 
 finally every idea that you have conforms itself to the mo- 
 notonous and yet not unpleasant cluckity ! clickerty ! clock- 
 ity ! cluckity ! of the machinery beneath you. For aught 
 you know, death may be waving his scarlet flag just beyond. 
 But what odds? Is there not a man employed to watch 
 these things for you ? 
 
 Tom Bussey 
 
 But I was talking of Tom Bussey. I was inveigled by an 
 exceedingly kind note of invitation from B. W. Wrenn and 
 the solicitations of numerous fellow sufferers from Savan- 
 nah, who were driven from their homes by the presence of 
 the yellow fever plague, to accompany an excursion to Chat- 
 tanooga. The schedule was advertised as an exceptional 
 one, and I might as well say just here that it was excep- 
 tional. The time made was a little beyond anything I have 
 experienced before or since, save when Ned Purcell on a 
 memorable occasion rushed a delayed train through from 
 Dearing to Atlanta. There is something exhilarating in the 
 thought that you are being safely whirled through the air at 
 the rate of a mile a minute, and I became possessed of an 
 incontrollable desire to ride upon the engine. This desire, 
 I have since become convinced, was the result of a species 
 of insanity brought about, no doubt, by the swift motion of 
 the cars. I am thus particular to denominate it insanity 
 
Early Literary Efforts 209 
 
 because I am morally certain, after my experience, that no 
 sane man could ever desire to ride upon a locomotive know- 
 ing beforehand that his breath would be taken away and his 
 nerves unstrung. 
 
 However, call it what you will — insanity, expectation, or 
 ignorance — I soon found myself upon the engine, and here 
 I was unceremoniously introduced to Tom Bussey. I wish 
 you could have seen Tom that day. He had on a blue 
 jacket, a pair of blue pants, and a tightly fitting cap; and 
 he smiled so sweetly upon me withal, showing his white 
 teeth and arching his finely shaped eyebrows, that I felt 
 quite captivated. And he was cheerful, too, was Tom, and 
 talkative, but never for one moment did he allow his atten- 
 tion to be called from the business he had in hand. At the 
 first glance I wondered how it was that boys were allowed 
 to drive locomotives; but before I concluded my engage- 
 ment with Tom I discovered that, so far as experience was 
 concerned, he was worth half a dozen grown men. He 
 never left his position, but remained alert, vigilant, and 
 watchful, with one hand upon the lever gauge and the other 
 occasionally patting the lever itself in a caressing way, as 
 though to say : "You are on trial now, little girl. Put in 
 your best licks over this grade and show the gentleman what 
 you can do on a pinch." And every time he put in his ca- 
 resses the beautiful machinery responded with a throb that 
 would have been startling had it been not so pleasant. 
 
 A Hummer 
 
 "You have a very neat locomotive, Mr. Bussey." 
 
 "She's a hummer, sir, a regular hummer. It seems like a 
 pity to strain her, but she's jumping along now in a way that 
 looks like business. If you will just look ahead, sir, and try 
 to separate the crossties with your eyes, you will discover 
 that we are not lingering anywhere on the road." 
 
 The passenger endeavored to comply with this remarkably 
 reasonable request, but he grew dizzy and allowed the cross- 
 ties to separate themselves. 
 
 "I could let her out several links yet," continued Tom 
 Bussey, smiling pleasantly ; "but I am eight minutes ahead, 
 and eight minutes in a rush like this is equal to an hour of 
 regular schedule time." 
 14 
 
210 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 The passenger, clutching nervously at anything in reach 
 that seemed to offer a safe anchorage, raised his eyes to- 
 ward the smoke-bedimmed sky and thanked heaven that 
 Tom Bussey was eight minutes ahead of schedule time. 
 Why, suppose he had been eight minutes behind and had 
 unwound the several links which were stored away some- 
 where in the mysterious recesses of the machinery which 
 he controlled so coolly and lightly ! I confess to you that I 
 should have wished myself away from Tom Bussey and his 
 locomotive ; and even as it was, I longed, with a longing that 
 could lay claim to no literary origin, for a quiet nook in the 
 Young Men's Library. We were galloping along at the rate 
 of fifty-seven miles to the hour, and I shuddered to think 
 that the smiling boy on the other side might develop a bar- 
 barous tendency to cram in the other three miles. It is pos- 
 sible that I may be tempted to ride on another engine. I 
 may be gagged and bound and thrown aboard of one, or 
 the Federal troops may be called in to suppress my nerv- 
 ousness. But in the absence of any of these contingencies, 
 I shall take pleasure hereafter in occupying a rear seat in 
 the rear car. 
 
 Catching a Cow 
 
 "There's a cow just ahead," said Bussey, who had never 
 once taken his hand from the lever nor his eyes from the 
 track, "and she's going to be badly fooled." 
 
 "How?" inquired the nervous passenger. 
 
 "Why, you see, sir, she thinks we are running the regular 
 schedule, and she'll get caught." 
 
 With this he reached over his head, touched a loop, and 
 the whistle shrieked three or four warnings that could be 
 heard for miles around. The cow would not be warned, 
 however; and the nervous passenger, anticipating a crash 
 that would forever relieve all concerned of the troubles of 
 life, closed his eyes and awaited results. There was no 
 crash, however ; and when he looked again, Tom Bussey was 
 coolly inspecting his gauges. 
 
 "Did you kill her?" asked the nervous passenger. 
 
 "O no" — paying the tribute of a smile to the inexperience 
 of his guest — "she ain't hurt. We struck her just as she 
 started to leave the track, and there she sits in front of the 
 
Early Literary Efforts 211 
 
 smokestack just as easy and neat as you please. She's 
 traveling now" — with another smile — "on her face. She 
 ain't got any ticket in her hat nor any pass in her pocket." 
 Under other circumstances the passenger might have 
 laughed at the joke, but he was too busily employed in learn- 
 ing the art of holding on. And he did learn it. And he 
 learned, moreover, how to get off; for v/hen the engine 
 stopped for a moment in order that General McRae might 
 send a telegram forward, the nervous passenger crawled 
 out of the cab, found his way to the hindmost coach, and 
 fell, exhausted, into the stalwart arms of Sam Corley, who 
 was the conductor of the train. Four hours later, wander- 
 ing around the streets of Chattanooga with Benny Ferrill 
 and Martin Wylly, of Savannah, I met a spruce-looking little 
 man with a flower in his buttonhole, who bowed and smiled 
 as he passed. It was Tom Bussey, and he looked as little 
 like the intrepid boy who had slung the centennial excursion 
 train to Chattanooga (Wrenn will perhaps pardon me for 
 not paying a passing tribute to the Kennesaw Route) as the 
 amateur looks like Othello when he has washed his olive 
 jaws in rose water and made them white again. 
 
 A Stalwart Engineer 
 
 Speaking of engineers reminds me of Dell Tant, who runs 
 a train on the Georgia Road. He is one of the most vigor- 
 ous specimens of manhood to be found anywhere. I was 
 telling Tant of the neat style in which Bussey picked up the 
 cow. 
 
 "Well," says he, "a cow is like a woman. Whenever you 
 catch either on the track, you have got to be mighty tender 
 with your steam, for she is bound to try to make a crossing. 
 They don't seem to want to get off the track where there is 
 no road, and they won't until they see that they are bound 
 to be run over; and even then the cow generally leaves her 
 hind legs under the engine, and the woman allows the pilot 
 to take oft a yard or so of flounces." 
 
 Here there was a little laugh in the crowd, in which Tant, 
 who appears to be about twenty-eight years of age, did not 
 join. He was evidently in a serious mood. Squaring his 
 broad shoulders, he continued ; 
 
212 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "You would be astonished to see what risks people take. 
 They seem to have no fear whatever. It makes my hair 
 stand on end to see them fooling around as they do. You 
 see, an engineer, who appreciates all the risks and all the 
 danger, is bound to believe that people have sense enough 
 to keep out of the way. When I catch a man on the track, 
 I am obliged to believe that he will get off before the engine 
 has a chance to catch him. But sometimes he don't, and 
 then the public talk of the carelessness of engineers. It 
 makes me sick to think of the chances people take." 
 
 "Yes," says Bill Rainey, another engineer on the Georgia 
 Road, "and there's another mighty curious thing in my ex- 
 perience. Let a man be drunk in two miles of a railroad, 
 and I'll be hanged if he don't find it and go to sleep on it. 
 Don't you remember, Tant, the man you run over on the 
 Macon and Augusta Road?" 
 
 How Whisky and an Engine Wrecked a Man 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Tant, "and I didn't get over it fast, 
 either. You see, Rainey here was on the engine, and I 
 thought I'd go back into the train and have a talk with the 
 conductor. I stayed out a few minutes, and when I got 
 back and relieved Rainey I saw a black bundle on the track. 
 Day was just breaking, and the headlight didn't show, well ; 
 but I concluded it was a bush or something left on the rails 
 by the track raisers. We were a little behind, and I was 
 giving my engine the hickory pretty lively. I made no ef- 
 fort to slacken ; but when I got a little nearer I saw it was 
 a man on the track with his knees drawn up. I blew on the 
 brakes, reversed the engines, and put on a full head of 
 steam; but it was too late. Gentlemen, I couldn't explain 
 to you how I felt when I saw there was no hope for the 
 man. You would have to experience it yourselves." 
 
 "You were white as a ghost," said Rainey. 
 
 "I had need to be," replied Tant. "We went back to look 
 after the man; and I tell you, gentlemen, you never saw 
 such a sight as that was. We could only tell that it was a 
 man by his face and his shoes. He was literally torn all to 
 pieces. There was a basket near by containing a piece of 
 bacon and a bottle of whisky. The basket was wrecked and 
 
Early Literary Efforts 213 
 
 the bacon slightly injured, but — would you believe it, gen- 
 tlemen ? — the bottle didn't have a wound or a scar." 
 
 Some Cider 
 
 "That's a good tale," said Jeff Wood, looking benign and 
 suspicious. 
 
 "It's true, though," says Tant. 
 
 "Yes," says Rainey, "I was there." 
 
 "Well, if that's the case," said some one in the crowd, 
 "let's all go and have some cider." 
 
 There was not a dissenting voice save that of Wood, who 
 pulled a bottle of ice water from his pocket and drank it 
 standing. J. C. H. 
 
 TALE OF TWO TRAMPS 
 Human Life as Seen in Different Moulds 
 
 A Tramp Printer Discusses the Ways of the World in a Manner 
 Peculiar to the Craft — A Singing Frenchman Passing along the 
 Highway of Life. 
 
 It was spring. The jay bird, perched upon the topmost 
 bough of the oak tree, was boldly and harshly proclaiming 
 the fact. All nature had drifted into the newborn season ; 
 and if anything else were lacking to make sure that spring 
 had begun her benignant reign, it was only necessary to look 
 up and behold a lone swallow twittering and quivering in 
 the far fields of heaven. It was a day to wander forth into 
 the suburbs and lose yourself in the cool, green depths of 
 the woods that lie in the grandeur of perpetual repose be- 
 yond the city limits. As Swinburne would remark, a bird 
 overhead sang, "Follow !" and another bird sang, "Here !" 
 But the invitation was not accepted ; for how can a newspa- 
 per man accept every invitation that is extended him in these 
 days of puffery and appreciation, unless, indeed (to para- 
 phrase Algernon Charles's verse), a friend down the street 
 cries "Follow," and another one calls out "Beer"? As it 
 was, I sneered at the birds, albeit inwardly enjoying their 
 light and feathery freedom, and betook myself to the some- 
 what commonplace and thankless task of advising unrepent- 
 
214 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ant and vainglorious editors to cease their untimely discus- 
 sions of convention issues. I was engaged in this profitless 
 business when suddenly the door slowly opened, and there 
 appeared upon the threshold the figure of a puffed and 
 bloated and burly person whose drunkenness as he swayed 
 to and fro in the doorway seemed to be perfectly gratuitous. 
 The man whose thoughts had but a moment before been 
 divided between spring and the convention question thought 
 it best to deal facetiously with the large area of intoxication 
 which had thus unexpectedly presented itself. 
 
 "Why, howdy, Jones ! Come right in and make yourself 
 at home. We've been expecting you." 
 
 "Jones be damn! Do I look like a man named Jones? 
 Search me. Fling me down and take out my visiting cards 
 and see if my name's Jones. What sorter game are you 
 trying to play on me now?" 
 
 "Well, of course, Jones, if you are going to deny your 
 patronymic, you can't blame me. It's a mighty easy thing to 
 go. back on your relations. When did you change your 
 name ?" 
 
 "Change nothing. Next thing you know you'll be calling 
 me a burglar and ask me where I made my last raise. I 
 ain't changed my name, and my name ain't Jones, and I 
 ain't no burglar, and I ain't robbed no bank. That's what 
 you'd call — let's see — that's what you'd call autobiography on 
 a small scale, ain't it ?" 
 
 "Certainly, colonel." 
 
 "Colonel of what?" 
 
 "Why, a colonel of society — something of that kind, you 
 know." 
 
 "Well, you can't come that game on me, Colonels don't 
 get hungry in this country; and if they do, I ain't that sort 
 of a colonel. I'm hungry right now, and I wouldn't mind 
 tackling a cooked cow." 
 
 "Well, but a colonel"— 
 
 "O, I know what a colonel ought to be. He ought to be 
 either an insurance man or some sort of a commercial 
 agent, and he oughtn't to be hungry, either." 
 
 "Well, come in and have a seat." 
 
 "That's some consolation, anyhow, 'squire; but a cheer 
 
Early Literary Efforts 215 
 
 with me in it and me with no dinner for two days is a 
 mighty empty concern." 
 
 Looking closely at the puffed and ungainly person of the 
 tramp, I discovered that he was an old acquaintance. We 
 had set type together years ago, but there was no effusive- 
 ness in his recognition when I brought this fact to his at- 
 tention. His reply, however, was characteristic. Drawing 
 a breath so long and deep that a professional novelist would 
 at once have translated it into a heart-rending sigh, he said : 
 
 "Well, some folks is born to luck, and some ain't. Some 
 go up, and some go down. Some get along, and some don't. 
 I'm one of the don'ts." 
 
 "It has been a long time since we met." 
 
 "That's so, 'squire, that's so. And enduring of that time 
 I've seen hell, and a heap of it. I've tramped around con- 
 siderable for a young man." 
 
 "Where have you been?" 
 
 "It 'ud take me a whole week to tell you, and then I'd have 
 to hire a private secretary. First, I went to New York. I 
 had forty-nine dollars in cash money when I landed in the 
 mornin', and by dinner time I didn't have enough to rent a 
 place on the sidewalk where I could eat a piece of orange 
 peelin' in peace. I was on the town." 
 
 "Who got your money?" 
 
 "O, the boys. I give it up to the gang. They went 
 through me. I felt as lonesome as a spring chicken at a 
 camp meetin'. My comb was cut, and I really believe that 
 if I had crawled into the bunghole of a molasses hogshead 
 for a night's lodging some of the chimney sweeps would 
 have sucked me out next morning through a straw. That 
 was my first term at school, so to speak. But I've gradu- 
 ated. I've got so now that when I have money it gets in my 
 way. It worries me like everything. But I ain't been wor- 
 ried much for the past year." 
 
 "Well, how do you manage to get along?" 
 
 "I don't get along. I just live. I'm sufferin' right now 
 for some red liquor; and if I don't get it, somebody's got 
 to hand in their chips — I don't say who. I don't make no 
 threats, but things is culminatin'. The liquor's got to come." 
 
 "You say you've been all around?" 
 
 "From Maine to Mexico and halfway back again; and if 
 
216 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 there was any fun going on, I generally got what I was 
 entitled to." 
 
 "How did you get along?" 
 
 "Jaw, cheek, lip. Gimme a good suit of clothes, and I'll 
 go all over the country free. Jaw is a mighty good thing in 
 a rough-and-tumble argument with a tavern keeper, but 
 you've got to have clothes." 
 
 "Well, how do you get away with hotel keepers ?" 
 
 "Talk. I talk all the time and keep on talking. A man 
 can use his tongue like he does his hand. He can hit a big 
 lick with it, or he can be mighty loving. I've struck 'em 
 sometimes where I've actually had to go out and buy a dol- 
 lar-and-a-half trunk." 
 
 "Buy a trunk! What for?" 
 
 "O, for looks. Looks is everything; and next to clothes, 
 a new trunk is the best. Why, you just go out and buy you 
 a trunk, put twenty-four bricks and a black cravat in it, and 
 damme if you ain't solid for four weeks. The hotel niggers 
 will swear you've got gold in the box, and they'll dance 
 around you worse'n a lot of cannibals around a fat mission- 
 ary. If you don't want to get the bricks — why, you just get 
 you eight screws and you fasten your trunk down to the 
 floor; and when the proprietor sends a nigger to test your 
 baggage, you can just bet your life he will make a good 
 report. A man can board eight weeks on twenty- four 
 bricks if he backs up the weight with his jaw. A man can 
 get along well enough on good clothes ; but with good 
 clothes and a dollar-and-a-half trunk, he can be mighty 
 sumptuous. I'm talkin' sense now, sure's you're born." 
 
 "Do you always find it so easy?" 
 
 "O well, I stuck type till I struck North Carolina, and 
 there I couldn't make money enough to get out of the 
 derned State nohow I could fix it. Then I joined a circus. 
 I driv' tent pins for a week or two, and then I was promoted 
 to tend to the hosses, and I kept on risin' till I got to drivin' 
 the steam pianner. It was Haight's circus. You know 
 Andrew Haight. Well, he's a hellian on wheels, you bet. 
 You oughter seen me in the procession with them four little 
 ponies, all tangled up in the reins and a-pawin' the air. 
 We was a sight, I tell you, and we always caught the 
 crowd." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 217 
 
 "Are you working now?'' 
 
 "O, I'm sorter puttin' in a lick here and a lick there till I 
 can get me some good clothes, and then I'm goin' to board 
 at some of the summer resorts. Can't you set a fellow up 
 for some liquor and a chaw of tobacco?" 
 
 11 
 
 I was sitting at home one Sunday evening a few weeks 
 ago playing with a pair of very "obstropulous" little boys — 
 I believe "obstropulous" is the word — when suddenly I 
 heard some one going along the street humming the words 
 of a French song, a song that was very familiar, for the 
 reason that I had many and many a time heard a little wom- 
 an I know sing it to one or the other of the boys who were 
 at that moment ripping and rearing up and down the piazza. 
 It was some trifle about the evening bells, and, as near as I 
 can remember, the verse which the passer-by was singing 
 was as follows : 
 
 "Quand les cloches du soir, 
 
 Avec leur voix sonore 
 A ton cceur solitaire 
 
 Viendront parler encore; 
 Quand tu n'aura d'ami 
 Ni d'amour pres de toi — 
 Pense a moi, pense a moi, 
 Pense a moi, pense a moi !" 
 
 The oldest little boy heard it too, for he paused in his 
 play and in baby fashion challenged the man who was sing- 
 ing. 
 
 "Hey O !" he bawled. 
 
 The man turned and smiled. It was growing dark, but it 
 was not too dark to see the gleam of his white teeth through 
 his unkempt beard. Pausing thus, he detected a probable 
 welcome in the laughing faces of the little children, where- 
 upon he made bold to open the gate and enter the yard. His 
 vocation was unmistakable. He was a tramp. Every thread 
 of his frayed and dirty garments, every patch, every move- 
 ment of his not ungainly person proclaimed the fact. He 
 came forward with his greasy cap in his hand. Would 
 
218 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 monsieur permit him to look at the beautiful little babies? 
 It will be perceived that the tactics of the man were admi- 
 rable. "Monsieur," thus delicately flattered, had no objec- 
 tion whatever, and the little woman whose delight it is to 
 pet and spoil these same babies had still less. 
 
 Thus I met with Antoine Cadoret. Seated upon the low- 
 est step of the piazza, he told us the story of his wander- 
 ings. He was a French Canadian and came from St. Hya- 
 cinthe, in the province of Quebec. He was now on his way 
 from Florida to his Northern home, and — would monsieur 
 believe it ? — he had eaten nothing for twelve hours. 
 
 This, the reader will admit, was far, very far removed 
 from the usual style of soliciting. The suggestion was 
 graceful, and the result, as far as our poor larder extended, 
 was gracious. 
 
 Had he traveled much ? Ah ! yes, very much. When the 
 good God took away his mother and his sister, he became 
 a wanderer. He had been a farmer, a fireman upon a loco- 
 motive, a vendor of plaster-of-Paris figures, a violinist in 
 an orchestra, a tenor in a negro minstrel show. Did he get 
 along well ? Thank heaven, yes ! The people were kind. 
 Why did he not remain in the negro minstrel business? 
 Didn't it pay? 
 
 "Ah! monsieur, you cannot know. I was not free. I 
 did not belong to myself. I could not face the big lights, 
 and when the people give me encore they raise a dust that 
 was stifling. I ask myself, 'What do I here?' and my heart 
 make answer and say: 'You do nothing.' There were no 
 more trees, no more sunshine. It was all night. And then 
 the dust. Ah ! monsieur, you cannot know of the greatness 
 of the dust and the heat. It was not like the broad road. 
 There they have the dust, but also they have the air. Ah ! 
 that is something — the air! But then we cannot have all 
 things." 
 
 "Did you quit the minstrels?" 
 "Well, yes, monsieur. I could not stay." 
 Antoine Cadoret was a character. There is no doubt of 
 that. He was a tramp, but he did not carry the credentials 
 of one. There was no trace of whisky about him. He was 
 dirty and yet not repugnant ; he was communicative and yet 
 not impertinent. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 219 
 
 "Would you like something to eat ?" 
 
 "Well, monsieur can judge," with that indescribable dep- 
 recating shrug of the shoulders and gesture of the hands 
 that only a Frenchman can make. "I have had no food for 
 twelve hours." 
 
 At this juncture the little woman who is responsible for 
 my domestic comforts spoke to him in his native tongue, 
 using such colloquialisms as would remind him of his home 
 in the province of Quebec. I wish you could have seen the 
 face of this poor wanderer, Antoine Cadoret. It was a 
 study. Tears came into his eyes, and for a moment he could 
 not speak. And then he began to rattle off his French 
 thanks in a way that was quite bewildering; but the "ma- 
 dame" had gone to get him a supply of provisions, so that 
 this surprising volubility was altogether wasted. When 
 his rations did appear, he seized upon them with an avidity 
 and dispatched them with an earnestness that would have 
 done credit to a Confederate soldier in the Virginia cam- 
 paign. The children presided at the dinner and, in spite of 
 all the "madame" could say or do, insisted upon having their 
 share of Cadoret's viands — "viands," I believe, is the regula- 
 tion word. 
 
 His meal apparently stimulated his volubility. He talked 
 of himself and of Canada, of his mother and his sister, who 
 were dead long ago — of everything. He was a man of ideas 
 and education, but his passionate love of nature had made 
 him a vagabond. All this and much more we gathered from 
 his conversation. He knew the note of every bird, the name 
 of every flower ; and his love for the woods, for everything 
 that is wild and free, was intense and ungovernable and be- 
 yond even his own comprehension. 
 
 After a moment of strange silence — strange, indeed, fol- 
 lowing so closely upon the heels of his volubility — he said : 
 
 "Would madame and monsieur object to a song, a little 
 English ballad?" 
 
 Not at all. On the contrary, "madame" and "monsieur" 
 had been anxious to hear him sing. Whereupon this ragged 
 outcast, measuring effects with the eye of an artist, took up 
 his stand somewhere between the piazza and the gate and, 
 leaning upon his rough staff, sang the old, old song of "Katie 
 Darling." I despair of describing to you the voice of this 
 
220 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 man. I might say it was plaintively tender and sweet. I 
 might say it was unsurpassed in volume and compass. I 
 might say it was exquisitely flexible. But how poor these 
 comparisons appear when I recall the effect of the song! 
 There was some occult quality of tone and expression subtle 
 enough to escape all analysis, sweet enough to suggest tears 
 rather than criticism. I have heard many famous singers, 
 but never one who sang like Antoine Cadoret. Two lovers 
 upon an adjoining piazza, who had amused us by their silly 
 giggling, instinctively clasped hands and listened. A crip- 
 ple hobbling upon his crutches paused as the wonderful 
 voice fell upon his ear. A courtesan, trailing her scarlet 
 robes of sin on the other side of the street, stopped to listen 
 and then passed into the darkness weeping. Something 
 not in the song, but in the quality of the voice, suggested all 
 that was beautiful in life and desirable in death. 
 
 The visions of youth and hope were summoned to life 
 again. Ah ! had you been there, gentle reader, the ghost of 
 your dead lover would have arisen from the grave of the 
 past pale and patient and tender. Your youth would have 
 stood before you in all the freshness and purity of the olden 
 days. The romance that the cares of business have long 
 since banished from your memory would have confronted 
 you with outstretched hands and appealing eyes. In the 
 gathering dusk the dear girl who died so many years ago, 
 the little child for whom you mourned so long, the mother 
 who long since passed from death unto life, the wife who 
 was so patient and forgiving, the friend who was so brave 
 and forbearing would all have clustered around you, sum- 
 moned from the past by the magic of Antoine Cadoret. 
 
 But the song came to an end, and the singer went on his 
 way. 
 
 "May the good God bless you, madame, and your hus- 
 band and the little children ! I shall keep you in my heart." 
 
 So, with a bow which was very perfection of grace, An- 
 toine Cadoret, the tramp, passed out of the gate and went 
 up the street, humming 
 
 "Quand les cloches du soir." 
 
 And it happened, as he passed out of view, that the evening 
 bells were ringing. A vote was taken, the result of which 
 
Early Literary Efforts 221 
 
 was received with loud applause by the "madame" and the 
 babies. We voted unanimously : "Good luck to Antoine Ca- 
 doret." 
 
 Long before this he is well on his way to Canada. He 
 has passed into the green depths and through the dappled 
 shadows of many an inviting forest ; and many a love-lorn 
 maiden, I wot, leaning from her window, has dropped her 
 fair face upon her bosom and wept at the voice of this most 
 musical vagabond, wafted to her in all its tender sweetness 
 upon the odorous winds of spring. J. C. H. 
 
 PROEMIAL TO PUTNAM* 
 
 Being the Return of a Young Man to the Halls of His Fathers 
 
 The Big Yellow Cat and the Fat Baby — An Hour's Lecture from a 
 Live Colonel and a Sudden Dive Deep Down into His Memory. 
 
 The old- proverb says that chickens always come home to 
 roost; and, stirred by the same instinct, I make frequent 
 visits to Putnam County. Putnam, it must be remembered, 
 has produced some rather famous people. The Lamars, 
 "including Mirabeau and L. Q. C, first saw the light within 
 its borders. So did the Meriwethers. So did the Bledsoes. 
 So did the Branhams. So did William H. and Garrett 
 Sparks. So did Colonel Tom Hardeman, of Macon. And 
 so did a great many other notable people. It is a little cu- 
 rious, too, that those who were born among the old red hills 
 of Putnam develop, once a year, as regularly as the seasons 
 come and go, an intolerable desire to return and wander 
 aimlessly and pleasantly among the people and the scenes 
 they knew of yore. This desire has developed into an in- 
 stinct with me, and scarcely a season passes that I do not 
 return to get a whiff of the dust that the breezes of spring 
 wantonly set afloat. 
 
 A little while ago I concluded to make a visit to the neigh- 
 borhood where, for a few months during his early career, 
 the late Secretary Seward brandished the birch of the coun- 
 try schoolmaster. A few years ago I was perfectly familiar 
 with everybody and everything in that section. But time 
 brings about many changes — changes the character and ex- 
 
 1 Compare "Seward's Georgia Sweetheart," page 201, 
 
222 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 tent of which it is impossible to anticipate. The fields had 
 taken new shapes. The public road made strange and puz- 
 zling detours. The very air seemed different. There is 
 something pathetic in the eagerness with which one who 
 has been long absent from his home strives to recognize old 
 landmarks and to locate familiar places. Once upon a time 
 — ah ! that happy, happy time ! — I knew every feature of the 
 landscape in that beloved land. The trees nodded to me as 
 one friend nods to another. The tall corn waved its soft 
 salutations. The ground squirrel, as swift as a beam of 
 light, paused on the lower rail of the fence and winked at 
 me in no unwelcome mood. And even Dick Griffin's brindle 
 cur, noted for his fierceness, would cease to bay and tug at 
 his chain. 
 
 But, alas ! all this was changed. Unfamiliar growths of 
 pine met my eye on every side. Whole forests had disap- 
 peared. Negro cabins, as plentiful and seemingly as un- 
 substantial as mushrooms, dotted the land. The ground 
 squirrel flitted along the fence like a shadow and suddenly 
 dived into a hole, where, no doubt, filled with fear and ap- 
 prehension, he told his little family of the advent of a 
 stranger. Even the little village of Rockville was changed. 
 New clearings had been made, two stores had been built, an 
 additional saloon had put in an appearance, and various 
 other improvements had been made — at least they were 
 called improvements — but, to my mind, the little place would 
 have improved by remaining as it was. 
 
 About two miles northeast of Rockville is a settlement 
 known throughout the country as Turnwold. It was here 
 that the first, last, and only country newspaper was ever 
 printed, and it was here that William H. Seward figured 
 for a brief period as a Georgia schoolmaster. It was dark 
 and raining when I arrived at Turnwold, and I made bold 
 to ride for the first light I saw. The sound of my horse's 
 hoofs aroused the kennel, which is attached to every coun- 
 try establishment, and I pretty soon discovered that the 
 beacon which had been my guide streamed from the window 
 of a substantial and comfortable-looking farmhouse. I 
 finally succeeded in making myself heard; and a man, whose 
 voice sounded cheery enough through the mist and the driz- 
 zle, came to the door. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 223 
 
 "Kin wc take you in? Well, I reckin we kin, ef thar ain't 
 more'n a dozen un you, an* ef you're right shore you ain't 
 no inshorence agent ner no sowin' machine man ner yit a 
 book peddler." 
 
 I promptly disavowed any connection whatever with these 
 light but lucrative occupations; and the farmer, with that 
 bluff hospitality characteristic of his class, responded: 
 
 "All a-settin', 'squire. You don't talk glib enough fer one 
 o' them fellers. I reckin you better light whilst I chunk off 
 them cussed dogs. They git right nasty w'en they snuff a 
 stranger. They come ding nigh chawin' up a pianner chuner 
 las' week. He scuffled like a grown man an' squalled like a 
 sixteen-year-old gal with a green lizard down her back." 
 
 I had known mine host of old, but I waited before mak- 
 ing myself known, to see if he wouldn't recognize me. 
 
 "Jes' walk right in, 'squire, while I get your creetur in 
 out o' the wet." 
 
 It was an exceedingly pleasant home to which my hospi- 
 table friend thus informally introduced me. Upon every side 
 the evidences of comfort and happiness, of honest industry 
 and hearty enjoyment were abundant. Upon everything, 
 from the large yellow cat purring softly and sleepily by the 
 hearthside to the spinning wheel in the corner, the peace and 
 repose of content seemed to have settled. The matronly- 
 looking wife, with her pleasant smile, and the daughter, 
 with her graceful form, black eyes, and beautiful hair, 
 who might have sat for a picture of Bret Harte's "Miggles," 
 together with the abnormally fat and exceedingly cheerful 
 baby, formed an interesting group. And then there was an 
 affable and dignified old gentleman whom the ladies called 
 "Colonel." 
 
 Suddenly, while I was playing with the fat baby and men- 
 tally calculating how many pounds of sausage he would 
 make if carefully ground up, the young girl with the beau- 
 tiful hair gave a smothered scream. 
 
 "Why, law, ma !" and then she rushed to the door. "Pap, 
 O pap, come here !" 
 
 "Pap," thus summarily summoned, not responding, the 
 girl bounced out into the mist and rain and in a few min- 
 utes returned with "pap" in tow. She had recognized me, 
 
224 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 and mine host came back with the most hospitable impreca- 
 tions upon his lips. 
 
 "Well, dog on my cats ! Ef this don't beat the Jews ! 
 A-runnin' up on me out thar in the dark an' never savin' 
 who's who. Well, dang my buttons!" after shaking my 
 hand with a heartiness that one never meets with in cities. 
 "How you have come out ! Ain't he growed, mother? He 
 used to be slim ez a tapeworm. Well, ding my hide !" 
 
 Everybody joined in the enthusiasm that is so grateful to 
 those who fear they have been forgotten. Even the baby 
 cooed and laughed in a manner which the mother said was 
 quite unusual even for so precocious an infant. They were 
 all enthusiastic but the "Colonel." He merely rubbed his 
 venerable forehead with the end of his walking cane and 
 gazed abstractedly into the fire. It was apparent enough 
 that my advent had interrupted the Colonel's statement of 
 some theory of religion or politics, for no sooner had com- 
 parative quiet been restored than he turned to me and re- 
 marked in the tone of one suddenly resuming a suspended 
 argument : 
 
 "We must have sistim, sir — sistim in guvunment an' sis- 
 tim in farmin'. Thar's got to be a change. We can't go 
 on at this rate, sir. We've got to move up nigher to econ- 
 omy. We've got to fetch things back whar they started 
 frum. Sistim is the thing. Why, sir, ef it wuzent fur sis- 
 tim in natur', the intire whatshi name would drap back 
 into the origernel whatyoumaycallem." 
 
 I readily assented to his somewhat dubious proposition; 
 and the Colonel, thinking he had found a fresh recruit, pro- 
 ceeded to talk in the same strain for an hour or more. I 
 finally found an opportunity to have some conversation on 
 a subject of my own choosing. 
 
 "Colonel, did you ever know a man named Seward, who 
 once taught school in this neighborhood ?" 
 
 "When might that have been?" asked the Colonel some- 
 what cautiously. 
 
 "About the year 1819." 
 
 "Seward, S-e-w-a-r-d," said the Colonel, reflectively rub- 
 bing his cane against his forehead. "Lemme see. There 
 was Pute Seward, that used to live on the Billy Walker 
 place ; but he was drowned at Armor's Ferry." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 22$ 
 
 "Thar was Buck Seward/' suggested mine host. 
 
 "He looked like keepin' school," said the Colonel deri- 
 sively. "He couldn't keep hisself. Babe Folsom put his 
 light out at Harmony Grove. No," continued the Colonel, 
 "I disremember any sich man." 
 
 And yet, notwithstanding that the Colonel failed to re- 
 member the fact, the late Secretary Seward taught school 
 within three-quarters of a mile of where we were then sit- 
 ting, nearly sixty years ago. Or, to be more exact, on the 
 2d of March, 1819, the following advertisement appeared in 
 the columns of the Milledgeville Journal: 
 
 "Union Academy. — The friends of science are respect- 
 fully informed that a private academy has lately been estab- 
 lished in the neighborhood of Major William Alexander, 
 Mr. William Ward, and Colonel William E. Adams, in Put- 
 nam County, on a site obtained from Francis Ward, Esq., 
 not far from Garner's Ferry, and will go into operation on 
 the 19th of April. The academy edifice, which will be ready 
 for the reception of students by that day, will be spacious 
 and commodious, adapted to the accommodation of eighty 
 to one hundred scholars in two schools. The rector, 
 Mr. William H. Seward, is late from Union College, New 
 York, from which institution he comes highly recommended 
 as a young gentleman of good moral character and distin- 
 guished industry and literary acquirements. He will teach 
 the Latin and Greek languages, theoretical and practical 
 Mathematics, Logic, Rhetoric, Nature and Moral Philoso- 
 phy, Chemistry, Geography, English Grammar, and such oth- 
 er branches as are usually taught in Northern colleges. The 
 common branches of education — spelling, reading, writing, 
 etc. — will, of course, be taught in this institution. The price 
 of instruction will be $15, §22, or $30, according to the 
 branches taught. Board may be had in respectable families 
 at a sum not exceeding $125. From the respectability and 
 acknowledged heartiness of the neighborhood, the cheapness 
 of board and tuition, and the qualifications of the rector, the 
 trustees feel warranted in recommending this infant estab- 
 lishment to the attention of the public. Persons disposed to 
 send their children will enter them without delay with the 
 Treasurer, Major William Alexander, designating the stud- 
 15 
 
226 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ies they wish them to pursue, in order that the requisite aid 
 may be procured for Mr. Seward ; it being understood also 
 that if any students are excluded for the want of room they 
 must be from among those last entered. Communications 
 directed through the medium of the post office in Eatonton 
 to William H. Seward, Rector of Union Academy, or to 
 William Turner, Secretary, or to William Alexander, Treas- 
 urer of the Board of Trustees of Union Academy, the post- 
 age being duly paid, will receive prompt attention. By or- 
 der of the trustees. William Turner, Secretary." 
 
 The tradition is that Seward, who was at that time a 
 young graduate, had some misunderstanding with his father 
 which led him to abandon the paternal roof tree and drift 
 southward. He came highly recommended and was at once 
 employed by the trustees of Union Academy at a salary of 
 about eight hundred dollars a year. Union Academy was 
 one of the first institutions of the kind established in Geor- 
 gia and, during the short time that Seward officiated as its 
 principal, was one of the best and most popular. It opened 
 on the 19th of April with sixty-five pupils, and a month 
 later the number had increased to more than seventy. 
 
 Seward's experience as a Georgia schoolmaster was very 
 short. After he had taken charge of the school and seemed 
 securely settled in the quiet little neighborhood, it is said 
 that he wrote to his father informing him of his where- 
 abouts. Pretty soon thereafter a Mr. Philo D. Woodruff 
 was sent out by the elder Seward to fill the place of his son 
 as teacher. Woodruff, to refer to him briefly here, finally 
 settled in Greensboro; and when Seward came south years 
 afterwards as ex-Governor of New York, he found his 
 friend Philo married and settled, and he spoke of him as 
 "fat, uncouth, and prosperous." 
 
 This, however, by the way. Whatever difference existed 
 between the Sewards, father and son, was amicably settled ; 
 for within a very few months Woodruff was installed as the 
 principal of Union Academy, the trustees relieving Seward 
 from the obligation of his contract. 
 
 Great changes have taken place in Turnwold since Se- 
 ward's rectorship of Union Academy. The trustees have all 
 passed away. The dwelling house and plantation of Major 
 
Early Literary Efforts 227 
 
 William Alexander, the father of Colonel P. W. Alexander, 
 was purchased by William Turner and was for many years 
 before and during the war the residence of the late Joseph 
 A. Turner, a publicist of large local reputation, who during 
 the war edited and printed upon his plantation that unique 
 little publication, The Countryman. 
 
 The site of Union Academy was in the midst of a wood, 
 about three hundred yards from the public road and near a 
 clear, cool spring. A few years ago a little mound of earth, 
 a few crumbling bricks, and a decaying sill showed where 
 the building had stood; but now even these signs have dis- 
 appeared. When I visited the place the other day, accom- 
 panied by my cheery host, an unseasonable mocking bird was 
 singing in an acacia near where the schoolhouse had stood, 
 but a flame-colored oriole flitted uneasily among the green 
 leaves of an oak tree. My farmer friend readily remem- 
 bered the local tradition that "Bill" Seward, as he called 
 him, had taught in the neighborhood. 
 
 "Ross Adams used to go to school to Seward," said he, 
 "and some of the Terrells, I reckon. Seward wuz one o' 
 the Abolitionist kind, wuzn't he?" 
 
 "Slightly on that line." 
 
 "Yes, durn him ! Him an' his kind fotch on the war. It 
 would 'a' bin a mighty good move to 'a' chained him down 
 here w'en we had him." 
 
 In 1846 Mr. Seward visited the neighborhood where he 
 had once officiated as the principal of Union Academy and 
 called upon Major Alexander, in whose hospitable house he 
 had made his home. The conversation that ensued has been, 
 in part, preserved among the records of William Turner, 
 who, as has been stated, was the Secretary of the Board of 
 Trustees of the Academy. Seward was accompanied by 
 Woodruff; and when they visited Major Alexander, Wood- 
 ruff asked : 
 
 "Don't you know this man, Major?" 
 
 "I do not," said Major Alexander. 
 
 "But you do know him well. You have seen him often 
 before." 
 
 "I can't make him out." 
 
 "This is Ex-Governor Seward, of New York, who once 
 taught school here and boarded with you." 
 
228 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "It is impossible." 
 
 "Well, it is Seward, certain." 
 
 "Well, it may be; but if it is Seward, his head is not half 
 so red as it used to be. Come in, Mr. Seward. How do you 
 do? I am glad to see you." 
 
 And this was the last that Georgia saw of Seward. 
 
 J. C. H. 
 
 ONE MAN'S HISTORY 
 
 The Story of a Man Named Jones 
 
 The Faithfulness of a Fair Woman — Uncle Davy Roach's Comments 
 — How Judge Clements Lost a Son-in-Law — A Letter from "Jeb" 
 Stuart. 
 
 I 
 
 Having occasion recently to hunt through the files of 
 the Rockville Record and Vindicator, which had been faith- 
 fully kept by the ordinary of the county, my eye fell upon 
 two very curious items in the columns of that exceedingly 
 able journal. Why these items should attract the attention 
 of one who was merely searching for an advertisement is 
 more than I can say, but I append them not only as ex- 
 planatory of the facts that afterwards came to my knowl- 
 edge, but as specimens of vigorous English. The first ex- 
 tract is from the paper dated May 18, 1854, and is as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 "Our young friend John Jones, who has been for several 
 years superintending the large planting interests of Judge 
 Horatio Clements, suddenly disappeared on Sunday of last 
 week and has not been heard of since. There are various 
 rumors afloat in regard to this mystifying occurrence, some 
 of which go so far as to charge him with forging the name 
 of the distinguished gentleman in whose employ he has 
 been for several years." 
 
 The next extract is from the paper bearing date of June 
 1, 1854: 
 
 "We were much pleased on Thursday last to receive a 
 visit from our distinguished fellow citizen, Judge Horatio 
 Clements, and his charming daughter, Miss Mary Clements, 
 who came to investigate the mysteries of 'the art preserva- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 229 
 
 tive.' It is, indeed, encouraging to the weary editor when 
 beauty condescends to smile upon his labors. 
 
 "In this connection it gives us pleasure to state that the 
 rumors recently circulated to the effect that our young friend 
 John Jones had forged the name of Judge Clements are 
 utterly unfounded. The Judge says he never knew a nobler 
 or a truer man, and we ourselves unhesitatingly bear wit- 
 ness to the fact. Thus far, however, nothing has been 
 heard of Mr. Jones." 
 
 As I have said, I cannot explain why these paragraphs 
 should have attracted my attention, nor do I care to explain 
 it. The fact itself is sufficient. I read them aloud to the 
 ordinary, a fat, bald-headed, commonplace sort of person. 
 
 "Do you know Judge Clements?" I asked. 
 
 "I ought to. I married his daughter." 
 
 "Your wife, then, is the Miss Mary alluded to here?" 
 
 "No. I married her sister." 
 
 "Was Jones ever heard from?" 
 
 "O yes. Years afterwards I heard from Jones." 
 
 "Why did he go away so suddenly?" 
 
 "I'll tell you what," said the ordinary with sudden ani- 
 mation, "if you'll go up and take dinner with me, I'll give 
 you Jones's history. It's curious, very curious." 
 
 Of course I accepted the ordinary's invitation. Free 
 lunches are acceptable enough to newspaper men, but when 
 it comes to a whole dinner it amounts to something like a 
 treat. I went, enjoyed the ordinary's hospitality, met his 
 wife, a faded little blonde, and was introduced to Miss 
 Mary, who even at the age of forty was one of the most 
 remarkably beautiful women I have ever seen. I use the 
 word "beautiful" because no other adequate description oc- 
 curs to me now. She was not beautiful as beauty goes now- 
 adays, but she possessed that charm of manner and of ex- 
 pression that far surpasses all beauty, and her eyes reminded 
 me of those I have seen in portraits which follow you with 
 sad inquisitiveness wherever you go and haunt you for 
 years and years afterwards. That afternoon the ordinary, 
 sitting on his verandah and lazily drawing consolation from 
 a clay pipe, solved for me the mystery of Jones's disap- 
 pearance. 
 
 I shall not attempt to tell the story in the words of the 
 
230 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ordinary. He took a practical view of the matter totally 
 at variance with the facts in the case. 
 
 John Jones was a native of Virginia. He came to Geor- 
 gia when quite a hoy, attracted the notice of Judge Clem- 
 ents, was employed by him, and finally was promoted to 
 the position of superintendent of the Judge's two planta- 
 tions, which joined each other. The Judge, like Jephthah, 
 had a daughter whom he loved passing well. She had stud- 
 ied in Baltimore, New York, and in Europe, and she returned 
 shortly after Jones had been made the confidential adviser 
 of the Judge and the superintendent of his affairs. I have 
 been shown a photograph of Jones, or, rather I should say, 
 an ambrotype (how these old-fashioned things confuse 
 one!) ; and although it was somewhat faded, it gave a fair 
 representation of the man at the time of his disappearance. 
 There was nothing remarkable about the face except its 
 firmness. The singular mildness of the blue eyes was re- 
 lieved by the square chin, and there was something in the 
 pose of the picture that gave unmistakable evidence of 
 strength of will and unconquerable pride. 
 
 If I were writing you a story, I might go on and elabo- 
 rate these things, as is the custom of those who give them- 
 selves over to the fascinations of fiction; but as I am writ- 
 ing of that which is known to hundreds who read the Con- 
 stitution, I prefer to confine myself to a prosy narration of 
 facts, but at the same time I propose to narrate these facts 
 in my own way. 
 
 11 
 
 One day it was given out that Miss Mary was to return, 
 and orders were issued that the carriage should be ready 
 the next morning to meet the train at Rockville. The Judge 
 and his wife were to go, and there were a dozen neighbors 
 ready to accompany them, all dying, as they said, to wel- 
 come Miss Mary. Jones did not join in the general en- 
 thusiasm. He remembered Miss Mary only as an awk- 
 ward schoolgirl, who was always ready to tease and vex 
 him, and who upon various occasions had made him pain- 
 fully aware that his position was that of a hireling. He 
 attributed these things to the thoughtlessness of youth and 
 forgave them accordingly, but the remembrance of them 
 
Early Literary Efforts 231 
 
 was not pleasant. Nevertheless, he would be glad to see 
 her back. It would enliven the old place and probably add 
 to the cheerfulness of his friend the Judge, who had been 
 growing feeble and languid of late. He discovered, more- 
 over, that he would have business in Rockville on the very 
 day Miss Mary was to return, and long before the carriage 
 was ready he had mounted his horse and gone. Strange 
 as it may appear, when Jones arrived in Rockville, he sud- 
 denly became convinced that the business which carried him 
 there could be as well transacted any other day, and this 
 conviction made him restless, uneasy, and dissatisfied. His 
 first impulse was to return to the plantation, but he did not 
 follow ; and it was an hour after the Clements carriage had 
 rolled out of the village that he spurred his gray into a 
 gallop and went clattering down the dusty road. In a half 
 hour he caught sight of the lumbering vehicle creeping over 
 the red hills. In a moment he had passed it, lifting his hat 
 and bending low to the saddle as he did so. 
 
 "Who is that, papa?" asked Miss Mary as this athletic 
 and sun-burned vision went by. 
 
 "That's John, our John," replied the Judge. "Don't you 
 remember John Jones?" 
 
 "I think he might have stopped, if only for old acquaint- 
 ance sake," responded Miss Mary. 
 
 "You must remember, Mary," said Mrs. Judge Clements, 
 snapping her little black eyes and moistening her cold, thin 
 lips, "that you are no longer a child. It would have been 
 highly improper in Jones to have stopped, and he knows 
 it." 
 
 "But, mother, he is one of us," said the Judge somewhat 
 petulantly. 
 
 "He is among us, but not of us," responded the aristo- 
 cratic old lady with some asperity. 
 
 The Judge remained silent, and Miss Mary, looking out 
 of the window upon the waving fields of wheat and corn, 
 allowed her thoughts to stray after the not unhandsome 
 horseman who had just passed them. As for the horseman 
 himself, he rode on with little thought of those in the car- 
 riage, and he was just about to urge his gray into a faster 
 pace when he heard a noise from the direction of the car- 
 
2$2 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 riage that caused him to turn in his saddle. He saw at a 
 glance that there was some trouble and, without in the least 
 abating the speed of his horse, wheeled and went back. 
 
 "What is the matter here?" he asked of the negro driver. 
 
 "I dunno, Mars John. Dis here off hoss has done gone 
 an' tuk de studs ag'in." 
 
 "Did you strike him?" 
 
 "I gin 'im one or two right smart cuts, Mars John." 
 
 "You ought to have had them yourself," sharply and 
 curtly. "Get down from there. Take my horse and go 
 home." 
 
 Dismounting, Jones took the seat of the driver and, with- 
 out even so much as a look at those who sat upon the in- 
 side, seized the reins and drove homeward. His voice, 
 cheery, cool, and confident, acted like magic upon the obsti- 
 nate horse, who promptly bent down to his work, and in a 
 few minutes the carriage was spinning along at a rapid 
 rate. 
 
 "He didn't use the whip once," said Miss Mary after 
 they were all safe at home. 
 
 "He doesn't need to," replied the Judge with a considera- 
 ble show of interest. "He is a wonderful man. There isn't 
 a nigger on my place that wouldn't die for him. He never 
 gets into a passion." 
 
 "He knows how to make his way," said Mrs. Judge 
 Clements spitefully. 
 
 in 
 
 I need not detain you with my detailed account of the 
 history of John Jones. It is enough to know that he fell 
 in love with Mary Clements and that this love was recipro- 
 cated. This strong man gave himself up entirely to the 
 whims and caprices of the wayward girl. He was another 
 being entirely. Always gentle and patient, he came to bring 
 these qualities to rare perfection. But all this was to end. 
 It soon became bruited about that John Jones was to marry 
 Mary Clements, and then the gossips began their work. 
 One day, and the last he ever saw of Rockville, Jones was 
 in the post office waiting for the mail. He was sitting upon 
 a sofa through which the springs displayed themselves 
 
Early Literary Efforts 233 
 
 with painful distinctness, when suddenly two ladies came 
 in — Mrs. Meriwether and Mrs. Ashurst. 
 
 "Did you hear the news about Mary Clements?" asked 
 one. 
 
 "About her marriage?" 
 
 "Yes. They say she is about to disgrace herself and her 
 family by marrying her father's overseer." 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 "That's what they say." 
 
 "Well, he can't be much of a man to drag a girl down 
 like that." 
 
 "Hearing all this, Jones folded up the paper he had been 
 reading, placed it carefully away in his pocket, and rode 
 home. His mind was made up. He would bring no dis- 
 grace on the woman he loved. He had been foolish ; he 
 had been mistaken ; he had committed an error. No wom- 
 an claiming him as husband should ever say that he had 
 disgraced her, least of all the fair, proud girl who in her 
 queenly way had so often told him that she loved him. His 
 duty was plain. In this mood he went home, and in this 
 mood the next day he sought out the Judge. He was met in 
 the hallway by the Judge's wife. She was brisk in her 
 manners and brusque with her tongue. 
 
 "I have heard some strange rumors about you and Mary 
 lately, John. The idea has somehow got abroad that you 
 are to marry her. This is very embarrassing to us." 
 
 "It need not embarrass you, Mrs. Clements," with a smile 
 which haunted the cold-blooded little woman for years 
 afterwards. "There is nothing of it." 
 
 "O, I know that, John !" with an emphasis that must have 
 cut the man to the quick. "I know that, of course, but the 
 rumor is embarrassing because it is so absurd." 
 
 With this Jones passed into the library, where the Judge 
 was poring over some political pamphlet, and Mrs. Judge 
 Clements went her way. She knew well enough that her 
 mission had been accomplished. Jones was slow to speak 
 when he entered the presence of the Judge. He had known 
 and loved the old man for years, and it was hard to part 
 with him. 
 
 Jones walked to the library window and looked out upon 
 
234 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the lawn and the green fields beyond. It was hard, but it 
 must be done; and so with great brevity and without even 
 remotely hinting at the cause, he gave the Judge to under- 
 stand that business of a peculiar kind would call him away 
 for a few weeks. 
 
 "But you are coming back, John ? We couldn't get along 
 without you, you know." 
 
 "I cannot tell, sir. I am in deep trouble. I cannot tell." 
 
 It is useless to give the details of the conversation be- 
 tween Jones and Judge Clements. I have them only by 
 hearsay. It is known, however, that when Jones came from 
 the library he looked as though he had been weeping, and 
 it was months and months before the Judge ever crossed 
 his own threshold. 
 
 The old negro who held Jones's horse while he was talk- 
 ing with the Judge is probably the only person now living 
 who could give any testimony as to his appearance and de- 
 meanor. 
 
 "I wuz holdin' un de hoss jess same like I hoi' enny 
 udder hoss," said the aged darky to the writer hereof, "an' 
 Mars John he come outen de big house lookin' like sumpin' 
 wuz agwine ter happin, en shore 'nuff it did happen. He 
 tuk his fiddle off'n de groun' whar I'd laid it an' called his 
 dog outen de yard. Den he cotch me by de han' an' shuk 
 it right hearty an' said: 'Tom, ole fellow, I'm gwine 'way. 
 Look arter things while I'm gone.' He 'peared ter me, 
 boss, like he wuz sorter dazed." 
 
 Strapping his violin case to the saddle, John Jones 
 mounted his horse, spurred the spirited animal into a gal- 
 lop, and henceforth those who had known him so well knew 
 him only as a memory. He paused but once. Reaching 
 the brow of a hill that overlooked the country for miles 
 around, he turned and looked back. Upon the lawn he saw 
 a fair young girl sauntering along swinging her straw hat, 
 while waves of wind rippled over the ripening grain and 
 swept through the rustling corn. A negro was singing in 
 the fields below, and the melody, plaintive and suggestive, 
 floated up to him. It was his last glimpse of all that he 
 loved best. He turned his horse's head to the north. His 
 dog, which had waited for him in the road, sprang forward 
 with a joyous bark, and man and horse and dog plunged 
 
Early Literary Efforts ^35 
 
 into the cool, green depths of the wood. A little cloud of 
 dust rising about the trees marked their course for a few 
 moments, but even this frail vestige vanished before a pass- 
 ing breeze and with it the last trace of John Jones. 
 
 IV 
 
 The following letter, a copy of which I have been per- 
 mitted to make from the original, will explain itself. With 
 the single exception that the man of whom I have been 
 writing was not named Jones (and I may as well confess 
 that all the names I have used are fictitious), the letter is 
 a true and faithful copy: 
 
 "My Dear Sir: My duties have been such that I could 
 not conveniently reply to your letter of inquiry at once. I 
 knew Captain Jones long and intimately, both before and 
 during the war. He has been with me in nearly all my 
 campaigns, and a braver soldier or a more chivalrous gen- 
 tleman never lived. He told me his history ; and if you hap- 
 pen to be related to the lady whom he loved so dearly, you 
 will tell her for me that his last thoughts were of her. I 
 can sympathize with you most heartily. I have recently 
 lost a dear little child, and it seems to me that I can more 
 thoroughly appreciate the losses of others than ever before. 
 Captain Jones fell while leading his comrades in a charge. 
 He died the death of a young soldier. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, J. E. B. Stuart." 
 
 Miss Mary has turned her hand to works of charity, but 
 it must be a pleasant experience to her to dream of her stal- 
 wart young lover as one who in the golden days of the 
 Confederacy's immortal youth rode through the greenwood 
 side by side with the prince of Southern cavaliers, per- 
 chance giving his sonorous voice to swell the volume of 
 Stuart's favorite song: 
 
 "Sweet Evalina ! Dear Evalina ! 
 My love for you will never, never die." 
 
 J. C. H. 
 
236 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 A ROMANTIC RASCAL* 
 
 The Story of a Brilliant Bohemian 
 
 Colonel Plimpton and His Contemporaries — The Experience of an 
 Associate Editor — John Frazer's Two Visitors — A Twin Sister of 
 Sorrow — The Life and Love of Jane Chichester — The Yellow 
 Fever Plague of 1854 and the Horrors of the September Cyclone. 
 
 On the night of the nth of October, 1853, Mr. John 
 Frazer, associate editor of the Savannah Daily Pilot and 
 Expositor, sat in the sanctum of that prosperous and in- 
 fluential journal brewing a pot of coffee preparatory to in- 
 dulging in a sumptuous lunch of bread and cheese and cold 
 ham. To all appearances the hour was propitious, for Mr. 
 Frazer was in a cheerful frame of mind. Forty years ago 
 this very night, according to a well-remembered family tra- 
 dition, he had been ushered into the world, and he was 
 celebrating in this informal and inexpensive manner the 
 anniversary of that important event. 
 
 What had not fortune done for him? Here he was in 
 the prime of life, so to speak, married to the best woman 
 the sun ever shone on, with four promising children and 
 a comfortable salary of twenty dollars a week. He re- 
 membered, moreover, with a glow of pride as he gazed into 
 the flickering grate that he was professionally associated 
 with Col. Ajex Plimpton, the noted political writer and 
 party leader. And in those days this fact implied a good deal. 
 
 Journalism in Savannah — indeed, throughout the coun- 
 try — was vastly different in 1853 from what it is now. 
 Papers were valued as party organs rather than as vehicles 
 of the latest news. It was preeminently the age of political 
 discussion. Party feeling ran tumultuously high, and the 
 choicest items of sensational news gave way before the 
 transcendent importance of ponderous polemical essays on 
 the state of the country. I grieve to say that in the speci- 
 mens of this literature which have fallen under my observa- 
 tion serenity of expression, argumentative dignity, and equa- 
 
 1 Harris was associate editor of the Savannah Morning News 
 from 1870 to 1876. See Part I. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 237 
 
 nimity of treatment are not always perfectly maintained, 
 and it is to be feared that in those days that paper was most 
 popular with the reading men of all parties whose editor 
 wielded the most ferociously personal pen and oftenest dis- 
 regarded the amenities of the profession. 
 
 I regret that the limits of this brief chronicle will not 
 justify me in quoting in full the short but sharp contro- 
 versy between Major Bogardus, -of the Vade Me cum, and 
 Judge Fullalove, of the Sentinel, in which the former al- 
 luded to the latter as "the editor of a scurrilous and unprin- 
 cipled organ, which, like a Hessian sutler, is always found 
 following in the wake of those who carry off the spoils." 
 The hostile meeting that followed, in which shotguns at 
 ten paces were the weapons selected — the rendezvous at 
 Screven's Ferry, where Major Bogardus chivalrously al- 
 lowed his adversary the choice of position — and the final 
 amicable and honorable adjustment of the whole matter 
 upon the field, as well as the triumphant return of both par- 
 ties to the city, are still so well remembered that I need do 
 no more than to allude to them here. 
 
 The asperities of political journalism had even led Col. 
 Ajex Plimpton to seek redress upon the field of honor, 
 where, it is related, he cleverly winged his man. The Colo- 
 nel was a prominent and influential citizen, and his paper, 
 the Pilot and Expositor, deservedly ranked as one of the 
 foremost and most efficient organs of the party of which 
 he was a leader. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Mr. Frazer 
 was somewhat proud of his association with the Colonel. 
 The fact, as I have said, implied a good deal more than 
 would at first appear. But as Colonel Plimpton devoted 
 himself exclusively to the political department, the duties 
 of Mr. Frazer's position as news editor and local and ma- 
 rine reporter were arduous as well as responsible. 
 
 Sitting before the fire, Mr. Frazer, in the simplicity of his 
 faithful and honest nature, remembered his responsibilities 
 only as pleasures. He had just finished and sent in to the 
 compositors a most elaborate account of the ceremonies at- 
 tendant upon the laying of the corner stone of the monu- 
 ment to Count Pulaski. Not only had he given a graphic 
 
238 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 description of the proceedings, but he had taken down an 
 unusually full and interesting synopsis of the oration de- 
 livered upon the occasion; and he was satisfied in his own 
 mind that he had gained a decided victory over his rivals 
 of the Sentinel and Vade Mecum. 
 
 While thus engaged in brewing his coffee and indulging 
 himself in the felicity of enjoying in advance the certain 
 defeat of his brother reporters, Mr. Frazer suddenly heard 
 the office door on Bay Street open and close again, and then 
 the slow and unsteady step of some one ascending the stair- 
 way that led from the counting room to the editorial apart- 
 ment. The professional mind of Mr. Frazer immediately 
 led him to suspect that the person toiling up the stairs was 
 a belated advertiser or, more probably, the vicegerent of a 
 neighboring saloon armed with a bowl of steaming punch. 
 If it was regular lemon stew now, Mr. Frazer thought it 
 would be a fitting nectar with which to terminate the im- 
 promptu celebration of his natal day. At that moment the 
 door of the sanctum swung widely open, and upon the 
 threshold, swaying to and fro in the uncertain light, stood 
 a rather handsome young man apparently in a hopeless 
 state of intoxication. Gazing at him curiously a moment, 
 Mr. Frazer was of the opinion that he had never enjoyed 
 the pleasure of an introduction to his visitor, and this opin- 
 ion was verified when he saluted the swaying figure in his 
 usual hearty manner and received as his reply only one of 
 those curiously solemn and comically vacuous stares begot- 
 ten either of imbecility or of drunkenness. Mr. Frazer, 
 however, was in a happy frame of mind and seemed re- 
 solved to ignore his visitor's apparent want of courtesy. 
 
 "O, come in, Doogans ! You haven't forgotten a fellow, 
 have you?" said he with a great affectation of familiarity and 
 facetiousness. "Come in, will you, and rest yourself. Here 
 is coffee and everything. I was expecting you, you know." 
 
 Still the unsteady figure swayed to and fro at the door 
 and seemed to be uncertain whether to advance or to retire. 
 
 "O, come now, Doogans," continued Mr. Frazer with 
 great apparent hilarity ; "this won't do, you know. This 
 isn't at all like you. This show of reserve doesn't sit well 
 on you. You can't play off on me, you know. Bygones 
 
Early Literary Efforts 239 
 
 must be bygones between us, old fellow. Let us hear from 
 you at your earliest convenience." 
 
 Whether this unlooked-for show of warmth on the part 
 of Mr. Frazer had any effect upon the untimely visitor, or 
 whether it occurred to him to accept the invitation thus ex- 
 tended as the safest refuge from the police in his belated 
 condition, it is impossible to say ; but abjured in this strange 
 and unexpected manner, strange and unexpected even to 
 the muddled mind of an inebriate, the visitor, not without 
 a faint show of embarrassment, staggered to the chair 
 which Mr. Frazer's half humorous hospitality had placed 
 for him and deposited himself therein in a state of limp 
 helplessness truly wonderful to contemplate. 
 
 Mr. Frazer may have" been somewhat nonplused at the 
 result of his effusive hospitality, but he was by no means 
 displeased. He was waiting to correct the proof sheets of 
 his very vigorous account of the laying of the corner stone 
 of the Pulaski monument, and he had been rather lonely, 
 albeit his loneliness had not assumed the irksomeness of 
 ennui. On the contrary, his thoughts had been of an ex- 
 ceedingly pleasant character. The world owed him nothing 
 that it had not repaid with tenfold interest, and he had no 
 occasion to chew the cud of bitter fancy. He simply felt that 
 desire for companionship common to men of his genial and 
 exuberant nature, and he looked down upon the inert mass 
 of manhood before him with something very like a glow of 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Here was an antidote to his loneliness. Here was a com- 
 panion who would not interfere with his tempting basket 
 of unopened exchanges. He was one whose tactiturnity 
 seemed equal to most trying situations. Mr. Frazer rather 
 rejoiced. There was something novel and refreshing in 
 thus being brought in contact with a person in apparent 
 good health who utterly refused to employ any diplomacy 
 for the purpose of getting possession of the latest New 
 York papers and who scorned to request that a paragraph 
 personally hostile to Jones or Smith be inserted in the edi- 
 torial columns of the Pilot and Expositor. It was a new 
 experience to the associate editor, and it is to be feared 
 that he gloated over it with a heathen enjoyment peculiar 
 to himself. 
 
240 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Frazer bethought him of his coffee, and 
 he proceeded to "settle" it with that confidence in the re- 
 sult, and awkwardness in employing the means to bring it 
 about, characteristic of men who attempt to imitate their 
 wives. Taking the boiling beverage from the fire, he sol- 
 emnly poured a small quantity in a cup and then poured it 
 back, as he had seen Mrs. Frazer do thousands of times, all 
 the while keeping up a running fire of conversation with the 
 quiet individual whom he affected to regard as his guest. 
 It soon became evident that Mr. Frazer's awkwardness was 
 more apparent than real. The aroma of the coffee filled 
 the room with its pleasant and tantalizing fragrance, and he 
 at once set about arranging the preliminaries of his lunch. 
 
 "Another moment, Doogans," said Mr. Frazer, cutting 
 his cheese into dainty little slices ; "another moment, and 
 you would have been too late. Promptness is the result of 
 system, and system we must have. There's nothing like sys- 
 tem, Doogans." 
 
 Here the office boy brought Mr. Frazer the proof slips 
 for which he had been waiting. 
 
 "Thanks, Johnny. Ah ! by the by, allow me to introduce 
 you to our friend Doogans. You remember Doogans, of 
 course." 
 
 Johnny retreated precipitately from the sanctum with a 
 broad grin of embarrassment on his face and subsequently 
 informed the foreman of the composing room that Mr. 
 Frazer was "a-feedin' an' a-chafnV some more o' them 
 tramps." Whereupon the foreman, who was flourishing a 
 very large and very wet sponge, leaned upon the imposing 
 stone and remarked with sententious acerbity that "if every- 
 body had as big a heart and sent in as clean copy as John 
 Frazer there'd be a d — d sight less trouble in this world." 
 
 This and various other comments upon the peculiarities 
 of Mr. Frazer's character did not reach the ears of that 
 gentleman, and he went on preparing his lunch. He sliced 
 his bread and cheese and then proceeded to adjust his coffee- 
 pot in a position where the beverage would not grow^ cold. 
 
 "You see, Doogans," addressing in a half apologetic tone 
 the person whom upon the spur of the moment he had thus 
 facetiously christened, "it is business before pleasure with 
 us. We are all more or less called upon to respond to the 
 
Early Literary Efforts 241 
 
 stern demands of duty; and the more cheerfully it is done, 
 the better for the producer as well as the consumer. That 
 is political economy, Doogans. Owing to a previous en- 
 gagement," flourishing the proof slips toward the voiceless 
 figure, "I am compelled to postpone for a few moments the 
 discussion of these viands." 
 
 With this Mr. Frazer complacently betook himself to 
 reading the proofs of his account of the corner-stone cere- 
 monial. The monotony attendant upon the satisfactory ac- 
 complishment of this professional duty was varied only by 
 the quick scratching of Mr. Frazer's pencil as he fell upon 
 some unlucky typographical blunder or swooped eagerly 
 down upon some verbal inaccuracy. He had just reached 
 a point in his excellent synopsis of the oration delivered 
 upon the occasion where an eloquent comparison was made 
 between the services of Lafayette and those of Count 
 Kasimer Pulaski, when it suddenly occurred to his mind — 
 oddly enough, as he remembered afterwards — that it would 
 be a terrible thing if his boy Jack should ever come to the 
 condition of the person who had that night strayed into the 
 sanctum. Such an idea was too absurd to entertain ; but 
 if it should come to pass, he thought, his heart would be 
 filled with undying gratitude to any one who would show 
 his boy any kindness or consideration. 
 
 His mind thus unaccountably diverted from the task to 
 which he had set himself, Mr. Frazer turned in his chair to 
 take a closer look at the stranger. That individual was sit- 
 ting in pretty much the same position he had at first as- 
 sumed, but his hat had fallen off, and the light now shone 
 directly in his face. Mr. Frazer, gazing with some interest 
 at the drooping figure before him, thought he had never 
 seen a finer face than that which was here passively up- 
 turned to the light. Beyond a faint flush upon the cheeks, 
 there was no sign of intoxication, and the clear-cut, hand- 
 some features were marred by no tokens of dissipation. 
 The complexion was fresh and fair, and the forehead high 
 and intellectual. Mr. Frazer was a firm believer in physi- 
 ognomy, and he at once concluded that his strange visitor, 
 whatever might be his present condition and circumstances, 
 had been born and bred a gentleman. Every feature, from 
 the perfectly developed head to the small, symmetrical hands 
 16 
 
242 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 and shapely feet, bore the unmistakable evidences of culture 
 and refinement. There were slight, very slight streaks of 
 gray in the stranger's closely curling hair, but to the good 
 Samaritan sitting on the other side he appeared to be a man 
 of perhaps thirty-two years of age. 
 
 When Mr. Frazer turned again to his work, the levity 
 with which he had greeted his visitor had vanished; and 
 as his pencil with trained facility picked out the various 
 errors in the proof, his features settled into an expression 
 of serious concern. It had been his intention to have the 
 man carried to the pressroom, where upon the bundles of 
 paper stored therein he might find more comfortable accom- 
 modations than the police barracks would afford; but on 
 second thought he would let him remain in the editorial 
 room. And so when Mr. Frazer had finished his proofs 
 he set about making his guest comfortable. With some dif- 
 ficulty he lifted the limp body from the chair and half car- 
 ried, half dragged it across the room to the sofa, whereon 
 during the long, hot days of summer Col. Ajex Plimpton, 
 the editor, was in the habit of resting from his arduous 
 labors. Placing the helpless man in a comfortable position, 
 Mr. Frazer carefully placed over him the shawl which he 
 was in the habit of wearing and again subjected the calm 
 and impressive outline of the stranger's features to a curi- 
 ous examination. Apparently this closer scrutiny satisfied 
 him, for he turned from it with a little sigh of pity and com- 
 miseration. 
 
 Mr. Frazer's coffee was still smoking by the fire, and his 
 economical lunch lay spread out upon his desk. These he 
 attacked with a zest peculiar to the profession and with a 
 fearlessness that spoke volumes for his powers of digestion. 
 Having disposed of these things, Mr. Frazer buttoned his 
 coat closely around his throat, turned off the gas, walked 
 thoughtfully downstairs, and plunged into the cold, foggy 
 air. 
 
 ii 
 
 The immemorial policeman, with whom Mr. Frazer had 
 often endeavored to cultivate relations of a confidential 
 character in the hope of ultimately coaxing a belated item 
 from his inner consciousness, stood in his accustomed place 
 
Early Literary Efforts 243 
 
 on the corner, a statuesque representation of eternal vigi- 
 lance. Mr. Frazer intended to ply the policeman with the 
 usual query, but just at that moment a woman, going at a 
 rapid walk, turned the corner and jostled roughly against 
 the somber official. Seeing what manner of man it was she 
 had thus unintentionally disturbed, she stopped. 
 
 "By George," thought Mr. Frazer, "here's a lively item !" 
 
 But he was mistaken. Approaching the policeman near 
 enough to place her hand — a pretty little hand, as Mr. 
 Frazer could see — upon his damp, shaggy sleeve, in a sup- 
 plicating manner she said, "Pray, sir, can you tell me where 
 I may get lodging for the night?" a quaver born of fright 
 and distress in her voice. "I have tried at all of the hotels, 
 but what is one to do without money? O sir, if you could 
 only tell me where I might get out of the streets ! Have 
 you no dear wife at home?" 
 
 It is to be feared that this appeal, delivered with all the 
 nervous eloquence of despair, in no wise affected the morose- 
 looking policeman ; albeit there was nothing in the pale and 
 worn features of the woman or in her shabby, genteel at- 
 tire to excite his suspicion. With him the story was an old 
 one with some variations ; he had heard it hundreds of 
 times. But before he could reply in the cynical style of his 
 class Mr. Frazer stepped briskly up. "Madam," said he 
 in a tone that suppressed the sarcastic smile of the other- 
 wise austere official, "I have a wife at home, a wife and two 
 darling little daughters. Will you come with me and see 
 them ?" 
 
 The woman turned toward the kindly voice and saw the 
 genial, honest face of the journalist. "O sir !" said she 
 and then fell to crying as if her heart would break. The 
 staid policeman moved uneasily from one foot to the other 
 and finally walked off a little way. He was evidently un- 
 used to such scenes. When he turned again, John Frazer, 
 with the woman clinging to his arm and still weeping, was 
 going up the street in the direction of his home. The police- 
 man paused as he looked after them, and the small evi- 
 dences of feeling called into life by the woman's tears 
 changed suddenly to a stare of blank astonishment. To his 
 practical mind this singular appeal for such a common 
 
244 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 charity was, as he inelegantly but pungently expressed it, 
 "a regular put-up job." To have thought otherwise would 
 have been to seriously impair his own high estimation of 
 his official integrity. Hadn't he seen trollops before? 
 
 "But for John Frazer, a family man, to be a-totin' of 'em 
 around at this time o' night ! Ding my hide to Jericho and 
 back ag'in if / ever thought that of Frazer," said the worthy 
 policeman. "It'll do mighty well for some o' them young 
 fellows to hook on to them kind o' wimmen ; but old Fraze, 
 blamed if it don't head me !" 
 
 The idea that Mr. Frazer's purposes were wholly benevo- 
 lent never once entered the cynical mind of the policeman, 
 and the incongruous proceeding of the usually sedate news- 
 paper man puzzled him to a degree. Thus mystified, the 
 officer followed the fast-receding couple, and this is what 
 he saw: He saw Mr. Frazer and his companion walking 
 briskly through the fog and heard their voices as they passed 
 up the lonely street. He saw them turn sharply to the right 
 and pass through the shadows of one of the miniature 
 parks, saw them emerge on the other side, and in a mo- 
 ment more heard them enter Mr. Frazer's house. Then the 
 vigilant policeman saw no more ; but he remained for a long 
 time leaning against a live oak in the little park apparently 
 lost in thought. The next day he detailed the circumstances 
 to a few of his comrades, and when one of them made some 
 coarse remark the narrator bristled up directly: "D — n it 
 all, boys, can't nobody never do any good? Brash judg- 
 ments won't hold water. The man better'n old Frazer ain't 
 never been chiseled outen the original mud, in my opinion." 
 
 Perhaps the boys thus appealed to forebore to worry the 
 oldest member of the force ; but it is certain there was no 
 more untimely joking, and thereafter when any of the men 
 met Mr. Frazer they saluted him with grave deference. 
 
 in 
 Mrs. Frazer had not retired when her husband came in. 
 Even Jack, aged nine years, had made a feeble attempt to 
 sit up until his father should come home. It was a restful, 
 satisfying picture: the pleasant-looking matron with her 
 baby in her arms, Jack at his mother's feet, his fair curls 
 thrown into a confused mass and his fresh young face glow- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 245 
 
 ing with health and strength, the little girls on the trundle- 
 bed, the busy clock upon the mantel. Even the arrange- 
 ment of the furniture, which was none of the finest, sug- 
 gested repose. The sight of it had often repaid John Frazer 
 for many a weary hour at his desk, and now as he crossed 
 the threshold of his little kingdom he felt more than ever 
 thankful that he was blessed with a home. It was Mr. 
 Frazer's custom to wear a happy, smiling face within the 
 precincts of his domiciliary domain; but to-night, instead 
 of saluting his wife in his usual buoyant and hearty man- 
 ner, he walked to the fireplace, leaned his elbow upon the 
 mantel, and looked thoughtfully into the glowing grate. 
 He did not know this strange woman waiting in the pas- 
 sage way, and yet what was he to do ? He was certain she 
 stood desperately in need of the commonest offices of 
 charity, and yet suppose — 
 
 "Mattie," said Mr. Frazer finally, "I have brought home 
 a poor woman whom I found wandering about in the 
 streets." 
 
 Mrs. Frazer's look of surprise relapsed into one of 
 thoughtfulness as her husband related the circumstances 
 under which he had met the stranger ; but when he had con- 
 cluded, an amused smile crept into her motherly face. 
 "Upon my word, John," with a little laugh, "there never 
 was such a man." This expression had served her in more 
 than one emergency. "I told Mrs. Bagley this afternoon 
 that I wouldn't be at all surprised to see you bring a woman 
 home some day." 
 
 Mr. Frazer was a little embarrassed as well as perplexed, 
 but as his wife continued he caught a quiver of sympathy in 
 her voice which he well understood. 
 
 "Is she very needy and forlorn, John?" 
 
 "Indeed she is, my dear ; a woman for you to pity. Shall 
 I ask her in here ?" 
 
 "Of course, John. What else could you do?" 
 
 And so the strange woman was introduced into John 
 Frazer's family circle. He had often confidently asserted 
 to several of his more intimate acquaintances that his wife's 
 judgment in regard to other women was unerring, and he 
 narrowly watched her now, ready to abide by her decision ; 
 
246 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 but neither by word nor look nor sign did Mrs. Frazer inti- 
 mate that she suspected either the calling or the character 
 of the friendless woman thus fortuitously brought to her 
 door. On the contrary, Mr. Frazer saw the expression of 
 sympathy on his wife's face deepen into one of actual solici- 
 tude as her quick glance took in the pale, unattractive fea- 
 tures, the drooping form, and frayed garments of the stran- 
 ger. It was a pitiable sight indeed, and the Frazers often 
 recalled it years afterwards. 
 
 As his wife bustled about the room in the warmth of her 
 hospitality Mr. Frazer related with considerable dramatic 
 power and a good deal of humorous exaggeration his ad- 
 venture with the drunken man in the office of the Pilot and 
 Expositor. The woman listened with an air of languid in- 
 difference until he came to describe the appearance of his 
 comical visitor, when Mr. Frazer observed her listless air 
 change to one of eager interest. 
 
 "I called him Doogans," the good-humored editor was 
 saying, "for want of a better name. He is a young fellow, 
 too, not more than thirty-two or three, I should judge. He 
 wore a dark felt hat and a drab coat, and for all his drunk- 
 enness he is as handsome a vagabond as ever I laid eyes 
 on." 
 
 Mr. Frazer paused and looked inquiringly at the woman. 
 
 "It is a pity/' she said with a little sigh that seemed to 
 dissipate every vestige of the eager expectation in her face. 
 
 But the cheerfulness of the Frazers was infectious. Jack 
 had forsaken the floor for his father's lap ; the baby, wide 
 awake, cooed and laughed at the stranger, while the moth- 
 er's face glowed with sympathetic happiness. Under this 
 combination of genial influences the woman's reserve rapid- 
 ly melted away. 
 
 "I haven't seen anything like this," said she finally with 
 a curious smile of embarrassment, "since I was a girl." 
 Then after a pause: "I think I will tell you who I am to- 
 night." 
 
 And so sitting in that cozy little room, completely sur- 
 rounded by the evidences of comfort and happiness, Jane 
 Chichester told the story of her life as I shall not attempt 
 to tell it. She was following: her husband. She had fol- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 247 
 
 lowed him around the world, from Virginia to New York, 
 to San Francisco, to London, to Australia, to New Orleans, 
 and now to Savannah. It was plain to her listeners that she 
 had been wantonly deserted by the man she so faithfully 
 loved, but throughout her narrative she never intimated such 
 a thing. She had frequently endeavored to effect a recon- 
 ciliation with her husband, but had always been met with 
 cruel rebuffs ; and yet in all she said there was a vague but 
 strong hope that she might win him back. Her available 
 means were exhausted, but this would be remedied as soon 
 as she could communicate with her friends in Virginia. 
 
 Ah, how eloquently she described her weary journeyings 
 in the wake of the erratic vagabond whom she called her 
 husband! With what supreme patience she clung to her 
 first love ! And yet in the simple terseness of her story there 
 was an underlying hint, an indefinable intimation, that she 
 was endeavoring to hide even from herself the pathetic hope- 
 lessness of her wanderings. She spoke well and rapidly, 
 but in the well-modulated tone of her voice there was an 
 indescribable inflection of utter grief and sorrow that was 
 more eloquent than her words. 
 
 It was wholly a new experience to Mr. Frazer, and for 
 once, be it said, his professional mind did not recognize in 
 the particulars of this poor woman's history the ground- 
 work of a highly wrought sensational article for his paper. 
 Such articles were uncommon in 1853, but they were by no 
 means unknown. In the street or in the office Mr. Frazer 
 would have unhesitatingly transferred the main points of 
 the story he had just heard to the stray envelopes in his 
 pockets ; but sitting here, with the wan reality staring him 
 in the face, he did not once remember the extraordinary 
 disadvantage at which he had his rivals of the Sentinel and 
 Vade Mecum. In thus relating the facts it may be that I 
 have done unintentional injustice to the memory of John 
 Frazer as a journalist ; for, it is to be feared, the majority 
 of modern reporters, reading this brief chronicle, will smile 
 at the provincial simplicity and utter lack of enterprise that 
 led a journalist at any period of the world's history to fore- 
 go the pleasure of distancing his brother reporters. And 
 yet so it is. The files of the Pilot and Expositor contain 
 not the remotest allusion to the history of Jane Chichester. 
 
248 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 It was decided that night that Mrs. Chichester should re- 
 main in Mr. Frazer's family until such time as she could 
 hear from her friends in Virginia. In the meantime she 
 would take charge of the education of the children and 
 thus in some sort repay the kindness of this simple couple. 
 She would always pray to the good God, she said, to bless 
 the dear lady and gentleman who had saved her from the 
 shame and misery of wandering through the streets. 
 
 "O, you cannot tell," she cried, with the tears running 
 down her cheeks, "what a blessed thing your charity has 
 been to me. If the prayers of a wretched and miserable 
 woman can avail anything, you two will be happy all the 
 days of your life." 
 
 In these days perhaps this would be a very small thing 
 to say, but in the primeval times of '53, look you, it fell 
 upon the ears of the Frazers with all the unction and fervor 
 of a benediction. 
 
 IV 
 
 Mr. Frazer arose early enough the next morning to dis- 
 cover that Mrs. Chichester had already succeeded in attract- 
 ing the children. The half- frightened woman of the night 
 before had somehow been transformed into a grave, self- 
 possessed, gracefully gentle lady, who, save when talking 
 to Jack or the little girls, showed just the least shadow of 
 reserve. There was nothing attractive about her face, Mr. 
 Frazer observed, except a certain indescribable air of suffer- 
 ing which seemed to defy analysis. She had large gray 
 eyes, pale cheeks, and features generally commonplace. Her 
 one attraction was the presence of some rare occult quality 
 in the tone of her voice, pleasing and yet baffling. 
 
 Mr. Frazer dispatched his breakfast with little ceremony. 
 He was anxious to reach his office, ostensibly for the pur- 
 pose of getting through with some extra work, but really 
 to see whether his eccentric guest of the night before had 
 carried off anything valuable. He regretted leaving the 
 stranger where he might have free access to the counting- 
 room, and now he was anxious to see the result of what he 
 considered his ill-advised hospitality. 
 
 Reaching the office, Mr. Frazer found the bookkeeper 
 there before him. Did he see anything of a strange man 
 
Early Literary Efforts 249 
 
 this morning? Yes, he did. A stranger came downstairs 
 an hour ago, inquired the name of the night editor, and 
 went hurriedly out. Was there anything missing? Noth- 
 ing whatever. Mr. Frazer experienced a feeling of relief. 
 The fact that the stranger had generously refrained from 
 robbing the office was very gratifying. It was a token, or 
 so it appeared to Mr. Frazer, that his kindness had not been 
 forgotten nor his confidence misplaced. 
 
 In another hour the associate editor of the Pilot and Ex- 
 positor was engaged in the pleasing professional pastime of 
 reading the accounts of the laying of the corner stone of the 
 Pulaski monument that appeared in the rival papers and 
 mentally comparing them with his own report of the same 
 ceremony, and it may well be supposed that this mental 
 criticism on the part of Mr. Frazer was by no means dis- 
 paraging to his own production. Indeed, I have taken the 
 trouble to examine the articles in the Sentinel and Vade 
 Me cum on the occasion referred to, and it is but simple jus- 
 tice to the memory of Mr. Frazer to say that his report is 
 by all odds the best. Its style is florid, but not excessively 
 so, and the descriptive portions are minute without being 
 wearisome. Copious extracts, I am informed, were made 
 from the article by the country press, and the most judicious 
 of Mr. Frazer's friends were loud in their praises. It was, 
 in fact, for many years quite a feather in his journalistic 
 cap, and it ultimately became his custom to refer to the 
 occasion as something of an epoch. "I think it was just 
 before I beat them on the corner-stone business," he would 
 say when endeavoring to fix a doubtful date, or "It was 
 about the year I fixed the other papers on the Pulaski monu- 
 ment affair." 
 
 While Mr. Frazer was thus engaged in admiring his 
 own work by comparison, a gentleman entered the sanctum ; 
 but so absorbed was the journalist in his enjoyment of the 
 defeat of his rivals that he did not immediately raise his 
 head. Visitors were common enough ; indeed, they were 
 too common, Mr. Frazer sometimes thought, and he rarely 
 paid any attention to those who, under one pretext or an- 
 other, invaded the sanctum. The visitor who had just en- 
 tered, however, appeared by no means anxious to disturb 
 Mr. Frazer. He stood for a moment as if waiting for that 
 
250 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 gentleman to acknowledge his presence and then, hat in 
 hand, walked over to a large bookcase and began what ap- 
 peared to be an attentive examination of the newspaper files 
 which had their receptacle therein. But he was not too 
 deeply absorbed in this examination to present himself to 
 Mr. Frazer when that gentleman, vaguely oppressed by the 
 presence of a second person in the room, raised his head 
 from a third perusal of his corner-stone report. 
 
 "Mr. Frazer, I suppose," said the visitor, stepping brisk- 
 ly forward and offering his hand. "We have met before, 
 Mr. Frazer, but under circumstances not calculated, I fear, 
 to commend me to your esteem." 
 
 Mr. Frazer, holding the man's hand, endeavored to re- 
 member when and where he had met this distinguished- 
 looking stranger. The face was strangely familiar, and 
 Mr. Frazer was upon the point of apologizing for his stupid 
 memory when it occurred to him that the easy, polished 
 gentleman standing before him, with a self-deprecating 
 smile upon his handsome features, was identical with the 
 eccentric inebriate of the night before. The associate editor 
 was visibly embarrassed. In the simplicity of his honest 
 heart he regretted that he had ever seen this elegant gentle- 
 man in a state of intoxication, and this regret was intensified 
 by a fear on Mr. Frazer's part that his visitor was at that 
 moment suffering all the pangs of self-humiliation and mor- 
 tification. But it is to be feared that the simple-minded 
 editor greatly overrated the sensitiveness of the stranger. 
 Beyond a certain air of self-deprecation, there was nothing 
 in his manner to justify the journalist's embarrassment. 
 Mr. Frazer had a vague idea that this was the case, and the 
 fact struck him unpleasantly. 
 
 "I dare say," continued the visitor, "you took me for a 
 ruffian or something of that sort." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Frazer with an earnestness superinduced 
 by his embarrassment. "No, I did not. To tell the truth, 
 I was glad you dropped in." 
 
 "I was very stupid, was I not?" with a light, infectious 
 laugh. "Well, I have come to apologize to you, Mr. Frazer, 
 and to thank you for not turning me over to the tender 
 mercies of the police; and I appreciate your kindness the 
 more because you had no idea you were extending the hos- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 2$ 1 
 
 pitality of your sanctum to a brother journalist. My name 
 is Vincent Evelyn." 
 
 Mr. Frazer had often heard of Vincent Evelyn. He was 
 known among newspaper men as one of the most brilliant 
 publicists of the day and had been prominently connected 
 with several of the leading periodicals of the country. His 
 writings were picturesque and vivid rather than argu- 
 mentative or solid, and he had the happy faculty, rare in 
 those days, but common enough now, of treating the most 
 commonplace subjects in an interesting manner. By a 
 trick of the quill here or a quaint turn of expression there 
 he could render piquant the stalest facts, and his style of 
 paragraphing was sparkling and pungent. 
 
 Mr. Frazer was very glad to meet Mr. Evelyn, and it 
 must be confessed that in the half hour's conversation 
 which followed he entirely lost sight of the distressing pe- 
 culiarity of his first interview with that gentleman. It was 
 a new and pleasing experience to Mr. Frazer, this familiar 
 contact with one who had seen the world in all its phases, 
 and it is to be feared that the provincial editor was thor- 
 oughly fascinated by the charming manners and conversa- 
 tion of this elegant cosmopolitan, who talked as glibly as 
 the brook runs. 
 
 A few hours had made a wonderful change in the per- 
 sonal appearance of Mr. Evelyn, and few would have 
 recognized the stupefied man who blindly reeled across Mr. 
 Frazer's sanctum the night before in the polished, well- 
 bred gentleman who was now gracefully and easily discuss- 
 ing art and literature. If Mr. Evelyn was at all humiliated 
 by the remembrance of last night's occurrence, he betrayed 
 it in neither word nor look nor time, nor did it ruffle in the 
 least his consummate self-possession. Only once did he 
 allude to it, and then he explained that, having just landed 
 from the ship Ariel and suffering with tertian ague, he 
 had been induced to forego his scruples. "Liquor," he 
 observed, "absolutely stupefies me ; but you will find, should 
 we come to be better acquainted, Mr. Frazer, that a thirst 
 for it is not one of mine often infirmities." 
 
 At last Mr. Evelyn rose to go. "When would I be most 
 likely to find Colonel Plimpton in?" he asked. "I have let- 
 ters for him from some of his old editorial acquaintances." 
 
252 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Mr. Frazer explained that Colonel Plimpton had no regu- 
 lar office hours and that it would perhaps be as well for 
 Mr. Evelyn to seek him out at his residence. Whereupon 
 the man of letters drew forth a beautifully embossed note- 
 book, carefully entered the street and number therein, mur- 
 mured his thanks, and went swiftly down the stairs, leav- 
 ing Mr. Frazer, if the truth must be told, in something of 
 a flutter. He had been charmed and fascinated by Mr. Eve- 
 lyn to a wonderful degree, and yet, now that he was left 
 alone to coolly and critically remember all that had been 
 said, he could not, for the life of him, seize upon anything 
 particularly impressive or brilliant that his visitor had let 
 fall in the course of his conversation. To be sure, Mr. 
 Evelyn had taken occasion in the most delicate manner 
 imaginable to feed the spark of vanity that lies smolder- 
 ing in every true journalist's bosom; but this Mr. Frazer 
 did not take into account. The particular quality that ren- 
 dered Mr. Evelyn's conversation charming was so ethereally 
 subtle as to wholly defy any attempt at analysis ; and it was 
 utterly impossible to remember wherein his remarks had 
 been either original or striking. Months afterwards the 
 worthy associate editor discovered that the impossibility of 
 analyzing the fascination of Vincent Evelyn was not the 
 only perplexing characteristic of that gentleman. 
 
 When Mr. Frazer went to tea that evening — he rarely 
 dined at home — he found that Mrs. Chichester had already 
 made herself an indispensable member of his small house- 
 hold. 
 
 "She is such a perfect lady," said Mrs. Frazer, "and so 
 thoughtful. The children love her already; and as for 
 baby — why, she can quiet baby with a word/' 
 
 "She is better than a storybook," said Jack with boyish 
 sententiousness. And, in truth, Jane Chichester deserved 
 all that could be said in her favor. For the first time in 
 years she found herself in a position where she might de- 
 velop and display all the womanly qualities of her nature, 
 where she might in some sort satisfy her continual longings 
 for the home she had always lacked; and so without any 
 ulterior object or design, she set herself to improve her op- 
 portunities. It was a new and attractive world for her, this 
 little family circle, a pasture fair and boundless, wherein 
 
Early Literary Efforts 253 
 
 her dwarfed affections might grow to that goodly height 
 and breadth and strength for which nature had designed 
 them — a place of refuge wherein her poor perturbed spirit 
 might find rest and comfort, if not consolation. 
 
 Perhaps it is useless to burden this chronicle with the 
 history of Jane Chichester subsequent to her arrival in 
 Savannah. As she began, so she ended. If she still longed 
 to follow the vagabond husband whom she loved with such 
 deathly devotion, it was not apparent to those around her. 
 She made friends of all with whom she came in contact. 
 The Frazer children were passionately attached to her, and 
 she in return devoted herself to them with all the patience 
 of a mother. Under her gentle influence Jack lost much 
 of the sullenness of temper and roughness of demeanor 
 superinduced by the associations and hard discipline of Mr. 
 McMannus's select school for boys, and all the children 
 developed in a wonderful degree those qualities of heart 
 and mind that usually lie dormant under the ferule of the 
 pedagogue. 
 
 In the fatal year that followed Jane Chichester's arrival 
 in Savannah, that year of pestilence and terror, her name 
 was made memorable in hundreds of households. It was 
 the year of the yellow fever plague, and in the homes of the 
 rich or in the hearts of the poor, wherever the epidemic 
 laid its grim hand, this lonely woman appeared as an angel 
 of mercy. Strong men, made weak and querulous by the 
 fearful disease, fretted for her presence and dropped into 
 slumber beneath the soothing touch of her soft, cool fingers. 
 Little children in the delirium of fever, over whom she leant 
 in her manifold ministrations, looked up in her face and 
 smiled and called her mother. There are men who still re- 
 member the quiet, unassuming woman who, unbidden and 
 unannounced, her sad face shining with benign pity, 
 dropped suddenly into stricken households, bringing with 
 her comfort and consolation. It was fitting that she, the 
 twin sister of sorrow, should sup with the mourners. 
 
 When Mr. Frazer returned to the office on the day after 
 the interview with Mr. Vincent Evelyn, he found a note 
 upon his desk from Col. Ajex Plimpton. The contents 
 
254 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 thereof evidently surprised the associate editor, for after 
 reading it hurriedly through he placed it again upon his 
 desk and stared at it. Finally he took the letter and pro- 
 ceeded to read it aloud, as if by that process to convince 
 himself that there was no delusion about the matter, and 
 the information elicited was really calculated to startle Mr. 
 Frazer. He was informed in Colonel Plimpton's most pom- 
 pous style that Mr. Vincent Evelyn had been engaged to 
 contribute political and literary articles to the columns of 
 the Pilot and Expositor and to edit these departments. 
 "This, however," wrote the Colonel, "will in no wise inter- 
 fere with your duties. I feel that I require a respite from 
 the onerous, responsibilities of editing, and my young friend 
 Evelyn brings strong indorsements of his capabilities from 
 men whose professional opinions I regard as invaluable." 
 
 Colonel Plimpton, if the truth must be told, was rather 
 jaded. Only a few mornings previous to Mr. Evelyn's 
 visit his lovely daughter Arabella, who was thought by her 
 friends to possess a decided literary turn, had severely 
 criticized one of her father's leading editorials. 
 
 "Why, pa," exclaimed this pert and interesting young 
 lady, "who ever heard of such a horrid thing? Why have 
 you repeated the same idea three times in the same article? 
 It is positively shocking !" 
 
 Now, although the Colonel informed his daughter that 
 this was merely a cunning rhetorical device to give em- 
 phasis to his arguments and was eminently proper under 
 the circumstances, he took up the paper when Miss Ara- 
 bella had gone to look after her flowers and found that her 
 criticism, however pertly expressed, was by no means un- 
 just. And so when Mr. Evelyn presented himself, indorsed 
 by journalists whom Colonel Plimpton knew and respected, 
 he was at once given a position. 
 
 Mr. Frazer, ignorant of the motives that prompted his 
 employer to engage the services of the person who had 
 made his appearance under the circumstances so well cal- 
 culated to lead to distrust, was more than astonished when, 
 after a third reading, he had fully mastered the contents of 
 Colonel Plimpton's note. He felt aggrieved, and yet he 
 well knew that he had no real grounds of grievance. He 
 felt sure of his own position ; but there was something in 
 
Early Literary Efforts 255 
 
 the sudden elevation of this stranger to the responsible 
 position of political editor that did not run parallel with 
 John Frazer's ideas of what was just and proper. Albeit, 
 if there was the slightest shadow of professional envy or 
 jealousy in his heart, it did not assume a tangible shape 
 either then or afterwards. It was his custom to make the 
 best of everything, and when he folded Colonel Plimpton's 
 note he folded away with it the involuntary mental protest 
 against his employer's apparent partiality for a stranger 
 and looked hopefully forward to the pleasant days he would 
 pass in the society of the genial and cultured cosmopolitan 
 who was henceforth to manage the Pilot and Expositor. 
 
 And, indeed, they were pleasant days. The seasons sur- 
 rounded themselves with plenty, and the skies were propi- 
 tious. Colonel Plimpton's journal sprang into new life 
 and prosperity. The interior papers were loud in their 
 praises of the improved tone of the political editorials, and 
 one of them, the Macon Whig and Statesman, an opposi- 
 tion organ, in a spirit of Catholicism for which its editor 
 was loudly applauded, said : "Colonel Plimpton, the veteran 
 editor of the Savannah Pilot and Expositor, seems to have 
 suddenly regained his old-time vigor and energy. While 
 we deplore his political course as calculated to undermine 
 the pillars that uphold our glorious temple of liberty, we 
 cannot but bear testimony to the signal ability which he 
 brings to the discussion of public questions." 
 
 No subject seemed too abstruse for Mr. Evelyn. He 
 had the political history of the country at his fingers' ends ; 
 and while it is to be doubted whether he relied implicitly 
 on the truth of his own conclusions, it cannot be denied 
 that he discussed politics from Colonel Plimpton's stand- 
 point with a fecundity of argument and partisan fervor 
 rarely seen even in those days, and his style was felicity 
 itself. Looking over the files of the Expositor and examin- 
 ing Mr. Evelyn's editorials with the dispassionate and 
 critical eye of a historian, it is easy to discover that his 
 arguments were merely brilliantly arranged sophistries — 
 sharp, aggressive epigrammatic half-truths that are always 
 attractive and satisfactory to superficial minds. His literary 
 style, however, was perfection in its way. I doubt if his 
 
256 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 contemporaries, engrossed as they were in the common- 
 places of political campaigns, realized one-half of its beau- 
 ties. Scholarly and classical, it ran through the dry, dull 
 discussions incident to the journalism of those days a clear, 
 rippling, sparkling stream, picturesque and refreshing. 
 
 To say that Colonel Plimpton was pleased with his new 
 editor would inadequately convey an idea of the expression 
 of triumph that sat upon the Jovian front of that gentle- 
 man. He felt that nothing short of downright genius could 
 compel Major Bogardus, the editor of the Vade Mecum 
 and the Colonel's deadliest political enemy, to admit, as he 
 had done in private conversation, that the Pilot and Ex- 
 positor was well and- ably edited; howbeit the Major still 
 alluded to the Colonel's paper in print as "the effete organ 
 of a rapidly decaying faction." Under these circumstances 
 it is not strange that Colonel Plimpton gradually left the 
 entire management to Mr. Evelyn, contenting himself with 
 an occasional suggestion. He preferred the ease and com- 
 fort of his mansion on Liberty Street to the confusion of 
 the printing office on the bay. 
 
 The brilliant social reunions given by Colonel Plimpton 
 about this time are still remembered in Savannah. His 
 drawing-rooms were frequented by the most notable men 
 and women of the day. Hostile politicians and rival so- 
 ciety cliques met here on common ground and were glad of 
 the opportunity. At these reunions Mr. Vincent Evelyn 
 was always a welcome and not an infrequent guest; indeed, 
 his presence was well-nigh indispensable. His remarkable 
 powers of conversation and his versatile gifts as a musician 
 gave a charm and a luster to these informal assemblies that 
 they would otherwise have lacked. 
 
 Miss Arabella Plimpton, the charming young hostess, 
 with a dim idea that caste should prevail in all good society, 
 was disposed to treat her father's employee somewhat cava- 
 lierly upon his first appearance as her' guest; but as this 
 seemed to have no effect at all upon the quiet, well-bred 
 hireling, who circulated among the distinguished people 
 present with the cool, airy self-possession of one who had 
 frequented the salons of Europe, she determined to try her 
 unfledged powers of sarcasm. "O, Mr. Evelyn." said she, 
 
Early Literary Efforts 257 
 
 "I have had quite an angry dispute about you. Some of 
 my friends say you can't sing, and others say you won't 
 if you can. I said you could and you would." 
 
 It is creditable to Miss Arabella's discernment to say 
 that even before she had concluded her rapidly uttered re- 
 mark she knew she would fail of her object, but she per- 
 sisted all the same. 
 
 "Indeed, Miss Plimpton," responded Mr. Evelyn gravely, 
 "I feel highly flattered to have furnished your friends a 
 subject for discussion. You were right. In my poor way 
 I do sometimes venture to sing; and if I can afford a mo- 
 ment's diversion by attempting a song, I shall be most 
 happy to do so." 
 
 "I was sure of it," said Miss Arabella in her gayest tone, 
 turning triumphantly to several young ladies. "What shall 
 we sing, Mr. Evelyn? Something pastoral, for instance? 
 O yes, do let it be something pastoral. Will you favor us 
 with 'Annie Laurie'?" 
 
 "If Miss Plimpton will kindly play the accompaniment." 
 
 Surrounded by a bevy of simpering maidens, Miss Ara- 
 bella began a showy prelude, while Vincent Evelyn, some- 
 what apart from the rest, leaned gracefully against a corner 
 of the instrument and toyed with his watch guard in a 
 grave and preoccupied manner. In another moment there 
 arose upon the air a voice so marvelously clear and sweet, 
 so unutterably thrilling and tender that those who heard 
 it held their breaths to listen. Miss Plimpton and her 
 young friends forgot their affectation. Gray-headed poli- 
 ticians and scheming matrons felt themselves lifted once 
 more into the fair fields of love and romance as the song, 
 redolent with passion and the dewy freshness of tears, 
 smote upon the night, and a belated vagabond, ragged and 
 poverty-pinched, crept into the shadows to listen. 
 
 Miss Plimpton was electrified; but when she arose from 
 the piano, penitent and ready to apologize for her rudeness, 
 Mr. Evelyn was discussing Voltaire with the pretty little 
 wife of the French consul. Subsequently, however, when 
 the company had dispersed, the charming Arabella apolo- 
 gized to her album. "I never shall forgive myself," she 
 wrote, "for my actions to-night toward V. E. His voice 
 is sweet enough to lead a chorus of cherubim," This was 
 17 
 
258 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 a very pretty conceit and ought to have eased the con- 
 science of the fair writer, but apparently it did not; for 
 thereafter the servant who went to the office every morn- 
 ing for Colonel Plimpton's favorite exchanges invariably 
 placed a bouquet of fragrant flowers upon Mr. Evelyn's 
 desk. Perhaps this by no means unusual method of com- 
 bining an apology with the most delicate flattery was grate- 
 ful to that gentleman's sensitive soul. Perhaps his keen 
 perception recognized in it an offering at a far more sug- 
 gestive shrine. Howbeit, it is certain that he was thence- 
 forth a frequent visitor in the household of Colonel Plimp- 
 ton, and it was remarked that his visits were usually at an 
 hour when Miss Arabella's leisure was unencumbered by 
 other callers. 
 
 VI 
 
 Thus the swift seasons passed. Autumn faded into win- 
 ter, and winter blossomed into spring. John Frazer, per- 
 forming his accustomed duties in the old matter-of-fact 
 way, had no occasion to complain of the contingency that 
 gave Mr. Evelyn editorial control of the Pilot and Exposi- 
 tor. He found in the young journalist the same genial and 
 attractive qualities that had characterized him from the 
 first. There was no jealousy on the part of Mr. Frazer 
 and no shadow of affectation on the part of Mr. Evelyn, 
 and the two men, so dissimilar in age and education, so 
 diverse in thoughts and habits, became warm friends ; albeit 
 one or two little incidents occurring during the balmy 
 spring that followed Mr. Evelyn's connection with the Ex- 
 positor puzzled Mr. Frazer not a little. 
 
 Once when the latter gentleman had just put in shape a 
 meager telegraphic marked report and was leaning back 
 in his chair, dreamily admiring the handsome profile of his 
 companion, who was standing at the window overlooking 
 the bay, he was suddenly startled by a sharp exclamation 
 of terror from Mr. Evelyn and saw him, pale and agitated, 
 seize his hat and leave the room. Mr. Frazer thought some 
 accident had happened on the street — a child run over by 
 a dray, most probably — and as these occurrences were in 
 his line, he lost no time in occupying the point of observa- 
 tion which Mr. Evelyn had just vacated. To his astonish- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 259 
 
 ment, there was not a vehicle of any kind in sight. Bay 
 Street lay sleeping in the ineffable calm of an afternoon in 
 May, and the few pedestrians to be seen moved somnolent- 
 ly through the mild, sunny weather. On the opposite side 
 of the thoroughfare Mr. Frazer recognized Mrs. Chichester 
 walking slowly along, with Jack capering around her. 
 Waving his hand at her by way of salute as she turned 
 her head, he returned to his work. That night Mr. Evelyn 
 was found at his desk as reticently drunk as on the occa- 
 sion of his first appearance. 
 
 Another afternoon, somewhat later in the summer, after 
 Mr. Frazer had been giving Mr. Evelyn some information 
 respecting the yellow fever, which had made its appearance 
 in the western portion of the city, the latter rose suddenly 
 and began pacing the floor. "There are strange things in 
 this world, Frazer/' said he, stopping and placing his hand 
 on that gentleman's shoulder, "some devilish strange 
 things. Here is a paragraph I have just cut from a Cali- 
 fornia paper," pulling a small slip from his vest pocket 
 and reading it aloud: "'Charles Clarence Chichester, the 
 well-known literary vagabond, who figured on this coast 
 several years ago, is said to be in Savannah, Ga. Charles 
 Clarence Chichester always manages to keep about ten days 
 ahead of his wife.' " 
 
 A sudden light dawned upon Mr. Frazer. 
 
 "I know Chichester well," continued Mr. Evelyn, "and 
 I think lie is a much better man than the person who wrote 
 that paragraph. I know Chichester's history. Suppose, 
 Frazer," in an eager tone — "I put it to you fairly — sup- 
 pose you had married a woman and afterwards discovered 
 that you had made a terrible mistake which, if persisted in, 
 would make miserable her life and yours. What would 
 you do?" 
 
 "I cannot conceive of such a contingency," said Mr. 
 Frazer, the cold, clear tones of his voice contrasting 
 strangely with those of his companion ; "but it seems to 
 me that a man of honor" — 
 
 "O, I know what you would sa)^, Frazer," interrupted 
 Mr. Evelvn with a slight gesture of impatience. "A man 
 can preach glibly enough when he's safe in the pulpit; but 
 put him in a back pew, and he's as dumb as any sinner of 
 
2(5o The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 them all. Good God !" with a sudden heat. "Human nature 
 must have its own way sometimes. However," after a 
 pause, "this man Chichester is nothing to me. I shall not 
 fall into his mistake. I suppose you have heard, Frazer, 
 that I am to be married to Miss Plimpton in the fall ?" 
 Mr. Frazer looked at him in astonishment. "You ?" 
 "Yes. Why not ?" with a light, embarrassed laugh. "Do 
 I look like a man who would make a choice of celibacy?" 
 
 Mr. Frazer did not reply. His thoughts were with the 
 poor, patient little woman whom he had rescued from the 
 streets and made a member of his household. It was all 
 perfectly clear to him now. The mystery was solved, and 
 yet so sudden and unexpected was the revelation that he 
 found it necessary to take a turn in the fresh air before he 
 could regain his wonted composure. In the meantime, with 
 every desire to befriend Jane Chichester, he was not clear 
 as to the course he ought to pursue. 
 
 VII 
 
 Thus the hot days of June lapsed into the sultriness of 
 July, and the yellow plague crept to its awful culmination. 
 No one who survived that fearful summer of 1854 needs 
 to be reminded of its ghastly characteristics. Fierce and 
 blistering, the malignant sun beat upon the city during the 
 day, withering vegetation and parching the dusty streets. 
 During the night the foulest exhalations oozed from the 
 pavements, and the walls of the houses were clammy with 
 deadly dew. Miasmatic mists rose from the river and 
 spread their dark, ominous wings above the smitten town. 
 
 Among the first to be stricken down and among the first 
 to recover was Miss Arabella Plimpton. The hopefulness 
 of youth and a naturally strong constitution did for her 
 what the most skillful physician might fail to do. With 
 death standing sentinel in every door and the desolation 
 of grief wasting every household, the feverish summer 
 drew to its close. 
 
 There had been no rain for several weeks, and the leaves 
 of the trees hung crisp and lifeless, untouched by the faint- 
 est breath of wind. On the 7th of September, however, 
 the profound calm was broken. A strong northeasterly 
 gale sprang up, accompanied by a heavy fall of rain which 
 
Early Literary Efforts 261 
 
 continued throughout the day. During the afternoon Mr, 
 Evelyn entered the sanctum drenched to the skin and evi- 
 dently under the influence of liquor. His actions were so 
 peculiar that Mr. Frazer at once divined that his associate 
 was in the delirium of fever, and so it proved. It was only 
 after much difficulty that he could be induced to lie upon 
 the sofa; but once there, he was as quiet as a little child, and 
 it soon became apparent that the plague had already accom- 
 plished its terrible end, so far as Mr. Evelyn was con- 
 cerned. The brilliancy faded from his eyes, and the flush 
 died out of his face, and before Mr. Frazer could fetch a 
 physician — before he could summon any assistance, in fact 
 — Vincent Evelyn was dead. 
 
 All through that night the storm raged, culminating on 
 the 8th in one of the most violent cyclones that ever swept 
 over the South. It was a fearful experience to the stricken 
 citizens of Savannah. Within they were confronted by the 
 horrors of pestilence and death, without by the terrors of 
 the hurricane. Thus with sudden and uncertain intervals 
 of calm the dismal day wore to its close. In a room adjoin- 
 ing the sanctum, inclosed in a neat burial case furnished 
 by Mr. Frazer, lay all that was earthly of Vincent Evelyn, 
 and near by, with her head bowed down and her long black 
 hair drenched and blown loose, sat Jane Chichester, faith- 
 ful unto the last. 
 
 As the heavy dusk gathered in the west and slowly set- 
 tled over the storm-smitten earth, Mr. Frazer heard a car- 
 riage drive to the office door. Then he heard the familiar 
 voice of Col. Ajex Plimpton, and in a moment that gentle- 
 man entered the room, with his daughter clinging to his 
 arm. He was quite broken down, Mr. Frazer saw, and his 
 feeble attempts to assume the old pompous air were pitiful 
 in the extreme. He cast his eye around the room with an 
 eager look of inquiry: "How is he, Frazer? How is Eve- 
 lyn ? Dead ? My God ! It can't be ! My darling, you must 
 bear up." 
 
 The drooping figure at the Colonel's side seemed to 
 shrink from the curt and cruel answer to her father's ques- 
 tion, and she would have fallen had not Mr. Frazer held 
 out to her his firm hand. Supported thus between these 
 two men, one her father and the other her friend, she ap- 
 
262 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 proached and gazed long and fondly upon the tranquil, pas- 
 sionless face of that other man who had been her lover. 
 Upon the other side, motionless and unnoticed, crouched 
 the pathetic figure of Jane Chichester, between whom and 
 the fair young girl the coffin stood as a barrier. It is doubt- 
 ful whether Miss Plimpton saw the forlorn woman sitting 
 there ; for after gazing with tearless grief upon the cold 
 face of Vincent Evelyn, she kissed the fair, smooth brow 
 and passed slowly out of the room. 
 
 As Colonel Plimpton turned away his eye caught the 
 shining silver plate on the coffin. Adjusting his glasses, 
 he bent over the memorial and with some difficulty made 
 out the inscription thereon. It was this: 
 
 "CHARLES CLARENCE CHICHESTER, 
 ^ETAT XXXTV." 
 
 "Frazer!" cried the Colonel in an excited tone, "there is 
 some mistake here. They have sent you the wrong case. 
 You had better have it changed at once." Mr. Frazer 
 simply stood with his head bent and his eyes on the floor, 
 and Colonel Plimpton, cautioning him again in regard to the 
 mistake, passed down the stairway to the street, with his 
 daughter on his arm. 
 
 Mr. Frazer retired to the editorial room and sat there 
 thinking of the unfortunate woman who was watching with 
 the dead. She should always have a home with him, mused 
 the good Samaritan, and then his thoughts wandered off 
 to Mattie and the little ones, who were safe in Middle 
 Georgia. 
 
 Darkness gathered on the earth, and the wild storm 
 hurled itself through the deep, gloomy caverns of night 
 and tore a fresh pathway through the dull, wet skies. Once 
 Mr. Frazer, with every faculty on the alert for some fresh 
 disaster, thought he heard the trail of a wet dress upon the 
 stairs. Pie arose at once and went into the room where 
 the dead man lay, but Jane Chichester was gone. "Mrs. 
 Chichester!" he called. "Jane! Jane!" 
 
 The echo of his voice chased itself through and through 
 the deserted building. Once more he called and then ran 
 down to the street and out in the furious, raging tempest. 
 But Jane Chichester had vanished. It seemed as if the 
 
Early Literary Efforts 263 
 
 storm, cruel and yet merciful, closing around the poor 
 wanderer, had caught her up to its fierce, tumultuous, and 
 yet pitiful bosom and so lifted her forever out of the for- 
 lornness and desolation of life. J. C. H. 
 
 UNCLE REMUS AS A REBEL 1 
 
 How He Saved His Young Master's Life 
 
 (The Story as Told by Himself) 
 
 For several months old Uncle Remus has been in the 
 country, raising, as he modestly expresses it, "a han'ful o' 
 co'n an' a piilercase full o' cotton." He was in town yes- 
 terday with some chickens to sell, and after disposing of 
 his poultry he called around to see us. 
 
 "Howdy, Uncle Remus." 
 
 "Po'ly, boss, po'ly. Dese here sudden coolnesses in de 
 wedder makes de ole nigger feel like dere's sump'n outer 
 gear in his bones. Hit sorter wakens up de roomatiz." 
 
 "How are crops, Uncle Remus?" 
 
 "O, craps is middlin'. Ole Master 'membered de ole 
 nigger w'en he wuz 'stributin' de wedder. I ain't complain- 
 in', boss. But I'm done wid farmin' arter dis; I is fer a 
 fac\ De niggers don't gimme no peace. I can't res' fer 
 um. Dey steal my shotes, an' dey steal my chickens. No 
 longerin las' week I wuz bleedzd ter fling a han'ful uv 
 squill shot inter a nigger what wuz runnin' off wid fo' 
 pullets an' a rooster; I'm a-gwine ter drap farmin' sho. 
 I'm gwine down inter ole Putmon County an' live alonger 
 Marse Jeems." 
 
 "Somebody was telling me the other day, Uncle Remus, 
 that you saved your young master's life during the war. 
 How was that?" 
 
 "Well, I dunno, boss," with a grin that showed that he 
 was both pleased and embarrassed. "I dunno, boss. Marse 
 Jeems an' Miss Em'ly dey say I did." 
 
 "Tell me about it." 
 
 1 Compare "A Story of the War" in "Uncle Remus: His Songs 
 and His Sayings." In his Introduction Mr. Harris says this story- 
 is "almost literally true." 
 
264 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "You ain't got no time fer ter set dar an' hear de ole 
 nigger run on wid 'is mouf, is you ?" 
 
 "O, plenty of time." 
 
 "Boss, is you ever bin down in Putmon County?" 
 
 "Often." 
 
 "Den you know whar de Brad Slaughter place is?" 
 
 "Perfectly well." 
 
 "An' Harmony?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, hit wuz right 'long in dere whar Marse Jeems 
 lived. W'en de war come 'long, he wuz livin' dere wid Ole 
 Miss and Miss Sally. Ole Miss wuz his ma, an' Miss Sally 
 wuz his sister. Marse Jeems wuz jes' eatchin' ter go off 
 an' fight, but Ole Miss and Miss Sally dey tuk on so dat 
 he couldn't git off de fus' year. Bimeby times 'gun ter git 
 putty hot, an' Marse Jeems he up an' sed he jes' had ter 
 go, an' go he did. He got a overseer for to look arter de 
 place, an' he went an' j'ined de ahmy. An' he wuz a fighter, 
 too, Marse Jeems wuz, one er de wus' kine. Ole Miss 
 nseter call me to de big house on Sundays an' read what 
 de papers say 'bout Marse Jeems. 
 
 " 'Remus,' sez she, 'here's w'at de papers say 'bout my 
 baby'; an' den she'd go on an' read out twell she couldn't 
 read fer cryin\ 
 
 "Hit went on dis way year in an' year out, an' dey wuz 
 mighty lonesome times, boss, sho's you bo'n. De conscrip- 
 tin' man come 'long one day, an' he jes' everlastin'ly scooped 
 up dat overseer, an' den Ole Miss she sont arter me, an' 
 she say: 'Remus, I ain't got nobody fer ter look arter de 
 place but you.' An' I say : 'Mistis, you kin jes' 'pen' on de 
 ole nigger.' I wuz ole den, boss, let alone what I is now. 
 An' you better b'lieve I bossed dem han's. I had dem nig- 
 gers up 'fo' day, an' de way dey did wuk wuz a caution. 
 Dey had plenty bread an' meat an* good cloze ter w'ar, an' 
 dey wuz de fattes' niggers in de whole settlement. 
 
 "Bimeby one day Ole Miss she call me up an' tell me dat 
 de Yankees done gone an' took Atlanty, and den present'y 
 I hear dat dey wuz marchin' down to'rds Putmon, an' de 
 fus' thing I knows Marse Jeems he rid up one day wid a 
 whole company uv men. He jes' stop longer nuff fer ter 
 change hosses an' snatch up a mouf'uf uv sump'n t' eat. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 265 
 
 Ole Miss tole 'im dat I wuz kinder bossin' roun', an' he 
 call me up an' say : 'Daddy' — all Ole Miss's chillun call me 
 daddy — 'Daddy,' he say, 'pears like dere's goin' ter be 
 mighty rough times roun' here. De Yankees is done down 
 ter Madison, an' 'twon't be many days befo' dey'U be all 
 thu here. Hit ain't likely dat dey'll bodder mother er sis ; 
 but, daddy, ef de wus' comes ter de wus,' I 'spec' you ter 
 take keer un 'em.' 
 
 "Den I say : 'You bin knowin' me a long time, ain't you, 
 Marse Jeems?' 
 
 " 'Sence I wuz a baby, daddy,' sez he. 
 
 " 'Well, den, Marse Jeems,' sez I, 'you know'd 'twa'n' no 
 use fer ter ax me ter look arter Ole Miss and Miss Sally.' 
 
 "Den de tears came in Marse Jeems's eyes, an' he squoze 
 my han' an' jump on de filly I bin savin' fer 'im an' gallop 
 off. I know'd by de way he talk an' de way he look dat 
 dere wuz gwineter be sho'-'nuff trubble, an' so I begun fer 
 ter put de house in order, as de Scripter sez. I got all de 
 cattle an' de hosses togedder, an' I driv' 'em over to de fo'- 
 mile place. I made a pen in de swamp, an' dar I put de 
 hogs, an' I haul nine wagginloads uv co'n an' w'eat an' 
 fodder to de crib on de fo'-mile place, an' den I groun' my 
 ax. 
 
 "Bimeby one day there come de Yankees. Dey jes' 
 swarmed all over keration. De woods wuz full un um, an' 
 de road wuz full un um, an' de yard wuz full un um. I 
 done heerd dey wuz comin' 'fore dey got in sight, an' I 
 went to de well an' washed my face an' hands, an' den I 
 went an' put on my Sunday cloze, an' by de time de Yan- 
 kees hed arrove I wuz settin' in Ole Miss's room wid my 
 ax 'tween my knees. 
 
 "Dem Yankees dey jes' ransacked de whole place, but 
 dey didn't come in de house, an' Ole Miss she sed she 
 hoped dey wouldn't, w'en jes' den we hear steps on de 
 po'ch, an' here come two young fellows wid strops on dere 
 shoulders an' s'ords draggin' on de flo' an' dere spurs rat- 
 tlin'. I won't say I wuz skeerd, boss, 'cause I wuzent, but 
 I had a mighty funny feelin' in de naberhood uv de giz- 
 zard. 
 
 " 'Hello, ole man,' sez one. 'Wat you doin' in here ?' 
 
266 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Ole Miss didn't turn her head, an' Miss Sally look straight 
 at de fier. 
 
 " 'Well, boss,' sez I, 'I bin cuttin' some wood for Ole 
 Miss, an' I jes' stop fer ter worn my han's a little.' 
 
 " 'Hit is cole, dat's a fac',' sez he. Den I got up en tuck 
 my stan' behime Ole Miss and Miss Sally, a-leanin' on my 
 ax. De udder feller he wuz stannin' over by de sidebode 
 lookin' at de dishes an' de silver mugs an' pitchers. De 
 man what wuz talkin' ter me he went up ter de fier an' 
 lean over an' worn his han's. Fus' thing you know he 
 raise up suddenlike an' say: 'Wat dat on yo' ax?' 'Dat's 
 de fier shinin' on it/ sez I. 'I thought it wuz blood,' sez 
 he. An' den he laft. 
 
 "But, boss, dat young feller wouldn't 'a' laft dat day ef 
 he'd a-know'd how nigh unto eternity he wuz. Ef he'd 
 jes' laid de weight uv his han' on Ole Miss or Miss Sally 
 in dar dat day, boss, he'd 'a' never know'd w'at hit 'im er 
 whar he was hit at, an' my onliest grief would 'a' bin de 
 needcessity of sp'ilin' Old Miss's kyarpit. But dey didn't 
 bodder nobody ner nuthin', an' dey bowed derself out like 
 dey had real good breedin', dey did dat. 
 
 "Well, de Yankees dey kep' passin' all de mornin', an' 
 it 'peared ter me dat dere wuz a string uv 'em ten mile 
 long; den they commence gittin' thinner an' thinner, sca'cer 
 an' sca'cer, an' bimeby I hear skirmishin' goin' on, an' Ole 
 Miss she say how it wuz Wheeler's Caverly a-followin' uv 
 'em up. I know'd dat ef Wheeler's boys wuz dat close I 
 wuzen't doin' no good settin' roun' de house, so I jes' took 
 Marse Jeems's rifle an' started out to look arter my stock. 
 Hit wuz a mighty raw day, dat day wuz, an' de leaves on 
 de groun' wuz wet, so dey didn't make no fuss ; an' w'enever 
 I heerd a Yankee ridin' by, I jes' stop in my tracks an' let 
 'im pass. I wuz a-stannin' dat way in de aidge uv de woods 
 w'en all a sudden I see a little ring uv blue smoke bust 
 out en de top uv a pine tree 'bout half a mile off, an' den 
 'fo' I could gedder up mv idees here come de noise — bang! 
 Dat pine, boss, wuz de biggest an' de highest on de plan- 
 tash'n, an' dere wuzn't a lim' on it fer mighty nigh a hun- 
 dred feet up, an' den dey all branched out an' made de top 
 look sorter like a umberill. 
 
 "Sez I to myself : 'Honey, you er right on my route, an' 
 
Early Literary Efforts 267 
 
 I'll see what kinder bird is a-roostin' in you.' Wile I wuz 
 a-talkin' de smoke bus' out again, an' den — bang! I jes' 
 drap back inter de woods an' skearted roun' so's ter fetch 
 de pine 'tween me an' de road. I slid up putty close ter 
 de tree, an', boss, w'at you reckon I see?" 
 
 "I have no idea, Uncle Remus." 
 
 "Well, jes' sho' ez youer settin' dar lissenin' to de ole 
 nigger dere wuz a live Yankee 'way up dar in dat pine, an' 
 he had a spyglass, an' he wuz a-loadin' an' a-shootin' at 
 de boys jes' as cool ez a cowcumber, an' he had his hoss 
 tied out in de bushes, 'caze I heerd de creeter trompin' 
 roun'. While I wuz a-watchin' un 'im I see 'im raise dat 
 spyglass, look fru 'em a -minnit, an' den put 'em down sud- 
 den an' fix hissef fer ter shoot. I sorter shifted roun' so 
 I could see de road, an' I had putty good eyes in dem days 
 too. I waited a minnit, an' den who should I see comin' 
 clown de road but Marse Jeems ! I didn't see his face, but, 
 boss, I know'd de filly dat I had raised fer 'im, an' she wuz 
 a-prancin' an' dancin' like a schoolgal. I know'd dat man 
 in de tree wuz gwineter shoot Marse Jeems ef he could, 
 an' dat I couldn't stan'. I hed nussed dat boy in my arms 
 many an' many a day, an' I hed toted 'im on my back, an' 
 I l'arnt 'im how ter ride an' how ter swim an' how ter rastle, 
 an' I couldn't b'ar de idee uv stannin' dere an' see dat man 
 shoot 'im. I know'd dat de Yankees wuz gwineter free de 
 niggers, 'caze Ole Miss done tole me so, an' I didn't want 
 ter hurt dis man in de tree. But, boss, w'en I see him lay 
 dat gun 'cross a lim' an' settle hisse'f back an' Marse Jeems 
 goin' home ter Cle Miss an' Miss Sally, I disremembered 
 all 'bout freedom, an' I jes' raise up v/id de rifle I had an' 
 let de man have all she had. His gun drapped down an' 
 come mighty nigh shootin' de ole nigger w'en hit struck 
 de ground. Marse Jeems he heered de racket an' rid over, 
 an' w'en I tell 'im 'bout it you never seed a man take on so. 
 He come mighty nigh cryin' over de o!e nigger, I declar' 
 ter grashus ef he didn't. An' Ole Miss — w'y Ole Miss 
 fa'rly hugged me; an' w'en I see how glad dey wuz, my 
 conshuns bin restin' easy ever sence." 
 
 "How about the soldier you killed?" 
 
 "We had ter cut down de tree fer ter bury 'im." 
 
268 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "How did he get up there?" 
 
 "W'y, boss, he had on a pa'r uv dese telegraf spurs, de 
 kine w'at de fellers clime de poles wid." 
 
 "Your Marse Jeems must be very grateful." 
 
 "Lor', chile, dey ain't nuthin' Marse Jeems is got dat's too 
 good fer me. Dat's w'at make me say w'at I do. I ain't 
 gwineter be working 'roun' here 'mong dese chain gang 
 niggers w'en I got a good home down yander in Putmon. 
 Boss, can't you give de ole nigger a thrip fer to git 'im 
 some sody water wid." 
 
 And the faithful old darky went his way. J. C. H. 
 
 THE OLD PLANTATION 
 
 The scourge that swept slavery into the deep sea of the 
 past gave the deathblow to one of the peculiar outgrowths 
 of that institution. The results that made slavery impossi- 
 ble blotted from the Southern social system the patriarchal 
 — we had almost written feudal — establishment known as the 
 old plantation. Nourished into life by slavery, it soon be- 
 came one of the features of Southern civilization — a pecul- 
 iar feature, indeed, and one which for many years exerted 
 a powerful influence throughout the world. The genius of 
 such men as Washington, Jefferson, Patrick Henry, Taney, 
 Marshall, Calhoun, Stephens, Toombs, and all the greatest 
 leaders of political thought and opinion from the days of 
 the Revolution to the beginning of the Civil War, was the 
 result and outgrowth of the civilization made possible by 
 the old plantation. It was a cherished feature of Southern 
 society, and it is not to be doubted that its demolition has 
 been more deeply deplored by our people than all the other 
 results of the war put together. The brave men and noble 
 women who at the end found themselves confronting the 
 dire confusion and desolation of an unsuccessful struggle 
 have been compelled to set their faces toward the new 
 future that is always ahead of the hopeful and true- 
 hearted ; but how many times have they turned and sighed, 
 endeavoring to get a glimpse of the ruins of the old plan- 
 tation ! Now that the problem of slavery, which even be- 
 fore the desperate cast of the die in 1861 had begun to per- 
 plex the more thoughtful of the Southern people, is sue- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 269 
 
 cessfully (but O how cruelly!) solved, even the bare sug- 
 gestion of its reestablishment is unsavory; but the memory 
 of the old plantation will remain green and gracious for- 
 ever. 
 
 What days they were, those days on the old plantation! 
 How vividly you remember the slightest incident! How 
 picturesque the panorama that passes before your mind's 
 eye! There was the fox hunt planned for the especial 
 benefit of Miss Carrie de Compton, the belle of Rockville. 
 (If we should give the name of the town, you would abuse 
 us for exposing you in the newspapers.) You remember 
 lying in a state between dreaming and waking as Aunt Pa- 
 tience, fat and cheery — heaven rest the good old negro's 
 soul ! — comes into your room with much ado, bearing a 
 steaming cup of coffee. Curiously enough, you recall al- 
 most her very words as she endeavors to arouse you to a 
 contemplation of the necessities of such a momentous occa- 
 sion as a fox hunt. "Well, I declar' ter grashus ef dat chile 
 ain't layin' dar yit! Git outen dat bed dis minit! How 
 you gwine ter ketch foxes under that bo'lster ? Git up f rum 
 dar ! Dat young gal done bin up too long ter talk 'bout !" 
 You remember what an impression the fair Carrie made 
 upon you in her trim riding habit, and how, when with one 
 dainty hand holding the folds of her skirt she stooped to 
 caress your favorite hound Flora, you lost your heart utter- 
 ly. It is all indelibly impressed upon your memory — the 
 ride to Sir Reynard's range, the casting about of the 
 hounds, the sudden burst of canine melody as the fox gets 
 up right in the midst of the pack, the hard ride at the heels 
 of the hounds for a few moments, and then the sudden in- 
 spiration on your part that it would be well to guide the 
 fair De Compton to a point near which the fox (an old 
 customer of yours) would surely pass. You remember how 
 you vainly endeavored to convince your skeptical charge 
 that the slight, dark shadow stealing across the hillside not 
 a quarter of a mile away was the veritable fox the dogs 
 were after, how your whole frame tingled with delight 
 when the soul-stirring music of the hounds was borne to 
 your ears on the crisp breeze of morning, and what a thrill 
 came over you as the pack burst into view, running with 
 
270 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 heads up and tails down, your Flora far to the front and 
 flying like a meteor. 
 
 What nights were the nights on the old plantation ! The 
 mellow light of the harvest moon crept through the rustling 
 leaves of the tall oaks, fell softly upon the open space be- 
 yond, and bathed the brown old barn in a flood of golden 
 glory, while the songs of the negroes at the corn pile, lusty 
 chorus and plaintive refrain, shook the silence until it broke 
 upon the air in far-reaching waves of melody. But, alas! 
 all these are gone. The moon pursues her pathway as se- 
 renely as of old, but she no longer looks down upon the 
 scenes that were familiar to your youth. The old home- 
 stead and the barn are given up to decay, and the songs 
 of the negroes have been hushed into silence by the neces- 
 sities of a new dispensation. The old plantation itself is 
 gone. It has passed away, but the hand of time, inexorable 
 and yet tender, has woven about it the sweet suggestions 
 of poetry and romance, memorials that neither death nor 
 decay can destroy. 
 
 A GEORGIA FOX HUNT 
 
 How Reynard Was Run to Earth in the Olden Time 
 
 "Something Light for Sunday" — How the Editorial Presence Get 
 Its Foot in It — Tom Tunison and the Fair De Compton 
 
 I 
 
 If the public ever deserved to be apologized to, they 
 deserve it now, and the mischief of it is the whole affair is 
 the result of such a curious and unexpected combination 
 of circumstances as to make an apology exceedingly awk- 
 ward. In all human probability, basing the estimate on the 
 official returns already received, these circumstances 
 wouldn't occur again in the course of half a century or 
 more. You see it was this way: Saturday, the 8th day of 
 December (it is well to be particular about dates), a young 
 man connected with the editorial staff" of the Constitution 
 strolled into the office, seated himself at his desk, and pro- 
 ceeded in a leisurely way to forge a few paragraphical hur- 
 rahs in token that the citizens of Atlanta were keenly alive 
 to the significance of the majority their city had received 
 in the recent election. He was thus engaged when his at- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 2JI 
 
 tention was attracted by a buff card lying within convenient 
 reach. It was impossible not to see it, and, seeing it, it was 
 impossible not to realize its significance. The Editorial 
 Presence had placed it there. The Editorial Hand had 
 penned the four words written upon its embossed face. 
 "Something light for Sunday !" It was intended to be a 
 suggestion ; it was really a problem. "Something light for 
 Sunday !" The young man pondered long and sorely. He 
 could have written an article in defense of Atlanta in 
 short order; he could have dashed off a score of para- 
 graphic flippancies with little or no difficulty ; but "some- 
 thing light for Sunday" was rather more than he bargained 
 for. 
 
 Howbeit, he made an effort. He tackled the problem 
 then and there, and after working himself into a condition 
 to appreciate the poetry there is in Sidney Lanier's apt 
 remark about "the sweat of fight" came forth a conqueror. 
 He had successfully composed "something light for Sun- 
 day" — that is to say, he had written an article that might 
 possibly have been transported through the mails for a dol- 
 lar and a half's worth of three-cent stamps ; but it seemed 
 to him, after all the trouble he had encountered, that it 
 weighed fully thirty-nine pounds and a half, or only about 
 seven pounds and a quarter less than some of the light 
 articles you meet up with in the newspapers. The article 
 was handed in, duly considered; and as "something light 
 for Sunday" seemed to be a pressing public necessity, it 
 was allowed to appear in print. This, it must be remem- 
 bered, was Saturday, the 8th day of December. 
 
 Wednesday, the 12th day of December inst, the Edi- 
 torial Presence, after fumbling around in its coat tail 
 pockets, produced the following letter, which was handed 
 over to the conscience-smitten wretch who had written 
 "something light for Sunday": 
 
 "Dear Mr. Editor: I read your piece on the 'Old Plan- 
 tation' all through, and I liked it ever so much. Mamma 
 says it is ever so nice, but papa says it is all stuff; and I 
 thought I would write and ask if Miss Carrie de Compton 
 was a real, sure-enough person and if young ladies really 
 went hunting foxes. Mamma says editors don't have time 
 
2"j2 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 to be troubled, but I told her you wouldn't mind if I told 
 you I was a little girl only nine years old and named Carrie 
 too. Carrie Abercrombie. 
 
 "P. S.— Please tell me." 
 
 "Well, I'll be hanged," exclaimed the young man, "if 
 some people" — 
 
 The Editorial Presence waved him down, as it were. 
 "You must remember," said the E. P. gently and almost 
 with a sigh, "that the letter is written by a little child." 
 "But, goodness me ! What are we going to do about it?" 
 The Editorial Presence smiled (it has a way of smiling 
 when it gets a fellow in a corner) : "Was there ever such a 
 place as Rockville?" 
 
 "Why, you don't suppose" — 
 
 "Was there any such person as the fair De Compton?" 
 "My gracious ! You can't mean to insinuate" — 
 "Write about them. The little girl will be interested, if 
 no one else is. Give us 'something light for Sunday/ " and 
 the Editorial Presence glided out to get oysters. 
 
 "I'll give you something light," the young man muttered 
 between his clinched teeth. "I'll show you miserable read- 
 ers what it is to swallow and digest a cold literary flatiron." 
 And then all was silent in the sanctum except the noise 
 made by a venerable rat whose experience had given an 
 epicurean twang to his taste and who, taking up a position 
 behind the wainscoting, refused to be mollified because the 
 paste was stale. 
 
 ii 
 
 In the season of 1863 the Rockville Hunting Club, which 
 had been newly organized, was at the height of its success. 
 It was composed of men who were too old to go into the 
 army and of young men who were old enough, but who 
 from one cause and another were exempted from militarv 
 service. Ostensibly its object was to encourage the noble 
 sport of fox-hunting and to bind by closer social ties the 
 congenial souls whose love for horses and hound and horn 
 bordered on enthusiasm. This, I say, was its ostensible 
 object : for it seems to me, looking back upon that terrible 
 time, that the main object of the association was to devise 
 new methods of forgetting the sickening portents of dis- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 273 
 
 aster that were even then thick in the air. Any suggestion 
 or plan calculated to relieve the mind from the contem- 
 plation of the horrors of those desperate days was eagerly 
 seized upon and utilized. With the old men and fledgling 
 boys in the neighborhood of Rockville the desire to mo- 
 mentarily escape the realities of the present took the shape 
 of fox-hunting and other congenial amusements. With 
 the women — ah, well ! Heaven only knows how they sat 
 dumb and silent over their great anguish and grief, cheer- 
 ing the hopeless and comforting and succoring the sick and 
 wounded. It was a mystery to me then, and it is a mystery 
 now. 
 
 About the 1st of November the writer received a long- 
 expected letter from Tom Tunison, the secretary of the 
 club, who was on a visit to Monticello. It was character- 
 istically brief and breezy. 
 
 "Young man," he wrote, "we've got 'em. They are com- 
 ing. They are going to give us a raffle. Their dogs are 
 good, but they lack form and finish as well as discipline — 
 plenty of bottom, but no confidence. I haven't hesitated 
 to put up the horn. Get the boys together and tell 'em 
 about it and see that our own eleven are in fighting trim. 
 You won't believe it, but Sue, Herndon, Kate, and Walthall 
 are coming with the party, and the fair De Compton, who 
 set all the Monticello boys wild last year when she got back 
 from Macon, vows and declares she is coming too. You 
 can bet your sweet life she's a rattler. Remember, the 
 15th. Be prepared." 
 
 I took in the situation at a glance. Tom in his reckless 
 style had bantered a party of Jasper County men as to the 
 inferiority of their dogs and had even offered to give them 
 an opportunity to wear the silver-mounted horn, won by 
 the Rockville Club in Hancock County the year before. The 
 Jasper County men, who were really breeding some ex- 
 cellent dogs, accepted the challenge, and Tom had invited 
 them to share the hospitality of the plantation home called 
 Bachelor's Hall. If the truth must be confessed, I was 
 not at all grieved at the announcement made in Tom's let- 
 ter. Apart from the agreeable change in the social atmo- 
 sphere that would be made by the presence of ladies in 
 Bachelor's Hall, I was eagerly anxious to test the mettle 
 18 
 
274 The Life ef Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 of a favorite hound, Flora, whose care and training had 
 cost me a great deal of time and trouble. Although it was 
 her first season in the field, she had already become the 
 pet and pride of the Rockville Club, the members of which 
 were not slow to sound her praises. Flora was an experi- 
 ment. She was the result of a cross between the Henry 
 hound (called in Georgia the "Bird-song dog," in honor of 
 their most successful breeder) and the Maryland hound. 
 She was a granddaughter of the famous Hodo and in 
 everything except her color (she was white, with yellow 
 ears) was the exact counterpart of that magnificent fox 
 hound. I was anxious to see her put to the test. 
 
 It was with no small degree of satisfaction, therefore, 
 that I informed Aunt Patience, the cook, of Tom's pro- 
 gram. Aunt Patience was a privileged character, and her 
 comments upon people and things were free and frequent ; 
 and when she heard that a party of hunters, accompanied 
 by ladies, proposed to make the Hall their temporary head- 
 quarters, her remarks were ludicrously indignant. 
 
 "Well, ef dat Marse Tom ain't de beatenest white man 
 dat I ever sot eyes on ! 'Way off yander givin' 'way his 
 vittles 'fo' he buy um at de sto'. How I know what Marse 
 Tom want? An' ef I know, whar I gwineter git um? Bet- 
 ter be home yer lookin' atter dese lazy niggers stidder 
 high-flyin' wid dem Jasper County folks. Ef dez enny 
 vittles on dis plan'ash'n, hit's more'n I knows un. En he'll 
 trollops roun' wid dem harium-skarium gals twell I boun' 
 he don't fetch dat pipe an' dat 'backer what he said he 
 would. Can't fool me 'bout de gals what grows up dese 
 days. Dey duz like dey wanter stan' up an' cuss deyse'f 
 case dey wuzn't born'd men." 
 
 "Why, Aunt Patience, your Marse Tom says Miss de 
 Compton is as pretty as a pink and as fine as a fiddle." 
 The observant reader will perceive that I failed to quote 
 Tom's language correctly. 
 
 "Law, chile, you needn't talk 'bout de gals to dis ole 
 'oman ! I done know um 'fo' you wuz born'd. W'en you see 
 Miss de Compton, you see all de balance un um. Deze is 
 new times. Marse Tom's mammy use ter spin her fifteen 
 cuts a day. When you see yo' Miss Compton wid a hank 
 er yarn in 'er han', you jes' sen' me word." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 275 
 
 Whereupon Aunt Patience gave her head handkerchief 
 a vigorous wrench and went her way, the good old soul, 
 even then considering how she should best go about pre- 
 paring a genuine surprise for her young master in the shape 
 of daily feasts for a dozen guests. I shall not stop here to 
 detail the character of this preparation nor to dwell upon 
 its ultimate success. It is enough to say that Tom Tunison 
 praised Aunt Patience to the skies, and, as if this were not 
 enough to make her happy, he produced a big clay pipe, 
 three plugs of real "manufacter 'backer," which was hard 
 to get in those times, a red shawl, and twelve yards of 
 calico. 
 
 The fortnight that followed the arrival of Tom's guests 
 was one long to be remembered not only in the annals of 
 the Rockville Hunting Club, but in the annals of Rockville 
 itself. The fair De Compton literally turned the heads of 
 old men and young boys and even succeeded in conquering 
 the critics of her own sex. She was marvelously beauti- 
 ful, and her beauty was of a kind to haunt one in one's 
 dreams. It was easy to perceive that she had made a con- 
 quest of Tom, and I knew that every suggestion he made 
 and every project he planned had for its sole end and aim 
 the enjoyment of Miss Carrie de Compton. 
 
 It was several days before the minor details of the con- 
 test which was at once the excuse for and the object of 
 the visit of Tom's guests could be arranged, but finally 
 everything was "amicably adjusted" and the day appointed. 
 The night before the hunt the club and the Jasper County 
 visitors assembled in Tom Tunison's parlors for a final 
 discussion of the event. 
 
 "In order," said Tom, "to give our friends and guests 
 an opportunity to fully test the speed and bottom of their 
 kennels, it has been decided to pay our respects to 'Old 
 Sandy/ " 
 
 "And pray, Mr. Tunison, who is 'Old Sandy ?' " queried 
 Miss de Compton. 
 
 "He is a fox, Miss de Compton, and a tough one. He is 
 a trained fox. He has been hunted so often by the in- 
 ferior packs in his neighborhood that he is well-nigh in- 
 vincible. Between midnight and dawn, if he hears the bark 
 of a dog or the sound of a horn, he is up and away. He is 
 
2j6 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 so well known that he has not been hunted, except by acci- 
 dent, for two seasons. He is not as suspicious as he was 
 two years ago, but we must be careful if we want to get 
 within hearing distance of him to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Do any of the ladies go with us?" asked Jack Herndon. 
 
 "I go, for one," responded Miss de Compton, and in a 
 few minutes all the ladies had decided to go along, even 
 if they found it inconvenient to participate actively when 
 the trouble began. 
 
 "Then," said Tom, rising, "we must say good night. 
 Uncle Plato will sound 'boot and saddle' at four o'clock 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Four o'clock !" exclaimed the ladies in dismay. 
 
 "At four precisely," answered Tom, and the ladies with 
 pretty little glances and gestures of mock despair went 
 upstairs, while Tom prepared to brew something warm for 
 the boys. 
 
 My friend little knew how delighted I was that "Old 
 Sandy" was to be put through his paces. He little knew 
 how carefully I had studied the characteristics of this fa- 
 mous fox; how often when training Flora I had taken her 
 out alone and followed "Old Sandy" through all his ranges; 
 how I had "felt of" both his speed and bottom and knew 
 all his weak points. 
 
 in 
 
 But morning came and with it Uncle Plato's bugle call. 
 Aunt Patience was ready with a smoking hot breakfast, 
 and everybody was in fine spirits as the eager, happy crowd 
 filed down the broad avenue that led to the hall. The fair 
 De Compton, who had been delayed in mounting, rode up 
 by my side. 
 
 "You choose your escort well," I ventured to say. 
 
 "I have a weakness for children," she replied, "particu- 
 larly for children who know what they are about. Plato 
 has told me that if I desired to see all of the hunt without 
 much trouble to follow you. I am selfish, you will per- 
 ceive." 
 
 Thus we rode over the red hills and under the russet 
 trees until we came to "Old Sandy's" favorite haunt. Here 
 a council of war was held,. and it was decided that Tom 
 and a portion of the hunters should skirt the fields; while 
 
Early Literary Efforts 277 
 
 another portion, led by Miss de Compton and myself, should 
 enter and bid the fox good morning. Uncle Plato, who 
 had been given the cue, followed me with the dogs, and in 
 a few moments we were very near to the particular spot 
 where I had hoped to find the venerable deceiver of dogs 
 and men. The hounds were already sallying hither and 
 thither, anxious and evidently expectant. Five minutes 
 go without a whimper from the pack. There is not a 
 sound save the eager rustling of the dogs through the 
 sedge and undergrowth. The ground is familiar to Flora, 
 and I watch her with pride as with powerful strides she 
 circles around. She draws nearer and nearer. Suddenly 
 she pauses and flings her head in the air, making a beauti- 
 ful picture as she stands poised as if listening. My heart 
 gives a great thump. It is an old trick of hers, and I 
 know that "Old Sandy" has been around within the past 
 twenty-four hours. With a rush, a bound, and an eager 
 cry, my favorite comes toward us, and the next moment 
 "Old Sandy," who has been lying almost at our horses' 
 feet, is up and away, with Flora right at his heels. A wild 
 hope seizes me that my favorite will run into the sly vet- 
 eran before he can get out of the field. But no ! One of 
 the Jasper County hunters, rendered momentarily insane 
 by excitement, endeavored to ride the fox down with his 
 horse ; and in another moment Sir Reynard is over the 
 fence and into the woodland beyond, followed by the 
 hounds. They make a splendid but ineffectual burst of 
 speed, for when "Old Sandy" finds himself upon the black- 
 jack hills he is foot-loose. The morning, however, is fine, 
 just damp enough to leave the scent of the fox hanging 
 breast-high in the air, whether he shape his course over 
 lowland or highland. In the midst of all the confusion that 
 has ensued Miss de Compton remains cool, serene, and 
 apparently indifferent ; but I observe a glow upon her face 
 and a sparkle in her eyes as Tom Tunison, riding his gal- 
 lant gray and heading the hunters, easily and gracefully 
 takes a couple of fences as the hounds veer to the left. 
 
 "Our Jasper County friend has saved 'Old Sandy,' Miss 
 de Compton, but he has given us an opportunity of wit- 
 nessing some very fine sport. The fox is badly frightened, 
 and he may endeavor in the beginning to outfoot the dogs ; 
 
278 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 but in the end he will return to his range, and then I hope 
 to show you what a cunning old customer he is. If Flora 
 doesn't fail us at the critical moment, you will have the 
 honor of wearing his brush on your saddle." 
 
 "Youth is always confident," replied Miss de Compton. 
 
 "In this instance, however, I have the advantage of 
 knowing both hound and fox. Flora has a few of the 
 weaknesses, but I think she understands what is expected 
 of us to-day." 
 
 Thus bantering and chaffing each other, we turned our 
 horses' heads in a direction oblique of that taken by the 
 other hunters, who, with the exception of Tom Tunison 
 and Jack Herndon, who were well up with the dogs, were 
 struggling along as best they could. For half, a mile or 
 more we cantered down a lane, turned into a stubble field, 
 and made for a hill crowned and skirted with a growth of 
 blackjack, through which, as it seemed, an occasional pine 
 had broken in a vain but majestic effort to touch the 
 sky. Once upon the summit of this hill, we had a ma- 
 jestic view upon all sides. The fresh morning breezes 
 blew crisp and cool and bracing, but not uncomfortable 
 after the exercise we had taken ; and as the clouds that had 
 muffled up the east dispersed themselves or were dissolved, 
 the generous sun spread layer after layer of golden light 
 upon hill and valley and forest and stream. Miss de Comp- 
 ton did not go into ecstasies over the scene that met her 
 view, albeit I could perceive that she enjoyed it in detail 
 and as a whole with the keen appreciation of an artist, and 
 it was this fact that first impressed me with the idea that 
 she would make an excellent Mrs. Tom Tunison. 
 
 Away to the left we could hear the hounds, and the 
 music of their voices, toyed with by the playful wind, rolled 
 itself into melodious little echoes that broke pleasantly upon 
 the ear, now loud, now faint, now far, and now near. The 
 first burst of speed, which had been terrific, had settled 
 down into a steady run ; but I knew by the sound that the 
 pace was tremendous, and I imagined I could hear the 
 silvery tongue of Flora as she led the eager pack. The 
 music of the hounds, however, grew fainter and fainter, 
 until presently it was lost in the distance. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 279 
 
 "He is making a straight shoot for the Turner old fields, 
 two miles away," I remarked by way of explanation. 
 
 "And pray why are we here?" Miss de Compton asks. 
 
 "To be in at the death. [The fair De Compton smiles 
 sarcastically.] In the Turner old fields the fox will make 
 his grand double, gain upon the dogs, head for yonder hill, 
 come down the ravine here upon our right, and at the 
 fence here within plain view he will attempt a trick that 
 has heretofore always been successful and which has given 
 him his reputation as a trained fox. I depend upon the 
 intelligence of Flora to see through 'Old Sandy's' strategy, 
 but if she hesitates a moment we must set the dogs right." 
 
 I speak with the confidence of one having experience, 
 and Miss de Compton smiles and is content. We have time 
 for little further conversation, for in a few minutes I 
 observe a dark shadow emerge from the undergrowth on 
 the opposite hill and slip quickly across the open space of 
 fallow land. It crosses the ravine that intersects the val- 
 ley and steals quietly through the stubble to the fence and 
 there pauses for a moment as if hesitating. In a low voice 
 I call Miss de Compton's attention to the fox, but she re- 
 fuses to believe it is the fox we aroused thirty minutes ago. 
 Howbeit, it is the veritable "Old Sandy" himself. I would 
 know him among a thousand foxes. He is not in as fine 
 feather as when at the start he swung his brush across 
 Flora's nose ; the pace has told on him, but he still moves 
 with an air of confidence. Then and there Miss de Comp- 
 ton beholds a display of fox tactics, shrewd enough to excite 
 the admiration of the most indifferent, a display of cunning 
 that seems to have been conceived by something higher than 
 mere instinct. 
 
 "Old Sandy" pauses a moment. With a bound he goes 
 to the top of the fence, stops to pull something from one 
 of his forefeet (probably a cockle burr), and then, care- 
 fully balancing himself, proceeds to walk the fence. By 
 this time the music of the dogs is again heard in the dis- 
 tance, but "Old Sandy" takes his time. One, two, three, 
 seven, ten, twenty panels of the fence are cleared. Paus- 
 ing, he again subjects his forefeet to examination and licks 
 them carefully. Then he proceeds on his journey along 
 the fence until he is at least one hundred yards from where 
 
280 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 he left the ground. Here he pauses for the last time, 
 gathers himself together, leaps through the air, and is 
 away. As he does so the full music of the pack bursts 
 upon our ears as the hounds reach the brow of the hill 
 from the lowlands on the other side. 
 
 "Upon my word !" exclaimed Miss de Compton, "that fox 
 ought to go free. I shall beg Mr. Tunison" — 
 
 But before she can finish her sentence the dogs come 
 into view, and I can hardly restrain a desire to give a shout 
 of triumph as I see Flora running easily and unerringly 
 
 far to the front. Behind her, led by Captain and 
 
 so close together that, as Uncle Plato afterwards remarked, 
 "You mout kivver de whole caboodle wid a hoss blanket," 
 are the remainder of the Tunison kennel, while the Jasper 
 hounds are strung out in wild but heroic confusion. I am 
 strongly tempted to give the vain, halloo and push "Old 
 Sandy" to the wall at once, but I feel sure that the fair 
 De Compton will regard the exploit with severe reproba- 
 tion forever after. 
 
 Across the ravine and to the fence they come, their 
 voices as they get nearer crashing through the silence like 
 a chorus of demons. At the fence they pause. Now is the 
 critical moment. If Flora should fail me — Several of 
 the older dogs top the rails and scatter through the under- 
 growth. Flora comes over with them, makes a small circle, 
 with her sensitive nose to the damp earth, and then goes 
 rushing down the fence past the point where "Old Sandy" 
 took his flying leap. She runs, turns suddenly to the left, 
 and comes swooping back in a wide circle, and I have barely 
 time to warn Miss de Compton that she must prepare to 
 do a little riding, when my favorite, with a fierce cry of 
 delight that thrills me through and through, picks up' the 
 blazing drag, and away we go with a scream and a shout. 
 I feel in my very bones that "Old Sandy" is doomed. I 
 have never seen Flora so prompt and eager ; I have never 
 known the scent to lie better. Everything is auspicious. 
 We go like the wind, Miss de Compton rides well, and 
 the long stretches of stubble land through which the chase 
 leads are unbroken by ditch or fence. The pace of the 
 hounds is simply terrific, and I know that no fox on earth 
 can long stand up before the white demon that leads the 
 
Early Literary Efforts 281 
 
 hunt with such fierce splendor. Five, ten, fifteen minutes 
 we rush at the heels of the rearmost dogs, until suddenly 
 we find ourselves in the midst of the pack. The scent is 
 lost! Flora runs about in wild circles, followed by the 
 greater portion of the dogs. To the left, to the right they 
 go, until, chancing to look back, I catch a glimpse of "Old 
 Sandy," broken down and bedraggled, making his way 
 toward a clump of briers. He has played his last trump 
 and lost. Pushed by the dogs, he has dropped in his tracks 
 and literally allowed them to run over him. I ride at him 
 with a shout. There is a short, sharp race, and in a few 
 moments "La Mort" is sounded over the famous fox on 
 the horn that the Jasper County boys didn't win. 
 
 IV 
 
 Dear little Carrie Abercrombie, your note is answered ; 
 and if the writer hereof has succeeded in entertaining you 
 and worrying the rest of his readers, he will feel amply 
 repaid for the trouble he has occasioned the Editorial Pres- 
 ence. Perhaps you would like to be told that the fair De 
 Compton became Mrs. Tunison, but such a statement, little 
 Carrie, would not be according to the facts of the case. Of 
 all those who went to make the brilliant pageant that 
 moved merrily over the hills with song and shout and 
 laughter on that memorable morning, but few ever met 
 each other again. Tom Tunison, gallant, gifted, and true- 
 hearted, fell at the battle of Griswoldville, where so many 
 noble lives were needlessly sacrificed. Miss de Compton, 
 I am told, married a man from Texas, who didn't treat her 
 well, and she is teaching school in Mississippi. The others 
 — but why not drop the whole matter just here? It is not 
 my desire to pursue the reader, and it is to be feared that 
 anything further in this line would be construed into a 
 willful and unjustifiable attack. J. C. H. 
 
Ill 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF ROCKVILLE 
 
 BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 [By permission, reproduced from the files of the Weekly Con- 
 stitution, April 16 to September 10, 1878.] 
 
 I 1 
 
 As to the Village 
 
 To write accurately or even adequately of Rockville, one 
 would have to fall into the idyllic mood. The peace and 
 quiet that surrounded the little village were immemorial 
 and the serenity complete. Rockville rhymed with all 
 seasons, and each rhyme seemed perfect in its way. In the 
 springtime the red hills robed themselves in green, the 
 pines clothed themselves anew, and the mighty oaks put 
 forth their leaves. The martins flocked musically about 
 the eaves of the white courthouse, the dogwood blossoms 
 gleamed white and fair in the valleys, and the peach or- 
 chards were so complete in their beauty as to suggest to the 
 village poet, who was clerking in a grocery store, the idea 
 that they had been subjected to a fall of pink snow, an idea 
 which he embodied in a poem of thirty-six stanzas printed 
 in the Middle Georgia Fade Me cum, a six-column weekly 
 devoted (if the advertisement of Plunker, the editor, was 
 to be believed) to "literature, art, science, and the news." 
 The schoolboys waded in the branch that skirted the town, 
 catching minnows and avoiding moccasins with a precision 
 that was rather a tribute to their instincts than to their 
 training. The bluebirds flitted hither and thither, hunting 
 homes in hollow posts and trees, and the robins, flying 
 northward, paused to surfeit themselves with the ripe china 
 
 1 Cartersville Express: "J- C. Harris, of the Atlanta Constitution, 
 is sick with_ measles. The consequence is that the 'Romance of 
 Rockville' will not begin before next week. Joe ought to have had 
 measles when a little boy, and they would rot be troubling him 
 now at a critical point in his literary fame." [Constitution (Week- 
 ly), April 16, 1878.] 
 
 (282) 
 
Early Literary Efforts 283 
 
 berries that grew in profusion in the town. This was in 
 springtime. 
 
 In summer the inhabitants of Rockville gave themselves 
 over to perspiration, even the poet deigning to appear upon 
 the streets without his coat. The cattle forsook the open 
 pastures and concealed themselves as best they could from 
 the observation of the sun by taking refuge under the tall 
 oaks on the hillsides or browsing carelessly among the 
 elder bushes and willows on the brookside. It is to be 
 feared that some verbal critic, following with some degree 
 of pains this unpretentious chronicle, will smile when he 
 reads of "elder bushes" ; but I confidently appeal to the pop- 
 gun brigade of the present generation to bear me out in the 
 spelling. This was in summer time. 
 
 In autumn the hickory trees changed from green to 
 golden yellow, the sweet gum shone red in the forest, and 
 among the pines could be seen an occasional sentinel of the 
 season clad in sober russet. The chestnut faded out utterly, 
 and the leaves of the dogwood glowed as though a torch 
 had been lighted in the deep, dark woods. 
 
 I suppose that other places were as rhythmically set to 
 the seasons as Rockville, but it is next to impossible to 
 believe it; and as for the people, I am quite sure that no 
 other Georgia town had its Bledsoes, its Spiveys, its Bag- 
 leys, and its Padgetts, and I am sure, moreover, that no 
 other village in all this wide world had its Miss Perryman, 
 its Mrs. Pruitt, its Mrs. Padgett, or its Mrs. Dusenberry. 
 I say this advisedly. 
 
 But for all this, it is almost too absurd to believe that 
 Rockville ever had a romance of any sort, and I am not 
 sure that the title that I have affixed to this rambling and 
 disconnected chronicle is not in some degree an exaggera- 
 tion intended to entrap the unwary reader; for of all vil- 
 lages in the universe Rockville would be the least likely 
 to have a romance or anything bordering thereupon. Save 
 upon sale days, when the Wards, the Fullers, the Caswells, 
 and the Dawsons rode carelessly into town and, tying their 
 horses to the various convenient racks about the public 
 square, proceeded to fire upon each other from behind con- 
 venient corners and eligible tree corners, Rockville was the 
 quietest place imaginable. As I have said, its serenity was 
 
284 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 immemorial, for it would ill become me as a dignified 
 chronicler to dwell upon or even to take into consideration 
 the family feuds of the Wards and the Dawsons. They 
 were fierce enough, heaven knows, and deadly enough, but 
 neither their foolish causes nor their deadly results dis- 
 turbed the peace of Rockville. Nor was this pastoral re- 
 pose broken by the utilitarian devices of the present age. 
 Neither the hiss of steam nor the roar of machinery was 
 heard. The whistle of a locomotive would have thrown 
 the community into convulsions, and the setting up of a 
 barber's sign would in all probability have resulted in an 
 indignation meeting. Indeed, I am not sure that in 1848 
 the barber had been invented ; certainly not, so far as Rock- 
 ville was concerned. There were hair dressers, to be sure, 
 but the man with the razor was unknown to the civiliza- 
 tion of the little town. 
 
 What is now called the Rockville Hotel was then known 
 as Bagley's Tavern ; and albeit it might be policy to admit 
 that the name has been improved as to euphony, Mr. Bag- 
 ley himself will tell you, should you chance to meet him, 
 that it is not at all safe that the seasoning of the soup is 
 one whit more artistic as to accuracy and timeliness, or, to 
 use Mr. Bagley's own expression, "puttin' paint on the 
 roof didn't whitewash the cellar." You will be introduced 
 to Bagley later on, but in the meantime you must take my 
 word for it that he was what the boys around town called 
 a character. The Middle Georgia Vade Me cum has also 
 changed its name, after an interval of long suspension ; but 
 it is by no means sure that Col. Pontius Bogardus, who 
 now edits it, is a more conscientious guide of public opin- 
 ion or a safer counselor of the nation than the amiable 
 Plunker, who was one of the pioneer journalists of his day. 
 A daily train of cars has taken the place of the stagecoach 
 that connected Rockville with the outside world, but I am 
 inclined to doubt whether this mode of communication is 
 more satisfactory than that afforded by the big red coach 
 and the spanking four-in-hand that John Bell used to drive. 
 
 In a word, Rockville in 1848 was as thoroughly provin- 
 cial as isolation could make it and as thoroughly satisfied 
 with itself. For the rest, it had a church — a union church 
 — which was the pride of the village, and two good schools 
 
Early Literary Efforts 285 
 
 whose fame had gone abroad, attracting pupils from all 
 sections. The first in importance, as far as I can gather 
 from the files of the Vade Me cum, still preserved in the 
 office of the ordinary, was the male academy presided over 
 by William Wornum. The female academy was under the 
 supervision of Miss Kate Underwood, a lady who had ven- 
 tured to leave her home in Vermont for the purpose of re- 
 claiming the people of the South from the heathenism in 
 which she had been taught to believe they languished. 
 Her notions with respect to the barbarism of the people 
 among whom she had cast her lot underwent a speedy 
 change, and she established a school for girls that became 
 renowned for the thoroughness of its discipline and the 
 completeness of its curriculum. In forgetting her mission 
 she but made it the more complete, managing in a motherly 
 sort of way to infuse into her pupils something of the New 
 England thrift and energy characteristic of her race and 
 training. 
 
 Thus it came about that Rockville was well satisfied with 
 itself, and some of the leading citizens even looked for- 
 ward to the day when their interests would be uplifted 
 upon a wave of progress. Precisely from what direction 
 this wave would flow was not a subject of calculation 
 among the sages and the prophets who gathered on the 
 street corners every day or who congregated around the 
 stove in Floyd's bar, which, I have omitted to mention, was 
 one of the institutions of the place. 
 
 11 
 
 The Boy in the Tree 
 
 The springtime dropped suddenly upon Rockville, crept 
 up in a night, as it seemed, and filled the town with swollen 
 buds and bursting blossoms and sprinkled an indefinable 
 odor of new life and freshness upon the sweet, cool air of 
 the morning. When I say that spring crept up on Rock- 
 ville in a night, I speak literally, for it took Miss Jane 
 Perryman by surprise, and those who lived in Rockville 
 in 1848 and remember her bustling ways, her trenchant 
 tongue, and her active charity do not need to be told that 
 spring was a very subtle season if it found Miss Jane un- 
 
286 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 prepared; and yet this particular spring had slipped down 
 from the sun with such surprising quietness that when 
 Miss Jane came out one morning, broom in hand, and 
 found that the china trees in front of her gate had taken 
 unto themselves various severe symptoms of greenness she 
 was seized with a horrible suspicion that age was dulling 
 her observation, for the brown hair that the breeze man- 
 aged to blow loose from the prim tucking comb was largely 
 mingled with gray. This suspicion was verified when Miss 
 Jane came to inspect her violet bed, for scattered here and 
 there, hidden by the leaves, she found more than one 
 modest little witness, testifying by its odorous presence to 
 the fact that some occult influence had made itself felt. 
 Discovering these things, Miss Jane leant upon her broom 
 a moment and looked first at the budding trees and then 
 at the far blue sky. In a china tree near at hand a mocking 
 bird, stirred by some mysterious impulse of the season, 
 gave a premonitory whistle and then broke forth into a 
 matchless melody; while in the sky a swallow, quivering 
 and twittering, swept swiftly across the field of blue. Be- 
 fore Miss Jane could adjust her spectacles to follow the 
 uncertain flight of the swallow, a yellow butterfly, darting 
 hither and thither as though perplexed with the newness of 
 things, lit upon the wall of the little cottage just where the 
 sun shone brightest and then proceeded with great ap- 
 parent satisfaction to fold and unfold its wonderful wings, 
 as if by that process it would catch a larger supply of the 
 warmth that seemed to be wasting in the cool shadows that, 
 drifting around this one spot of brightness in wavy suc- 
 cessions, made it in some sort an island of sunshine. But 
 the fact that the sun had found Miss Jane in bed gave her 
 some excuse for resenting the perplexing forwardness of 
 the season, and she gave vent to her vexation by address- 
 ing the butterfly: "I lay ef I fetch you a swipe with this 
 broom you won't be lightin' round here to do your noddin'." 
 But the domestic weapon which Miss Jane poised in the 
 air did not descend. Just at that moment a bee, coaxed 
 into the sunlight by the exceeding graciousness of the 
 weather, flittered into the porch and hovered a moment in 
 a languid and despondent manner among the unfruitful 
 vines that clambered to the roof of the little cottasre. Some- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 287 
 
 how or other the noise of the bee arrested the attention of 
 Miss Jane. It carried her back to the days when she used to 
 hunt for honeysuckles somewhere on the banks of the 
 Oconee, and the broom that had been raised to demolish 
 the butterfly was stayed and fell harmlessly to the floor. 
 In a moment Miss Jane had forgotten both butterfly and 
 bee, for just across the narrow street, shaded by china- 
 berry trees, was a new sign staring her in the face. It had 
 gone up in a night. Never before did anything occur in 
 Rockville without previously coming to the knowledge of 
 Miss Jane, but here was the sign in plain view, "D. Vander- 
 lyn, Gunmaker." Miss Jane regarded it with astonishment. 
 
 "Much we want with gunmakers, I reckon. Nobody 
 roun' here lacks fer a gun 'cept it's George McHenry, an* 
 he's a born loony." 
 
 But the sign was there, whatever Miss Jane might say. 
 It was a tin sign, too, neatly painted and swung easily in 
 the cool breeze that somewhat tempered the balminess of 
 the spring morning. Miss Jane was really puzzled. The 
 shop was a new establishment, so far as her knowledge 
 was concerned, and the business of gunmaking, she was 
 willing to vow, having lived in the village for nearly thirty 
 years, was a novelty in Rockville; but the fact that the 
 occupant thereof had moved in, bag and baggage, and put 
 up his sign without once attracting her attention or that of 
 her neighbors was a source of great perplexity to the vet- 
 eran maiden, and she stood staring at the phenomenon with 
 unusual interest. She had one consolation, however. 
 Neither Mrs. Pruitt, the mantaumaker, nor Mrs. Dusen- 
 berry, the little tailor's wife, knew anything about the mat- 
 ter; and what they didn't know, Miss Jane inwardly re- 
 marked, "nobody else needn't try to find out." While Miss 
 Jane was thus standing, wondering how a new inhabitant 
 could have settled in Rockville without her knowledge, the 
 bee, buzzing around the little porch in a benumbed and be- 
 wildered way, struck the defiantly poised broom and fell to 
 the floor, where, lighting upon its back, it vainly endeavored 
 to clutch the air with its feet. This aroused Miss Jane. 
 
 "Well, the Lord 'a' massy ! Nobody can't never have any 
 peace. In the winter you are freezin' to death, and when 
 warm weather comes it's as much as you kin do to keep 
 
288 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the bees and the bugs outen your years. But I lay I'll fix 
 you." 
 
 But she didn't carry out her purpose. Just at that mo- 
 ment a voice that seemed to come from overhead called 
 out: "Ef you fool with that fellow much, you'll have to 
 tote a poultice around." 
 
 It was not an unpleasant voice, and for a wonder Miss 
 Jane was not startled. Looking up, she caught sight of a 
 boy nestling and swinging in the topmost branches of the 
 china-berry tree in front of the porch. If Miss Jane had an 
 aversion upon earth, it was the small boy, and the sight of 
 this particular youth caused her wonder to culminate in 
 genuine vexation. 
 
 "Come right down from thar this minnit ! I ain't gwine 
 to have my trees broke down. I'll holler for Uncle Ben 
 ef you don't move. Whatter you doin' up thar, anyhow?" 
 
 "O, I'm jest a-lookin' at the birds. I ain't doing no 
 damage." 
 
 It was . a bright, pleasant, laughing face that the boy 
 turned on Miss Jane as he replied, and I am not sure that 
 it did not in some degree take the edge off her anger; but 
 if she was at all mollified, it was not apparent in her tone : 
 "Yes, you are doin' damage, an' the fus' thing you know ' 
 that lim'll break, an' you'll git your chunk knocked out." 
 
 Miss Jane was not particularly fond of children. She 
 had little or no sympathy with the spirit of perverse humor 
 that prompted the average small boy to trample upon flower 
 beds, rob birds' nests, and make himself ridiculously ruin- 
 ous in the several and various directions suggested by his 
 extraordinary ingenuity. Upon one memorable occasion 
 the Rockville small boy had even gone so far as to make 
 a raid, and a very disastrous one, upon Miss Jane's berga- 
 mot bed, and her primroses and oleanders had likewise 
 suffered. From that moment Miss Jane declared open war 
 against the whole tribe of small boys, and her reputation 
 for ferocity was widespread. 
 
 "I ain't goin' to have any trees broke up an' tore down 
 by nobody, much less by you young rapscallions. Ef you 
 don't come down, I'll call Mr. Wornum. You forgot he 
 was boarding here, I reckon." 
 
 Miss Jane was so accustomed to ignore the boys with 
 
Early Literary Efforts 289 
 
 whom she came in contact that they were like a herd of 
 bay horses to her, all bad and all alike. She concluded, 
 therefore, that the brat who was perched amid the budding 
 greenness of her china tree was one of the pupils of Wil- 
 liam Wornum, principal of the Rockville Male Academy. 
 
 "I was jes' comin' over to see him," responded the boy 
 laughingly; "but it looked so nice up here that I thought 
 I'd climb up here an' set in the sun." 
 
 Miss Jane was not as angry as she supposed she would 
 be, but she kept up the pretense. 
 
 "Well, you'll see 'im soon enough fer your good, I 
 reckon," she said and swept indignantly into the house. 
 
 "She's goin' to fetch him out now," the boy said, laughing 
 outright, "and raise a rumpus. But ef he gits to kickin' 
 too high, I guess Dan'll cool 'im off." 
 
 It appeared to the bright-eyed chap who sat in his high 
 perch, swinging his feet thoughtfully in the fresh air of 
 the morning, that Miss Jane was a long time on her errand. 
 Presently, however, he heard voices in the house, Miss 
 Jane's sharp tones mingling with a man's pleasant voice. 
 
 "He's a-settin' up thar," Miss Jane was saying, "jes' as 
 sassy as ef he owned the place." Then they both came out, 
 and the boy beheld the man who, above all others, was to 
 mold and fashion his life — William Wornum, schoolmaster. 
 He was a tall, serious-looking man, but this appearance of 
 gravity was the result rather of the thoughtfulness of the 
 face than of any peculiarity of temper. Consequently when 
 he lifted his eyes, glancing in the direction indicated by 
 Miss Jane's threatening forefinger, and saw the smiling face 
 of the youthful culprit, he burst out laughing — a very 
 pleasant laugh, the boy thought — and said : "Well, upon my 
 word, Miss Jane, I think the boy ought to receive praise 
 instead of blame! Not a boy in my school could clamber 
 to that perch. What is your name, young man ?" 
 
 "Jack Vanderlvn," replied the boy, blushing like a girl. 
 
 "Well, John Vanderlvn"— 
 
 "But Dan calls me Jack." 
 
 "And pray who is Dan?" 
 
 "Don't you know Dan ? Why, we've been in town more'n 
 a week, Dan an' me is. That's Dan's store," pointing in 
 the direction of the swaying tin sign that had attracted the 
 19 
 
290 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 notice of Miss Jane. With the intuition natural to children 
 and to dumb animals, he had already caught and gauged 
 the gentleness of the schoolmaster and appreciated as only 
 a boy can the whimsical humor that characterized William 
 Wornum. "I jes' started to go in an' see you, but I was 
 afeared er rouzin' the house, an' so I thought I'd sorter wait 
 roun'." 
 
 "I hope," said the schoolmaster with great apparent 
 seriousness, "that you didn't expect to find me roosting in 
 the tree?" 
 
 "O, goodness no ! But you might fine wus' places. 
 Many a time Dan an' me would 'a' felt mighty good ef 
 we could 'a' found a tree like this 'ere." 
 
 "I know'd he wuz a heathen," replied Miss Jane with 
 unction. "I know'd it the minnit I sot eyes on him." 
 
 "Yes," said the schoolmaster; "but you must remember 
 that the heathen have given us our greatest philosophers." 
 
 "Well, ef I wuz you, William Wornum, I wouldn't make 
 fun of the child," said Miss Jane, suddenly changing her 
 tone and her tactics. 
 
 William Wornum turned suddenly and looked at his 
 landlady. He was used to her eccentricities of temper, but 
 something in her voice arrested his attention; and as he 
 glanced quickly at the worn, trouble-scarred face before 
 him he thought he caught a glimpse of something like 
 tenderness in the sharp, shrewd eyes, and he was certain 
 that she looked at the boy and smiled, a bright but weary 
 smile, as it seemed to the schoolmaster. 
 
 Who shall solve for us the mystery of children's faces? 
 Rough men — miners and convicts — have been known to 
 fall a-weeping at the sight of a child's face, and most of 
 us, I imagine, have been thrilled through and through with 
 emotions similar, but less acute. Somehow or other the 
 laughing face of the little boy, framed in the green leaves 
 of the china tree, reminded Miss Jane most vividly of a 
 time when she too was young and hopeful, when hand in 
 hand with a fair, brave youth she wandered through the 
 glad green land. The youth who had wandered with Miss 
 Jane and who came back to her now as a vision had died 
 years before. His dearest friends had forgotten him, and 
 even Miss Jane had ceased, save in a vague way, to clothe 
 
Early Literary Efforts 291 
 
 his memory with regret; but to-day in some mysterious 
 manner the face of the wayward boy of whom she desired 
 the schoolmaster to make an example brought back to her 
 mournfully pleasant memories of the olden time. 
 
 "I am far from making fun of this youth, Miss Jane," 
 said the schoolmaster. "I was merely gloating over the 
 fact that we have captured him. He is ours. It is impossi- 
 ble for him to escape. What shall we do with him?" 
 
 "Let 'im alone. Goodness knows it consolation 'nuff to 
 know't he ain't one o' the nasty pack that sets up in your 
 schoolhouse an' hatches devilment day in an' day out." 
 
 The schoolmaster smiled. "Go, John Vanderlyn," said he 
 in a semi-tragic voice. "You have trespassed most grossly 
 upon the premises of this lady here, but she pardons you." 
 
 "Gracious me, William Wornum ! Folks a-goin' by'd 
 take you for a nateral-born lunatic. Come down, Vandler- 
 min, or whatever your name is. Yon ain't kilt the tree, I 
 reckon." 
 
 "Lor', no'm ! Dan says I'm as light as a feather an' 
 swift as a bird." 
 
 "Dan's a loony," remarked Miss Jane sententiously. 
 
 "It is my opinion, young man," said the schoolmaster, 
 smiling one of his most serious smiles, "that you have fal- 
 len among enemies who are friends in disguise ; and if 
 mine eyes deceive me not, you will soon find out their 
 various weaknesses." 
 
 "I told Dan I was comin' over to see the school-teacher, 
 but it looked like to me it was too soon, an' so I jes' thought 
 I'd git up here an' play like I was a jay bird." 
 
 "Well, upon my soul," replied the schoolmaster in a tone 
 that irritated Miss Jane, "your masquerade is wonderfully 
 lifelike. You lack the wings, the feathers, and the remark- 
 able topknot of the blue jay, but I dare say you are capa- 
 ble of kicking up quite as much of a rumpus. They are 
 vociferous enough when they choose to be, these jay birds." 
 
 "Well, I don't care," said the bov seriously. "A jay 
 bird lit right here on this limb awhile ago, an' he didn't 
 squall much. He sorter ruffled hisself up, but he didn't 
 flutter roun' like he was skeered." 
 
 "He wasn't one of Miss Jane's kind of birds," remarked 
 the schoolmaster with such serious emphasis as to exasper- 
 
292 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ate his landlady ; "otherwise your eyes would have been 
 pecked out and your clothes torn off." 
 
 "That child don't know when you are jokin/ William 
 Wornum," Miss Jane said in her most threatening tone. 
 
 "If you will fly down from your perch, Jack," remarked 
 the schoolmaster, pretending to ignore Miss Jane's asperity, 
 "if you will drop to the commonplace level of humanity, 
 we can have a talk together. I believe you said you wanted 
 to see me?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied the boy, sliding swiftly down the rough 
 trunk of the tree. "Dan said he reckon I better come over 
 an' see you." 
 
 in 
 
 The Boy and the Man 
 
 The schoolmaster was bent upon taking his usual morn- 
 ing exercise, and the two — the man, who was still a boy, 
 and the boy, who was longing to become a man — passed 
 up the street together. Once the boy turned and smiled at 
 Miss Jane as she stood watching them from the porch — 
 a smile so fresh and bright that it stirred all the motherly 
 instincts in the heart that throbbed so warmly and kindly 
 beneath the weather-beaten bosom of the sharp-tongued 
 old lady who made cynicism the shield of her sensitiveness. 
 
 Jack never forgot his morning's walk with the school- 
 master, and William Wornum frequently recurred to it 
 afterwards. It was in some sort the opening of a new life 
 to both. To the boy it was the beginning of a new, strange, 
 and varied experience ; while to the man it afforded a rare 
 opportunity of studying the perplexing problem presented 
 in the wayward frankness and freshness of a boy's nature. 
 The streets of Rockville began in the public square which 
 surrounded the courthouse, but they did not end there. 
 They led out of the little village and soon became public 
 highways or footpaths, sometimes running through long 
 green lanes, upon whose fragrant verge the Cherokee roses 
 blossomed, and then apparently lost themselves in the cool, 
 green depths of the great woods. Taking one of these, the 
 boy and the schoolmaster wandered out of the village to 
 the open fields beyond. The schoolmaster was a close 
 observer and enjoyed nature in all her variable moods with 
 
Early Literary Efforts 293 
 
 the keenest appreciation, but he discovered that the boy's 
 observation was closer and his appreciation far keener. 
 He found a bunch of blossoming sheep sorrel and formed 
 a pretty little bouquet of the delicate yellow flowers and 
 endeavored to show his companion a rabbit in her form ; but 
 this was an impossible task, the schoolmaster refusing to 
 believe that such a sight was within the range of his vision 
 until Jack with a rush and a hurrah compelled the fright- 
 ened animal to leave her cover, which was within a few 
 yards of their feet. 
 
 It was Saturday, and the schoolmaster was in no hurry 
 to leave the fields and the woods, and so he wandered on 
 with the boy, answering his eager questions and enjoying 
 his enthusiastic comments. 
 
 "Dan's been gittin' after me like brinjer," said the boy 
 after awhile. "He says I am growin' up like an Arab, but 
 he's afeard to send me to school 'cause the boys might 
 sorter come it over me." 
 
 "Might do what?" asked the schoolmaster, slightly 
 amazed. 
 
 "Might sorter come it over me. That's what Dan says. 
 Might sorter git the inturn on me, you know. An' Dan he 
 told me to come an' see how I'd like you fer a teacher." 
 
 "And what did you say?" asked the school-teacher, 
 amused at the frankness of the boy. 
 
 "O, I didn't say much. I jes' told Dan it was like crip- 
 plin' a feller to shet 'im up in a little schoolroom all day. 
 I'd git sick before we got to a-b, ab." 
 
 "And then Dan — this Dan of yours — what did he say 
 to this?" 
 
 "Well, Dan he said some roosters were sech high flyers 
 they had to be clipped sometimes. Dan goes on lots. He 
 said when a chicken's wings got too big it was always 
 found in somebody else's collard patch." 
 
 The earnestness of the boy struck the schoolmaster, and 
 he laughed so heartily that the boy presently joined in, 
 and such a chorus as they set to echoing among the reso- 
 nant avenues of the forest had not been heard there for 
 many and many a day. A ground squirrel, lurking near, 
 like a shadow shot scross the opening and dived headlong 
 into his hole, and a sage crow that had been swinging in 
 
294 Th* Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the topmost bough of a tall pine, watching the twain sus- 
 piciously, darted awkwardly into the air with loud cries, 
 satisfied, no doubt, that a brace of lunatics were making 
 themselves merry in the wood; for, in the experience of 
 crows, it must be remembered the wise man carries a gun 
 and seldom smiles. Howbeit, it may well be supposed that 
 if there had been even the slightest suggestion of powder 
 in the conversation between the man and the boy, it would 
 never have been overheard by the cautious crow. 
 
 "Well, this Dan of yours is a philosopher, if you report 
 him correctly," said the schoolmaster. "I mean," remem- 
 bering that he was talking to an ignorant boy, "I mean 
 that Dan is pretty well acquainted with people." 
 
 "An' I tole Dan," continued the boy as though nothing 
 had occurred to interrupt the conversation, "that I didn't 
 want to set up in one o' them close rooms ; an' he ast me 
 how I was goin' to learn to cipher an' talk big, an' I tole 
 'im I'd ketch you out some day, an' you could tell me all 
 you know 'thout bein' shet up." 
 
 William Wornum, with all his eccentricities, was an ex- 
 ceedingly sensitive man, and he looked at the child in 
 amazement. It came to him in the shape of a rebuke, and 
 he received it as such. He had been toiling with books 
 and loitering through the temple of knowledge for years, 
 and yet here a child was saying, and saying truly, that he 
 could tell all he knew in the course of a few hours' talk. 
 In spite of himself, the thought oppressed him. 
 
 "Jack," said the schoolmaster somewhat sadly, "you 
 know as much as I do." 
 
 "I don't know nothin'," answered the boy." 
 
 "Whereas I," responded William Wornum, "do know 
 nothing." 
 
 "Well, what must I tell Dan ?" asked the boy. 
 
 "Say to Dan that learning is a humbug." 
 
 "But it ain't, you know ; and Dan 'd give me such an- 
 other rakin' over the coals as a boy never got before." 
 
 "Have you a mother?" asked the schoolmaster after 
 awhile." 
 
 "Nobody but Dan," the boy replied simply. 
 
 William Wornum looked at the child and fell to musing. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 295 
 
 He thought it was such a pity that such a bright-eyed, 
 curly-haired, quick-witted little boy shouldn't have a 
 mother, not so much for the sake of the boy as for the sake 
 of the mother. It would be a great source of pride and 
 gratification, the schoolmaster thought, to some good wom- 
 an to pass her hand gently over the wayward curls of this 
 child and claim him as her own, her very own. For in all 
 his experience with children he had never met with one 
 quite so unaffectedly bright and precocious as this bash- 
 ful, ignorant boy. 
 
 "You may tell this Dan of yours," said William Wornum 
 presently, "that I will be glad to teach you, not the little 
 that I know, but the great deal to be found in books, and 
 you may tell him that my schoolroom is not such a tightly 
 sealed apartment after all." 
 
 "O, that wasn't Dan," the boy hastened to say. "That 
 was me. I tole Dan I didn't want to be shet up." 
 
 "Well, said the schoolmaster, rising from an aromatic 
 couch of brown pine tags, "we will have to consult with 
 Dan himself." 
 
 Whereupon the man and the boy wandered back to the 
 village, the one serious and thoughtful and the other gay 
 and communicative. Suddenly with a cry of "Yonder's 
 Dan now !" the boy rushed off up the road to meet a tall 
 person, who, disdaining the services of a coat on such a 
 morning, was walking abroad in the good old country 
 fashion that prevailed in those days and still prevails in 
 the provincial regions. The schoolmaster had time to 
 observe that Dan was a very tall, well-made man, a little 
 fluffy about the face, a feature that seemed to add some- 
 how to the appearance of awkward embarrassment charac- 
 teristic in that day of people in his class. He wore a full 
 beard, and his mild blue eyes contradicted the idea of pug- 
 nacity suggested by his large limbs and massive frame. 
 
 "This is Mr. Vanderlyn, I presume?" said the school- 
 master as Jack came up leading the giant by the hand. 
 
 "Yes, squire. Howdy." 
 
 "I have just been walking with Jack," remarked the 
 schoolmaster, "and a famous morning we have made of it." 
 
 "Jack's been tellin' me. He's a buster, ain't he, squire?" 
 lowering his voice to a confidential tone and chuckling a 
 
296 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 little. "I tell folks ez soon's I see urn, sez I, 'Gentlemen, 
 you wanter keep your eyeballs on Jack.' He's a rattler, 
 Jack is." 
 
 By this time Jack was far ahead, chasing a deceitful yel- 
 low butterfly which seemed always about to alight on some 
 imaginary flower. The mild-eyed giant watched the gyra- 
 tions of the boy and insect with great interest as he went 
 on to tell the schoolmaster of the wonderful peculiarities 
 of Jack. 
 
 "He is your only son, I take it," remarked the school- 
 master with an air of interest that seemed greatly to please 
 Mr. Vanderlyn, for he became more enthusiastic than ever. 
 
 "Lor', bless you, yes ! He's the onliest, and he's enough. 
 Nobody don't want but one boy like Jack. Not but what 
 he's a good 'un, but the man who keeps up with Jack is 
 gotter git up mighty quick in the mornin'. Ez long as me 
 an' Jack wuz a-trampin' an' a-trollopin' 'roun' I could sor- 
 ter hold my own ; but when I concluded for to settle down 
 and do like the balance uv the white people, I know'd 
 sump'n had to be done. But you won't have no trouble 
 with Jack. It 'ud amaze you to see how the boy kin spell. 
 Why, he sets down uv nights and translates all of the pic- 
 tures in the books right straight 'long. He's a caution." 
 
 "I observe he doesn't call you 'father,' " said the school- 
 master. 
 
 "Well, I reckon not," replied the mild-eyed giant in a 
 triumphant tone. "I reckon not. Me an' Jack's had too 
 much fun together fer him to come a-daddyin' me. It ez 
 as much ez I kin do fer to keep the boy straight now, much 
 less ef he wuz to be sneakin' roun' callin' me his 'pa' an' 
 denyin' all er his doin's. Me an' Jack's chums," continued 
 this queer disciplinarian, "an' we don't have no secrets from 
 one another. Ef Jack goes wrong, he comes and tells me ; 
 and ef I goes wrong, I ups and tells Jack. But he's mighty 
 wild, that boy, and I bin thinkin' the best thing I could do 
 ud be to shet 'im up like an' tie 'im down to bizness. Would 
 you mind takin' him in hand, squire?" 
 
 No, the schoolmaster wouldn't mind. On the contrary, 
 he was considerably struck with the peculiarities which dis- 
 tinguished Jack from the average boy and was glad enough 
 
Early Literary Efforts 29? 
 
 to "take him in hand." Whereupon it was settled that Jack 
 was to become one of the pupils of William Wornum's 
 school. 
 
 By this time the two had nearly reached a point opposite 
 Miss Jane Perryman's little cottage, when they came upon 
 Jack, who exclaimed in a suppressed voice : "Look yonder, 
 Dan !" 
 
 Dan raised his eyes in the direction indicated by Jack 
 and beheld a vision of such exquisite loveliness that he in- 
 voluntarily poised and took off his hat. A young girl, her 
 golden hair falling in great wavy masses below her waist, 
 was standing on Miss Perryman's porch. One little hand 
 rested upon the railing, while the other hung carelessly by 
 her side. Her features were as perfect and as clear-cut as 
 those of some rare old cameo and as serene as those of the 
 Madonna. The sight of that face was familiar enough to 
 William Wornum, but of late he never looked upon it with- 
 out a thrill. 
 
 "That is Miss Nora Perryman," the schoolmaster said 
 finally by way of explanation, "Miss Jane's sister. She is 
 blind." 
 
 Vanderlyn started as though he had been shot. "Great 
 God, schoolmaster! Blind?" The man was trembling all 
 over. 
 
 "Yes, sir, blind, totally blind," the schoolmaster replied, 
 regarding the gunmaker's excitement with surprise. 
 
 "Did anybody put hef eyes out with a piece of hot iron?" 
 asked Vanderlyn in a savage, half-suppressed whisper, his 
 eyes blazing like two coals. The schoolmaster had never 
 seen such a transformation, and he was inclined to believe 
 for a moment that the man had suddenly become insane. 
 "Did anybody put her eyes out with a piece of hot iron?" 
 Vanderlyn repeated. " 'Cause ef they did, I can spot the 
 man that done it." 
 
 "No," said the schoolmaster. "She has never been other- 
 wise than blind. Nor is she to be pitied. So far as she is 
 concerned, her blindness is not even an affliction." 
 
 It was some time, however, before Vanderlyn recovered 
 from his excitement, an excitement that puzzled William 
 Wornum greatly and that continued to puzzle him for years 
 afterwards, until upon a memorable occasion in the annals 
 
298 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 of Rockville, the details of which will form the culmination 
 of this hastily written chronicle, everything was made clear. 
 It may be added here that the schoolmaster afterwards 
 noted, his attention having been called to the fact by Tiny 
 Padgett, the young poet to whom I have already alluded, 
 that whenever Miss Nora went out into the village, as she 
 often did, threading the streets as easily and with as much 
 facility as though her eyesight was of the best, either Dan 
 or his son Jack was sure to be near. The schoolmaster 
 had good reason to be thankful that such was the case, for 
 one day a few weeks subsequently, as he was sitting at 
 Padgett's corner discussing politics with the veterans of the 
 village, some one cried out : "Good God ! Look yonder !" 
 
 William Wornum looked and saw Nora Perrvman cross- 
 ing the public square dangling a scarlet scarf upon her arm, 
 while Lem Griffin's black cow, a vicious beast with a young 
 calf, was charging down upon her. The schoolmaster, as, 
 indeed, did all who witnessed the scene, leaped to his feet 
 as though he would rush to the rescue, and then he turned 
 his face away with such a feeling of grief and horror as 
 he had never before experienced. Then he heard a shout 
 along the street, and General Bledsoe, who was standing 
 near, exclaimed with unwonted energy : "Damme, gentle- 
 men, that's what I call grit and muscle." 
 
 When the schoolmaster took courage to look, he saw the 
 cow stretched upon the ground with Vanderlyn sitting upon 
 her neck, while Nora stood near, the very incarnation of 
 beauty, laughing and talking with the hero of the hour. 
 Those who had nerve enough to witness the affair say that 
 Vanderlyn was some distance from the scene when the cow 
 began her charge, but he ran like a deer and was just in 
 time to jump in front of the blind girl and seize the animal 
 by the horns. The struggle was a short one. He gave the 
 cow's neck a sharp twist, and she went over as though she 
 had been shot and lay there as quietly and as peacefully as 
 a lamb. When the young lady was fairly out of the way, 
 Vanderlyn astonished the spectators, who had gathered at 
 a respectful distance, by turning the cow loose and taking 
 the calf, an awkward, shaky thing, under his arm and 
 marching out of town, while the mother, lately so ferocious, 
 followed in a trot. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 299 
 
 IV 
 
 Facing the Ladies 
 
 As the schoolmaster opened the gate to enter Miss Jane 
 Perryman's yard, the lovely vision on the porch turned and 
 smiled upon him. She knew his footstep, and as he neared 
 the porch she began to laugh right merrily, a ringing, in- 
 fectious laugh, in which William Wornum joined heartily 
 without exactly knowing why. 
 
 "We are having lots of fun all by ourselves, are we 
 not?" said the schoolmaster in a bantering tone. 
 
 "O Mr. Wornum, they are all here," said the girl, still 
 laughing — "the Pruitts, the Padgets, the Bagleys, and even 
 Miss Underwood! They couldn't stand it. They've come 
 to inquire about the new man. Do come in and help sister 
 out." 
 
 "And so you are out looking for reinforcements?" It 
 was a singular fact that none of Nora Perryman's friends 
 ever thought of her blindness. 
 
 "O no ! I just ran out here to rest my ears. They are 
 going on at a terrible rate, and for once sister Jane is at her 
 wit's end. Do come in." 
 
 Nora and the schoolmaster entered the cozy little sitting 
 room together. 
 
 "Good morning to you, ladies," said William Wornum. 
 
 "Ah ! here he is now," remarked Mrs. Bagley, dipping a 
 stick toothbrush into a paper of snuff and transferring it 
 to her mouth. "What do he look like, Mr. Wornum ?" 
 
 "Yas," said Mrs. Pruitt, smiling coquettishly in order to 
 show her false teeth, "we want to know what kind of a 
 lookin' creetur he is. We axed Jane, but Jane vows she 
 ain't seed him." 
 
 "May I ask the name of the individual you are inquiring 
 after, ladies ?" queried the schoolmaster with great apparent 
 earnestness. 
 
 "What did you say his name was, Jane? Hit's some 
 furrin' name — Linderman or Landerham." 
 
 "I said it was Vlandermin," said Miss Jane, "an' I said 
 he wuzzent no great shakes, er he wouldn't 'a' come a-creep- 
 in' up on folks in a night like this." 
 
 "That's a fact," exclaimed the schoolmaster, glancing 
 
300 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 around upon the ladies with an air of triumph. "That's a 
 fact, by George ! The fellow did creep up on us in a man- 
 ner, didn't he? Why, I had forgotten that. The impudent 
 wretch didn't even deign to write us a letter and tell us 
 when he was coming and what he was going to do. I feel 
 it my duty to investigate this matter." 
 
 It was one of the peculiarities of William Wornum's 
 character that his acquaintances would have been shocked 
 at the thought that he ever indulged in a joke, while his 
 intimate friends never knew when he was in a serious 
 mood. Perhaps Nora, the young girl, understood him best 
 of all, and even her keen discrimination was sometimes ut- 
 terly at a loss to distinguish between the schoolmaster's 
 quaint and fantastic humor and his no less eccentric 
 seriousness, and she was often puzzled at the queer shape 
 and direction of his thought. She was not puzzled now, 
 however, nor, for the matter, was Miss Jane, who had 
 come to regard with suspicion everything the schoolmaster 
 said. She understood perfectly well that he was ridiculing 
 her, but she resented it only by a sniff of disdain. 
 
 "What did you say the creetur wuz name?" pursued Mrs. 
 Pruitt. 
 
 "His name is Vanderlyn, madam, and it seems to be in 
 this instance the synonym for villain. Do you really sup- 
 pose, ladies," in a confidential tone, "that he has settled in 
 Rockville without informing anybody?" 
 
 "Goodness me, William Wornum !" exclaimed Miss Jane. 
 What else she may have said will never be known, for 
 before she could finish her lecture Mrs. Bagley chimed in 
 with her shrill treble : "I'll tell you what I know, Mr. 
 Wornum, though mebbe hit ain't much. Soon's I heerd 
 thar wuz a stranger set up in town I goes to John Bell, 
 the stage driver, an' I sez: 'John,' sez I, 'who's this new 
 man?' 'Which new man?' sez he. 'Why, this new man 
 that's set up a shop thar nigh the old McHenry house,' sez 
 I. 'Lord bless you, ma'am,' sez he, 'I don't know.' 'Did he 
 have much baggidge?' sez I. 'Ef my name's John Bell, 
 Mrs. Bagley,' sez he, 'them cattle o' mine ain't hauled no 
 baggidge fer no new man ; an' ef he come in my stage, 
 ma'm,' sez he, 'he rid in the boot ; an' ef he rid in the boot, 
 I wouldn't like fer to w'ar his broozes.' Them's John 
 
Early Literary Efforts 301 
 
 Bell's own words; an' ef he hadn't tole 'em outen his own 
 mouth, I'd a scasely believed 'em. Now," continued Mrs. 
 Bagley, lowering her voice to the inflection of mystery, 
 "how you reckon that man got into town and fetch his 
 baggidge?" 
 
 "I think Miss Jane's theory is the most plausible," said 
 the schoolmaster. "It is evident he crept up on the com- 
 munity without giving the community fair warning. It 
 is a very serious case." 
 
 Mrs. Padgett: "You ain't seen 'im, is you, Mr. Wor- 
 num?" 
 
 The schoolmaster: "Worse than that, madam. I have 
 fraternized with him." 
 
 Mrs. Padgett: "O, you don't say!" 
 
 Mrs. Pruitt: "What did the poor creetur look like?" 
 
 The schoolmaster : "He is a very rough-looking cus- 
 tomer. Like father, like son. Miss Jane saw the son, a 
 ragged, dirty little vagrant, who seems to have a habit of 
 roosting in chinaberry trees." 
 
 Mrs. Pruitt: "Is it possible?" 
 
 Miss Jane: "Don't you believe 'im, Sue. William Wor- 
 num, you're the outbeatinist man I ever see. That child is 
 ez neat an' peart a lookin' boy ez you'd want to see, a mighty 
 sight better lookin' than them ragamuffins what graddyate 
 in that den of devilment what you call your 'cademy. It's 
 mighty easy fo talk about people you don't know. You 
 don't "have to ketch a frog on the jump to cripple it." 
 
 The schoolmaster (stroking his serious face thought- 
 fully) : "I beg your pardon, Miss Jane. My recollection 
 is that when you called me this morning you distinctly 
 stated that a dirty little vagabond was perched in your china- 
 berry tree." 
 
 Miss Jane (laughing in spite of herself) : "Well, my old 
 torn cat has to look twice before he ken tell whether he's 
 a-ketchin' a mole er a mouse." 
 
 Enter Mrs. Dusenberry with a rush and a bounce: 
 "Howdy, Jane ; howdy, Mr. Wornum ; howdy, all. I seen 
 him! I jostled right up ag'in him in the street, an* I tell 
 you he's a whopper, mighty nigh ez big as two men." 
 
 Miss Underwood: "Does he look like a ruffian, Mrs. 
 Dusenberry ?" 
 
302 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Mrs. Dusenberry: "Why, bless your heart, child, no! 
 You don't see no handsomer man in these parts. Hair 
 black ez a crow, shinin' beard, an' eyes ez mild ez a baby's. 
 Bill O'Brien wuz walkin' 'longside er 'im, an' I wish I may 
 die ef Bill didn't look like a runt." 
 
 Mrs. Pruitt (sticking to her original proposition) : "Poor 
 creetur !" 
 
 Mrs. Dusenberry (mistaking the direction of Mrs. 
 Pruitt's sympathy) : "Youer right, Ann; for ef ever any- 
 body looked like a poor creetur it was Bill O'Brien when 
 he wuz a-walkin' 'longside er that man." 
 
 To what further extent this interesting eulogy would 
 have been carried it is impossible to say, for just at that 
 moment there came a rap upon the door. Responding to 
 the summons, the schoolmaster found Vanderlyn and his 
 son upon the porch. The former had put on his coat and 
 brushed himself up generally and was altogether, as Wil- 
 liam Wornum thought, quite a fine-looking man. 
 
 "I jes' drapped in, squire," he said, smiling in an apolo- 
 getic way, "to see the lady o' the house." 
 
 "Certainly," said the schoolmaster. "Come in. Come in, 
 Jack." 
 
 Showing them into the parlor, Mr. Wornum reported to 
 Miss Jane the fact that Mr. Vanderlyn had called to see 
 her. 
 
 "Well, what in the name o' goodness the man wants with 
 me, I don't know," said Miss Jane, taking a pinch of snuff 
 and smoothing out her apron preparatory to giving au- 
 dience to Vanderlyn. 
 
 "Have 'im in here, Jane," said Mrs. Bagley eagerly. 
 
 "Gracious, yes ! O, by all means !" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Pruitt. "We want to see what the creetur's like. Ax 'im 
 in, Mr. Wornum." 
 
 This proposition fitted the queer humor of the school- 
 master so thoroughly that he did not wait for Miss Jane 
 to decide the matter. He went back to Vanderlyn and in- 
 vited him into the sitting room. 
 
 "You will meet some ladies there," said the schoolmaster 
 by way of warning; "some of Miss Perryman's particular 
 friends." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 3^3 
 
 "All right, squire. I ain't particular fond of the fa'r 
 sek, but I'm lookin' arter bizness now. Shove ahead." 
 
 And the schoolmaster did "shove ahead," leading Van- 
 derlyn and Jack into the august presence of the principal 
 gossips of the village and introducing him in the most 
 formal manner. Miss Kate Underwood, of Vermont, 
 spinster, aged about twenty-six, was inclined to be face- 
 tious; but when she happened to glance at Vanderlyn and 
 found his mild eyes resting calmly upon her, she colored 
 up like a schoolgirl, this strong-minded damsel, and her 
 eyes dropped in visible embarrassment, an embarrassment 
 from which she did not fully recover while the stranger 
 remained in the room. The fair Katherine was of the 
 opinion that her confusion was' not observed by the others, 
 but in this she was mistaken, for Mrs. Pruitt never alluded 
 to her first meeting with Vanderlyn without remarking; 
 "An' you oughter seed 'im take down that Kate Under- 
 wood ! She wuz a-snickerin' an' a-gigglin', and he jes' 
 turned roun' an' give her one look. It wuz better than a 
 show. I never wuz so glad of ennything in all my borned 
 days — a-goin' roun' here settin' up fer a gal when she's 
 forty year old ef she's a day." 
 
 Women as a rule are fair judges of men ; and as Van- 
 derlyn sat in the presence of the company that had as- 
 sembled in Miss Perryman's sitting room, cool, calm, and 
 unembarrassed, smiling and showing his white teeth, they 
 all thought they had never seen a finer specimen of man- 
 hood. So well proportioned was the stranger that none 
 of them noticed that he was compelled to stoop to enter 
 the door. He was altogether a remarkable-looking man, 
 with his big frame, his fine features, and his black hair and 
 beard and blue eyes. 
 
 "We were just discussing you, Mr. Vanderlyn," said the 
 schoolmaster — "that is to say," with malicious deliberation, 
 "the ladies here were." 
 
 Vanderlyn looked at his son and laughed, as much as to 
 say, "You hear that, Jack?" while the ladies protested with 
 great vehemence that Mr. Wornum was grossly misrepre- 
 senting them. 
 
 "I appeal to Miss Nora," said the schoolmaster. 
 
 "I must say," responded the girl with a little rippling 
 
304 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 laugh, "that Mr. Vanderlyn's name was mentioned, and 
 we were wondering where he came from and all about him 
 and his little boy. I am sure there was no harm in that." 
 
 "None, ladies, none whatsoever," said Vanderlyn in a 
 voice so gentle that it startled those who heard it. Mrs. 
 Bagley went so far as to say that it sounded like a flute, 
 and Miss Kate Underwood afterwards told Becky Griggs, 
 her oldest pupil, that she felt like crying. "No, lady," he 
 continued as gently as before, "me and Jack oughter feel 
 thankful that such as you and these ladies is kind enough 
 10 think of us at all." 
 
 Nothing was said by any of the ladies in response to this, 
 even the schoolmaster holding his humor in abeyance. 
 Miss Jane, looking out of the window, appeared to be 
 watching the riotous caperings of a colt in Judge Wal- 
 thall's barley patch. Mrs. Pruitt took a ball of yarn and a 
 half-finished stocking from her pocket and began to knit 
 industriously. Mrs. Bagley studied her paper of snuff in- 
 tently, and Mrs. Dusenberry picked imaginary ravelings 
 from the corner of her shawl, while Kate Underwood kept 
 her eyes fixed steadily on the floor. 
 
 "You may say," pursued Vanderlyn, smiling slightly, 
 "that me and Jack come through the country. We've 
 traipsed aroun' considerably, ain't we, Jack?" 
 
 "Goodness, yes, but didn't we have fun though?" 
 
 "Oceans uv it, ]es' oceans uv it. You see, I wuz a-hunt- 
 in' fer a party, an' I've been a-huntin' 'im mighty nigh 
 eight years. I owe 'im a debt," he continued in an ex- 
 planatory way, "an' I wanter pay 'im. But I seen this 
 traipsing bizness didn't help Jack much, an' I sez to my- 
 self, sez I, 'Look a here, ole man, while youer huntin' fer 
 your party, whatter you doin' fer that boy ?' Sez I, 'You've 
 gotter send that boy to school ; an' ef you send 'im to 
 school, you've gotter settle down.' And," drawing a long 
 breath, "I've settled. Ez fer bizness, I ain't pinin' arter 
 customers. I ain't ableedzd to have 'em. I've laid away 
 a little money fer me an' Jack, an' ef people don't want 
 the'r guns mended, hit won't hurt my feelin's." 
 
 "What you think?" said Jack, laughing. "Sometimes 
 when we'd be goin' 'long he'd wanter tote me." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 305 
 
 "An* you think he'd let me?" exclaimed Vanderlyn in 
 an aggrieved voice. 
 
 "YVhy, goodness me," said Jack, "when a feller gits tired, 
 he oughter set down an' rest !■" 
 
 "Didn't I tell you, squire," said Vanderlyn, turning to 
 the schoolmaster and speaking in a confidential tone, "didn't 
 I tell you he wuz a regular buster?" 
 
 The schoolmaster admitted that he did and took great 
 pleasure, as he said, in coinciding in the opinion that Jack 
 was a buster. 
 
 "I come over, Miss Perryman," said Vanderlyn, "fer to 
 see ef you wouldn't take Jack an' board 'im. He wouldn't 
 be no more trouble than ef he wuzzent in the house, an', 
 more than that, hit's about time fer some lady to take 'im 
 in han' an' sorter civilize 'im. Jack said this mornin' it 
 looked mighty like home over here. Didn't you, Jack?" 
 
 "I said," replied Jack, blushing and looking embarrassed 
 for the first time, "that when I dreamed of mother she 
 allers looked at me like Miss Jane did when I clomb down 
 outer the tree." 
 
 Miss Jane colored a little, took a pinch of snuff, and ex- 
 claimed somewhat snappishly: "Why, of course I'll take 
 the chile ! Why shouldn't I ? He'll be no trouble ter me ; 
 an' ef he gets too obstrepalous, I'll use my shoe on 'im." 
 
 "Lor', Miss Perryman," said Vanderlyn, "you'll admire 
 to see how that boy will mine you. Whatever you tell 'im 
 to do, ef it kin be done, he'll do it. He's got mischief into 
 Mm, but he ain't got no meanness." 
 
 "I'm takin' 'im on my own judgment," said Miss Jane 
 with some asperity. 
 
 v 
 Our Marionettes 
 
 It is not possible that the reader has formed more than 
 a vague idea of the characteristics of William Wornum, 
 the schoolmaster. I have said that he was eccentric ; I 
 should have said that people called him eccentric, people 
 who did not know him well. He had traveled a great deal 
 and was possessed of an ample competency, and yet he 
 chose to shut himself up in a schoolroom day after day 
 with thirty or more riotous urchins. He was the owner 
 20 
 
306 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 of a large plantation, the most fertile probably in the whole 
 country, and it was in charge of an overseer who was not 
 only kind to the negroes, but was one of the most pro- 
 gressive and intelligent agriculturists of that day. His 
 crops of cotton and corn were something wonderful, and 
 they brought to the schoolmaster an ample income. Know- 
 ing all this, some of the inhabitants of Rockville called 
 him eccentric, while others said he was not only eccentric, 
 but miserly. When gossip of this sort was brought to his 
 ears by Miss Jane, who was his most earnest champion, he 
 would smile and say nothing. He was too indifferent to 
 public opinion even to have a contempt for it. He went 
 little into society, though he was somewhat socially inclined 
 at times and was a most charming conversationalist. He 
 made no effort to make himself popular with the many, 
 and he had but few intimate friends. To those few, how- 
 ever, his quaint humor and queer conceits were a perpetual 
 well-spring of pleasure. He taught school because the 
 indolence of plantation life did not fit his restlessness and 
 because, moreover, he was really interested in the study of 
 the unadulterated human nature to be found in boys. It 
 was for this reason, and this alone, that he so readily con- 
 sented to take Jack Vanderlyn in hand. He thought he 
 discovered in the boy a peculiar freshness and brightness 
 not often seen in children, and he at once became in- 
 terested. For the rest, the schoolmaster was tall and slim, 
 with a slight stoop in the shoulders. His face was so 
 thoughtful and intellectual as to have the appearance of 
 sadness, and he had dark hair, large, brilliant black eyes, 
 and rather a large mouth. In him the ease and the repose 
 of a man of the world seemed to be combined in a singular 
 manner with the shyness and reserve of the scholar. His 
 humor, which had something of the flavor of that of Sir 
 Thomas Browne about it, sometimes took the shape of 
 sarcasm, but never drifted in the direction of cynicism. 
 He made a great pretense of being serious over trifles and 
 of treating important matters with careless indifference. 
 He was well advanced in the thirties, but said he was forty, 
 on the ground that it was as consistent for an unmarried 
 man to be forty years old as to be thirty-seven. He was 
 most satirical of people and things and the benefactor 
 
Early Literary Efforts 307 
 
 of all who needed charity. Above all, he was generous to 
 his negroes. They were well clothed, well fed, and had 
 comfortable quarters. I do not mention this as an excep- 
 tion. Scarcely one planter in one hundred treated his 
 negroes cruelly, and that one was compelled to face the 
 open scorn and contempt of the ninety-nine. It was not a 
 crime in the eyes of the law for a master to treat his slave 
 cruelly; but the old plantation had a code of its own and 
 cruelty to a negro was almost invariably followed by social 
 isolation, and in those times no punishment could be se- 
 verer. I have mentioned this trait in the character of Wil- 
 liam Wornum because the careful and scrupulous manner 
 in which he watched over his negroes was the subject of 
 remark among his neighbors. Upon one occasion he em- 
 ployed a man by the name of Raddick, who came well 
 recommended, to manage his plantation. A few weeks 
 afterwards, while making his regular weekly visit to his 
 place, Wornum called for Plato, a venerable old negro, 
 who, by reason of his age, experience, and faithfulness, was 
 the confidential adviser of his master in matters relating 
 to the management of the crops and the necessities of the 
 negroes. When the old man, still hale and hearty, but with 
 hair as white as snow, came up, hat in hand, his master 
 observed a scar across his face. 
 
 "How did you hurt yourself, Plato?" asked William 
 Wornum. 
 
 "I didn't hurt mvse'f, Marse Willium. I wuz hurted." 
 
 "Who hurt you?" 
 
 "Mr. Raddick." 
 
 "Plow?" 
 
 "He fetched me a lick wid his ridin' w'ip." 
 
 "Send Elleck after Mr. Raddick and go to your house. 
 When I want you, I'll call you." 
 
 Raddick came up in a great hurry apparently and was 
 very effusive in his manner: "Why, lordy, Kurnel, howdy! 
 Ef I'd 'a' know'd you's a-comin', Kurnel, I'd 'a' been here 
 befo'. Did you wanter see me, Kurnel?" 
 
 "I believe we have a contract for the year." 
 
 "Yes, Kurnel." 
 
 "Come to Rockville to-morrow, and I will pay you your 
 
308 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 year's salary. I want you to quit my place immediate- 
 
 "But, Kurnel"— 
 
 "If we argue over the matter, Mr. Raddick, I shall lose 
 my temper. I don't want you on my place, and that is 
 enough." 
 
 That was the end of Raddick's career as an overseer in 
 that section. The fact leaked out in some way that Wil- 
 liam Wornum had paid him an entire year's salary rather 
 than keep him, and he found it impossible to obtain em- 
 ployment. Plato, relating the affair to his fellow servants 
 sometime after, said : "I nuss'd Marse Willium f'um a baby 
 up, an' I ain't never seen 'im dat mad befo'. He wuz 
 a-whoopin', sho's you born." 
 
 Another peculiarity of the schoolmaster was his sensi- 
 tiveness. In his youth it almost amounted to an affliction, 
 but he was accustomed to hide it by an assumed careless- 
 ness that did not commend him to strangers. "Have many 
 acquaintances, but few friends," he was accustomed to say 
 at times, or "The people of the East have a habit of in- 
 specting their figs before eating them." His most intimate 
 friends were Miss Jane Perryman and her sister Nora, 
 Judge Walthall, who had been a member of Congress and 
 who was the largest planter in the country, Emory Reed, 
 a brilliant young lawyer, and Miss Kate Underwood. He 
 was attracted to Miss Jane by the sharpness of her wit and 
 her uncompromising method of dealing with the foibles 
 of friends and foes and the aptness of her illustrations. 
 He had long ago discovered what a warm and kindly nature 
 lay beneath the cloak of asperity which Miss Jane chose 
 to wear, and she with the shrewdness of her sex had taken 
 the full measure of the schoolmaster and caught more than 
 one glimpse of his noble purposes and pure soul. "The 
 porcupine furnishes a tender steak," he was wont to re- 
 mark when defending Miss Jane from the good-humored 
 attacks of her friends, and she had said to him : "The big- 
 gest fiddle don't make the most music by a long shot." 
 
 Miss Jane was not compelled to take boarders. She 
 owned a family of seven sleek, fat negroes, headed by 
 Uncle Ben and Aunt Ferraby. The two latter she kept 
 with her, but the five boys — stout, healthy fellows, ranging 
 
Early Literary Efforts 309 
 
 from fifteen to twenty-two — she hired out, allowing them 
 the privilege of choosing their own employers. Uncle Ben 
 was quite a character in his way and quite a favorite with 
 the young men, who enjoyed his odd sayings and admired 
 his politeness, which would have done honor to one of the 
 old Virginia barons. He was also a famous hunter of the 
 raccoon and opossum, and there are few who lived in Rock- 
 ville even as late as 1858 who do not have a lively recol- 
 lection of Uncle Ben's "possum suppers." 
 
 Miss Jane was quite comfortably off, so far as this 
 world's goods were concerned ; but when William Wornum, 
 whom she had long known, asked her to allow him to make 
 one of her little family, she readily consented, with the 
 characteristic remark : "Wimmen is poor creeturs, enny- 
 how. They're miserable ef they ain't got a man in the 
 house an' miserable ef they have. Tinkins [her pet cat] 
 is gittin' too ole ter be enny pertection, an' I b'leeve in my 
 soul ef a buggler wuz to break in I wouldn't have strength 
 to holler for Ben." 
 
 And so the schoolmaster took up his quarters in the little 
 cottage. Nora had just returned from Philadelphia, where 
 she had been at school, and William Wornum was surprised 
 that one destitute of sight could be taught so many accom- 
 plishments. Indeed, it was always a question with him 
 whether she had been taught. She seemed to learn by in- 
 tuition. Her memory was something wonderful, while her 
 hearing and her sense of touch were most exquisitely de- 
 veloped. As the schoolmaster said, her blindness was by 
 no means an affliction. Her large gray eyes were as clear 
 and as limpid as though their vision was unimpaired, and 
 but for the introspective expression they always wore — 
 as of one in deep thought who looks at you fixedly and 
 yet does not seem to see you — strangers would have learned 
 of her blindness with astonishment. The schoolmaster was 
 at first disposed to deplore what he considered an afflic- 
 tion, but later he ceased to remember that she was blind. 
 Upon one occasion, when she and William Wornum were 
 sitting on the porch together, the conversation turned upon 
 her blindness, and she said : "If a miracle could be per- 
 formed and I could be made to see, I think I should be in 
 perpetual confusion. I cannot understand how it is pos- 
 
310 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 sible for people to look and listen at the same time. I 
 should probably think less of my friends if I could see 
 their faces." 
 
 "No doubt," said the schoolmaster with a sigh. "Some 
 of them are homely enough, Heaven knows." 
 
 "O, I didn't mean that," the young girl hastened to re- 
 ply. "I meant that I might discover that their faces con- 
 tradicted their kind words. I should delight in homely 
 faces like sister Jane's. I imagine I see their faces, and 
 that is enough for me." 
 
 "Would you mind describing me?" said the schoolmaster. 
 
 "O, that is absurd, Mr. Wornum. Of course I know 
 how you look. You are tall, with large eyes and dark hair; 
 and although you make others laugh, you rarely smile 
 yourself. Sometimes you are really troubled about some- 
 thing, but I cannot see what it is," she said gently. 
 
 "Trouble is a frequent visitor to us all," he said aloud ; 
 but to himself he said : "Ah, child, if you only knew !" 
 
 "But your troubles must be little ones," she said. 
 
 "Yes," he responded in a low tone. "They are scarcely 
 worth speaking about." 
 
 "I cannot see the rose and the violet as you see them," 
 the young girl went on ; "but sometimes it seems to me that 
 I can see their perfume. I hear sounds and enjoy the 
 fragrance of flowers far better than if I had eyesight to 
 confuse me." 
 
 "You cannot see the stars," said the professor, happening to 
 catch a glimpse of Sirius burning and blazing in the east. 
 
 "No," she said, smiling just a little; "but I can compre- 
 hend what is meant by the infinity of space, and this would 
 be impossible if I could see the thousand and one small 
 things visible to the eye and have my thoughts bounded by 
 the narrow limits of vision. When you speak of the in- 
 finity of space, you use the words without understanding 
 their meaning. To me they convey an idea as vivid and 
 as real as my own existence, because I have an experience, 
 a fact, with which I can compare it, and that fact is the 
 boundless darkness by which I am surrounded. If you 
 should endeavor to describe light to me, I would fail to 
 understand you." 
 
 "You have given me a problem," said the schoolmaster. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 311 
 
 VI 
 
 The Freaks of Daniel Vanderlyn 
 
 William Wornum took charge of Rockville Academy as 
 the successor of one Thomas McManus, a thoroughly pro- 
 ficient teacher, but a very cruel and overbearing man. He 
 used the rod to such an extent that his pupils were thor- 
 oughly demoralized; and he had a habit, which was quite 
 common among the instructors of youth of those days, of 
 showing a decided partiality for the sons of his wealthier 
 patrons. It is more than probable, however, that the man 
 thought he was adding to his supply of meat and bread by 
 such a course. All this was changed by William Wornum. 
 He began by introducing the discipline of kindness and 
 strict impartiality. Above all, he never lost patience with 
 a dull pupil. The boys were astonished and then skeptical, 
 but they gradually fell in with the reforms of the new 
 teacher; and in a short time, in spite of Miss Jane's criti- 
 cisms, which I have already quoted, the discipline of the 
 school was well-nigh perfect. The rod was laid away, and 
 kindness ruled in its stead. The least tractable boys re- 
 ceived the most attention from the schoolmaster, and the 
 ambition of the dullest was aroused by the competitive ex- 
 aminations that occurred twice a week. It was altogether 
 a model school, and people sent their children from long 
 distances in order that their mental training might be di- 
 rected by William Wornum. 
 
 Jack Vanderlyn's lines were, therefore, cast in pleasant 
 places. The schoolmaster found him not only apt and 
 bright, but well advanced for a boy of seven. He could 
 read well, and he never tired of study. He never neglected 
 his books for play nor his play for books. One day, short- 
 ly after the boy entered the academy, the schoolmaster 
 heard a rapping upon the wall near the door. It was 
 Daniel Vanderlyn. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Vanderlyn," said William Wornum. 
 "Come in and see my young men." 
 
 "I jes' thought I'd drap in an' see how the boys wuz 
 a-gittin' 'long," the giant remarked in an apologetic tone. 
 
 "Certainly. Come in. Jack's class is just about to re- 
 cite. You are just in time." 
 
312 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Well, I be blame, schoolmaster, ef I don't believe I'll 
 sorter linger round out here till arter Jack gits through. 
 I'm feared I'd kinder ruffle the boy's feelin's an' make 
 'im stumble." 
 
 He went in, however, after some persuasion, and from 
 that time forward not a school day passed that Vanderlyn 
 did not put in an appearance at the academy. lie soon be- 
 came a great favorite with the boys, who called him "Jack's 
 giant killer." He joined in their games with a zest that 
 afforded a fresh subject of study for the schoolmaster. 
 He played horse for the smaller ones, frequently carrying 
 two on his shoulders ; he made swings and built a gym- 
 nasium, and he taught the larger boys how to handle a bat 
 and catch a ball. In fine, it came to pass that Vanderlyn 
 was quite an important adjunct to the school. Hearing of 
 all this, some of the parents of the boys concluded that the 
 man was a lunatic; and one or two of them, Mr. Bagley 
 among the number, protested to the schoolmaster that such 
 "carryings on" were hurtful to the dignity of the school. 
 William Wornum laughed at these protests, but at the 
 same time gave the dissatisfied parents to understand that 
 he was managing his school to suit himself. 
 
 An incident occurred shortly after this that rather turned 
 the tide of popular opinion in Rockville in favor of Vander- 
 lyn. Judge Walthall had recently purchased a pair of 
 horses for his phaeton, the first vehicle of the kind ever 
 seen in Rockville. The horses were as pretty as a picture, 
 black as jet and wonderfully stylish in their appearance. 
 John Bell and other judges of horse flesh gave it as their 
 opinion that they were thoroughbreds, while the admira- 
 tion of the female portion of the community was content 
 to pause in contemplation of the silver-mounted harness 
 and the shining vehicle. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon the schoolmaster was standing 
 talking to Vanderlyn in front of the latter's shop. The 
 group of two had been reen forced by Mr. Bagley and John 
 Bell. 
 
 "I reckon we'll have some rain to-morrow," remarked 
 Mr. Bagley. "I seen it lightning in the north just now." 
 
 "Yes," said Vanderlyn, "an* thar's a raincrow a-hollerin' 
 hisself hoarse in that oak over thar." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 3 I 3 
 
 " 'Twouldn't s'prise me ef we didn't have some fallin' 
 weather 'fore the week's out," said John Bell. "When I 
 crossed Lick Creek this mornin', a powerful fog wuz hang- 
 in' roun'." 
 
 "And the tree frogs are growing clamorous," remarked 
 the schoolmaster. 
 
 "O, dad blame the tree frogs !" exclaimed Mr. Bagley. 
 'They're— Hello! what's that?" 
 
 There was a tremendous rattling up the street, mingled 
 with what appeared to be the screams of women. The little 
 group standing there discussing the weather were net left 
 long in suspense. In another moment Judge Walthall's 
 phaeton swung around the courthouse corner and came 
 thundering toward them. There appeared to be several 
 ladies in the vehicle, and one was making ineffectual efforts 
 to wrench the door open. 
 
 "Look at the damn nigger!" exclaimed Vanderlyn. Jim, 
 the driver, was plainly demoralized. He seemed to be 
 making small effort to control the horses, though, for that 
 matter, they appeared to be beyond human control. 
 
 "Ef the devil ain't to pay now, I'm a Dutchman," said 
 John Bell. 
 
 Vanderlyn walked out into the street and stood as if he 
 would confront the rushing animals. 
 
 "Get out of the way !" exclaimed the schoolmaster ; but 
 Vanderlyn sood like a statue. 
 
 "Pull on that lead horse, Jim!" he exclaimed as the 
 phaeton neared him, and his voice rang out like a trumpet. 
 Then he made a spring, caught the off horse by the bridle, 
 was dragged a little distance, regained his feet, and swung 
 to the animal's head with such marvelous strength that, 
 after a few desperate lunges, both horses were brought to 
 a standstill. Fortunately, the negro driver had compre- 
 hended Vanderlyn's order and carried it out to the letter, 
 else it is possible there would have been no excuse for af- 
 flicting the reader with the details of this chronicle. 
 
 By the time the horses were brought to a halt John Bell 
 and Mr. Bagley had reached their heads, and in a few mo- 
 ments Judge Walthall came running up, nearly frantic 
 with fright. The phaeton contained his wife and his daugh- 
 ter Lucy, and with them were Miss Kate Underwood and 
 
314 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Becky Griggs. The Judge went up to Vanderlyn with the 
 tears rolling down his cheeks and took the gunmaker's 
 hand in his, unable for the moment to speak. Vanderlyn 
 was visibly embarrassed. The tears of the old man con- 
 fused him. 
 
 "That's a right peart pair er hosses, Jedge," he said and 
 then, after a little, "an' a mighty tough waggin." 
 
 "Mr. Vanderlyn," Judge Walthall said presently in a 
 broken voice, "whatever I have is yours. You have done 
 more for me and mine this day than I could do for you were 
 I to remain your servant a thousand years." 
 
 "Don't mine me, Jedge," said Vanderlyn, laughing a 
 little to hide his confusion. "Ef it hadn't 'a' bin fer Jim 
 thar, that off horse 'ud er drug me outer town." 
 
 " 'Twuzzent me, marster. I wuz too skeered fer ter pull 
 much. I ain't never see nobody ketch er hoss like dat; an' 
 ef Marse Dan hadn't er kotch 'em, de killin' place would er 
 bin right down yan at de big gully. We'd never crossed 
 dat bridge wid bref in us. I knowed dat w'en dey turn' 
 roun' de cote'ouse cornder." 
 
 By this time the ladies had been assisted out by the 
 schoolmaster, and Vanderlyn's embarrassment was height- 
 ened by their thanks. He took occasion to observe that they 
 were all frightened and trembling, with the exception of 
 Miss Underwood, who was quite calm and self-possessed. 
 She noticed that whenever Vanderlyn wiped the perspira- 
 tion from his face with his hand he left a trace of blood. 
 
 "You have hurt yourself, Mr. Vanderlyn," she said. 
 "Take my handkerchief," offering him what he took to be 
 a piece of lace. 
 
 " 'Tain't nothing but the scratch of a tongue buckle," 
 he said, refusing the handkerchief. Then he turned to the 
 driver: "What skeered these hosses, Jim?" 
 
 "Nothin' never skeered urn, Marse Dan. Dey des got 
 the ole boy in um. W'en we wuz comin' 'long by Marse 
 Ab Stone's, dat off hoss back 'is years an' shake 'is head, 
 an' de udder one look like he say 'All right,' and den dey 
 fa'rly tore de groun' up." 
 
 "Jedge," said Vanderlyn, turning to Judge Walthall, 
 "kin I borry these animals 'bout half hour ?" 
 
Early Literary Efforts 315 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Vanderlyn, but you are not going to at- 
 tempt to drive them now?" 
 
 "I'm a-gwine to see ef I can't sorter tame 'em down like. 
 Jack, run an' fetch my whip." 
 
 "I tell you what, ole man," said John Bell, who, with 
 Mr. Bagley, was standing at the heads of the still restive 
 horses, "ef you mount that box, you'll git sick of it. I'm 
 handlin' squally hosses every day in the year, but you 
 wouldn't ketch me pullin' the lines over this team right 
 now. They've got Satan in 'em." 
 
 "I'll try 'em one roun', ennyhow, jes' to see how they 
 pull," replied Vanderlyn as Jack returned with a heavy 
 wagoner's whip. Loosening the checkreins, Vanderlyn 
 gathered up the lines and mounted the box. "Now, gents," 
 he said to Bagley and Bell when he had settled himself 
 firmly in the seat, "now, gents, you kin give 'em all the 
 room they want." 
 
 Bell and Bagley jumped aside, and the horses made a 
 plunge forward. At the same instant the lash of the heavy 
 whip flew into the air and descended upon one of the ani- 
 mals with a report like that of a pistol. This was the sig- 
 nal for the inauguration of a desperate struggle between 
 the man and the horses. The plunges of the animals were 
 something prodigious, and every time they plunged the 
 spectators could hear the report of the whip as it fell mer- 
 cilessly first to the right and then to the left. The ladies, 
 the schoolmaster, Judge Walthall, and the others looked 
 on in amazement. 
 
 "Dang my buttons ef he ain't natally holdin' 'em down on 
 the yearth!" exclaimed John Bell, who considered himself 
 the best horseman in all that section. 
 
 "And he doesn't seem to be hurting himself much, either," 
 remarked the schoolmaster. 
 
 As long as the horses continued the plunging the whip 
 continued to descend; but as they turned up a back street 
 those who were watching saw that they had settled down 
 into a smooth and steady run. It was also observable that 
 they were held well in hand. In a few minutes the team 
 turned the corner of the courthouse, where they had first 
 been seen by Mr. Bagley and those who were talking with 
 him. They had subsided from a run into a gallop, and 
 
2>l6 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 they came down the street easily and steadily, until they 
 drew up alongside the little group they had left a few min- 
 utes before. 
 
 "Now, ladies," said Vanderlyn, "ef you wanter finish 
 your ride, all you gotter do is to let Jim clime up here and 
 take you roun'. Ain't no tamer horses'n these. I 'low'd 
 I wuz gwineter have a big fight wi' 'em, but, my goodness ! 
 they came down to bizness jes' like lam's. They're right 
 lively cattle, Jedge, but they ain't got no harm in 'em. 
 Nothin' but fun." 
 
 "I wouldn't dare to ride unless you held the reins, Mr. 
 Vanderlyn," said the fair Katherine Underwood, a faint 
 color showing itself in her face. 
 
 "Why, certain," exclaimed Vanderlyn. "Open that door, 
 Jim. Mr. Wornum, help the ladies in." 
 
 There was no more fright on the part of the ladies. With 
 Vanderlyn upon the box after his little exploit of stopping 
 the runaway horses, to think of danger would have been 
 absurd, and they all seated themselves in the vehicle once 
 more. 
 
 "William," said Judge Walthall to the schoolmaster as 
 the phaeton was driven off, "who is this man Vanderlyn?" 
 
 "There is his history, Judge, as far as I know it," replied 
 the schoolmaster, pointing to the swinging sign, which bore 
 upon its face the commonplace legend, "D. Vanderlyn, 
 Gunmaker." 
 
 "He seems to be a remarkable person," said the Judge. 
 
 "Altogether, I should say that he is the most remarkable 
 man I ever met," said the schoolmaster. "I have been 
 thrown with him nearly every day for several weeks, and 
 I must say that I have never seen any one quite so at- 
 tractive. He is uncouth in his talk and sometimes in his 
 manner, but after a little while one forgets all these things. 
 He is as simple as a child, as gentle and tender as a woman, 
 and yet he is a marvelous specimen of manhood. He has 
 a way of his own, and I should imagine that it would be 
 dangerous to trifle with him." 
 
 "I must see more of him," said the Judge heartily. 
 
 "He is worth cultivating," said the schoolmaster. "He 
 is one of the originals, and he has the brightest boy I have 
 ever seen. For the purpose of studying human nature I 
 
Early Literary Efforts 317 
 
 wouldn't give Dan Vanderlyn and his son for a whole city 
 full of people. There's the boy now. 'Jack,'" he called, 
 and then the boy came up with a smile on his frank face. 
 "This is Judge Walthall, Jack." 
 
 The Judge seemed to take great interest in the child. 
 He was impressed, as most people were, with the bright, 
 intelligent face and the unaffected frankness of the boy 
 and talked to him for some time. 
 
 "Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do," said the 
 Judge, passing his hand caressingly through Jack's curly 
 hair. "To-morrow after church I want you to come over 
 to my house and bring your father and Mr. Wornum. 
 Will you come?" 
 
 "If Dan says so." 
 
 VII 
 
 Miss Jane Delivers a Lecture 
 
 "This world's full er funny people," remarked Miss 
 Jane blandly as she and Nora and the schoolmaster sat 
 in the porch that evening of the day of Vanderlyn's ex- 
 ploit with Judge Walthall's horses. "It's full er funny 
 people; an' the more you live, the more you fine it out. 
 They cut up their rippits right befo' folks' eyes, more 
 spesherly the men. Everything the men does the wimmen 
 gotter to make a great miration over it. Ef they don't git 
 together and gabble over it like a passel of puddle ducks, 
 then the men gits slighted, and thar ain't no end to the 
 tribalation." 
 
 "This is something new," the schoolmaster began. 
 
 "No, it ain't, William Wornum, and mighty well you 
 know it. It's been so sense Adam cut up his capers in the 
 gyardins of Eden, an' it'll be so tell Gaber'el blows his 
 horn." 
 
 "It is new to me, at any rate," the schoolmaster re- 
 marked, blowing a cloud of smoke in the direction of the 
 moon, that seemed to float in a sea of fleecy clouds in the 
 east, and wondering whether it would ever reach its destina- 
 tion. "Do you mean to say that men are really so anxious 
 to receive the applause of women that they form themselves 
 into small mobs and compel the weaker sex to sound their 
 praises?" 
 
318 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "It's mighty nigh got to that," responded Miss Jane. 
 
 "It is curious, though," said the schoolmaster, "how far 
 a man will go to merit the approval of women. In the old 
 days men were in the habit of hewing and hacking each 
 other to pieces in the face of the multitude merely for the 
 purpose of crowning some fair lady queen of love and 
 beauty. But there is neither hewing nor hacking in these 
 times." 
 
 "Lord knows, William Wornum, they didn't mangle one 
 another fer the sake er the wimmen. It wuz the'r vanity 
 a-bilin' in 'em. Look at Emory Reed, a-primpin', a-per- 
 fumin' hisself. He never darkens this door that I don't 
 expec' to hear 'im holler out: 'Look at me, folks. Ain't I 
 a purty pink ?' " 
 
 The schoolmaster laughed. "You must excuse Emory, 
 Miss Jane. He is in love." 
 
 "Well, mercy knows, I'd hate to set my cap fer 'im ! 
 I'd be afeard he wouldn't w'ar well. Silk gloves don't 
 cure bone felons." 
 
 "Who is Mr. Reed in love with, Mr. Wornum?" queried 
 Nora. 
 
 "I am afraid to give the young lady's name," said the 
 schoolmaster rather coldly. "But she is quite worthy of 
 him." 
 
 "She is a good woman, then," said the blind girl. 
 
 "Young foxes," remarked Miss Jane pointedly, "don't 
 know the difference between a spring pullet and a settin' 
 hen." 
 
 "Does Miss Nora stand for the fox, or is it young 
 Reed?" asked the schoolmaster. 
 
 "I call no names," replied Miss Jane. 
 
 "O, I'm the fox, you may be sure," said Nora, laughing 
 gayly. "I am the young fox, and sister is the old fox." 
 
 "Fo'ks run well when the'r shoes fit 'em," was the sen- 
 tentious comment of Miss Jane. 
 
 There was silence for a little while, but William Wor- 
 num's landlady was not satisfied with the abrupt turn that 
 the conversation had taken. 
 
 "It ain't only the slick-lookin' men that wanter show 
 themselves off," continued Miss Jane. "Thar's that Dan 
 Vanderlyn. I wish I may die ef he wuzzent the impi- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 319 
 
 dentest-lookin' man when he come back a-drivin' that carry- 
 all er Judge Walthall's that I ever laid eyes on." 
 
 ''His appearance was somewhat deceitful then. A more 
 embarrassed man I have never seen. His confusion was 
 unaccountable." 
 
 "I seen 'im," persisted Miss Jane; "an' ef he wa'n't as 
 proud as a jay bird with six eggs in 'is nest, then I ain't 
 no judge er human natur." 
 
 "He had a right to be proud," said Nora. 
 
 "No," remarked the schoolmaster ; "he ought to be 
 thankful that the horses didn't trample upon him. He 
 ought to be thankful that two or three doctors are not at 
 this moment setting his bones and sawing off his limbs, 
 hewing and hacking him where there would be no multi- 
 tude to witness the courage with which he faced the sur- 
 geons' knives." 
 
 "An' that ain't all," Miss Jane continued, evidently un- 
 impressed by the schoolmaster's comparisons ; "that ain't 
 all. He's been totin' pervisions out here to ole 'Cajy 
 Cooper. No longern day before yistiddy he h'isted up 
 an* took a sack er flour an' a middlin' er meat out thar." 
 
 "Some people call that charity," the schoolmaster said. 
 
 "A hen that lays in another hen's nest don't hatch menny 
 chickens, I reckon," was Miss Jane's comment. She al- 
 ways vanquished her opponents with her homely axioms. 
 
 "But the chickens are hatched and well taken care of 
 for all that," said William Wornum. 
 
 "An' what sorter charity is that that lets ev'rybody know 
 what it's a-doin'?" Miss Jane continued. 
 
 "Vanderlyin didn't mention the matter to me," said the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 "No. But didn't he buy the vittles at Padgett's, an' 
 didn't he know that Sue Padgett 'ud spread it all over the 
 county ?" 
 
 "I dare say he wouldn't know Mrs. Padgett if he were 
 to meet her on the street. But for the sake of poor 'Cajy 
 Cooper it is to be hoped that Mrs. Padgett's activity will 
 neither spoil the meat nor make the flour musty." 
 
 "It takes a hot day to spile a beggar's meat," was Miss 
 Jane's comment. 
 
 "And a longer and a sharper tongue than Mrs. Padgett's 
 
320 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 to make my friend Vanderlyn's charity ungracious. Now, 
 here's Uncle Ben [as the old negro entered the gate] ; we'll 
 see what he says about it. Come here, Uncle Ben, and sit 
 clown on the steps. I want to get your opinion/' 
 
 Uncle Ben came up, hat in hand. "Howdy, Mistiss; 
 howdy, Miss No'a ; howdy, Marse Willium." 
 
 "Uncle Ben/' said the schoolmaster, "I want your opin- 
 ion on a very important matter." 
 
 "Lor', honey ! Wat sorter 'pinyun de ole nigger 
 gwineter give w'ite folks?" 
 
 "The question is this, Uncle Ben: Suppose you are sick 
 and suffering for something to eat, and I send you a sack 
 of flour and a middling of meat. Mrs. So-and-So finds 
 it out by some means and runs and tells her neighbors, and 
 her neighbors come to the conclusion that I send you the 
 provisions merely because I want to be looked upon as a 
 kind-hearted man. I want your opinion of the matter." 
 
 "Iz de vittles sent to me, Marse Willium ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' I gits it all safe an' soun'?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' I'm lyin' dar fa'ly honein' arter a mou'ful?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I tell you dis, Marse Willium: Dat vittles is 
 gwineter do me a nation sight mo' good dan de talk's 
 gwineter do you harm. Leas'ways, dat's my 'pinyun, an' 
 I feel mighty good to'rds you, Marse Willium, dough de 
 folks talked tell der tongue drapped out. Ef it ain't in de 
 naberhood er char'ty fer ter greaze a hongry man's mouf, 
 den de folks w'at I hear 'splainin' de Bible done gone an' 
 got it wrong eend foremost." 
 
 "Uncle Ben's analysis is superior to yours or mine," said 
 the schoolmaster to Miss Jane. 
 
 "O, Ben's got more gab than a jay bird," said his mis- 
 tress. "When he ain't eatin', he's a-talkin' ; an' when he 
 ain't talkin', he's eatin'. I stood an' looked at him Monday 
 mornin' a mortal hour, an' thar wuzzent a minit that he 
 wan't talkin' to hisself right out loud an' gigglin'. You 
 oughter heern 'im a-gigglin'." 
 
 Uncle Ben scratched his head and laughed in a confused 
 manner. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 321 
 
 "Lordy, Mistiss," he said presently, "you wouldn't go 
 on dat way ef you knowed who I wuz a-chattin' wid. I 
 see sights, mon. I sees sights wa't nobody else don't see." 
 
 "An' you can't wak' up no hour er the night," Miss Jane 
 continued as persistently as before, "that you don't hear 
 Ben. Sometimes he's a-singin', an' sometimes he's a-quar- 
 relin' with Feraby, an' sometimes he's a-disputin' with the 
 wind." 
 
 "I'm gwine 'way fum here," exclaimed the old darky, 
 laughing. "You-all makin' it too hot fer me." 
 
 "Where've you been to-day? Loafin' roun' Floyd's?" 
 Miss Jane asked. 
 
 "Lordy, Mistiss, youse a sight! I ain't had but one 
 dram dis blessed day, an' Miss Padgett gimme dat. I bin 
 over dare gyard'nin'. She's a mighty stirrin' w'ite woman, 
 Miss Padgett is. She ax'd me ef we-all didn't have a mess 
 of Inglish peas las' Chuseday an' up and said dat ef we 
 did Miss didn't save me none er de pot licker, an' den she 
 sed we wuz sech smart folks over here dat she 'lowed we 
 had ripe peas." 
 
 This aroused Miss Jane's ire, as the shrewd old negro 
 knew it would. "It 'ud pay some people ef they's keep 
 the'r nose outer other folks' bizness. Who ast Sue Padgett 
 to come a-stickin' her nose in my cupboard, I'd like to 
 know." 
 
 "I dunno'm," replied Uncle Ben innocently; "but dat 
 w'at she sed. I toler dat I 'speck we'd have um ripe 'fo' de 
 mont' wuz out, an' den I reckon you'd sen' er some." 
 
 The schoolmaster was greatly amused at the tactics em- 
 ployed by Uncle Ben to exasperate his mistress. 
 
 "I'll see her stiff fust," exclaimed Miss Jane. "An' who 
 ast you to be givin' 'way my vegetables to other people?" 
 
 "Goodness, Mistiss, I ain't give none 'way ! I des 'low'd 
 dat you mout sen' 'er sumpin' fresh, fer hit'll be a mighty 
 long time 'fo' she gits hit outen her gyardin." 
 
 "Well, ef you wanter give any green truck away, you 
 pull it outer your own patch." 
 
 "I'm gwine. I ain't got no time fer to be settin' roun' 
 here wid Mistiss scoldin' me 'bout Miss Padgett." 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Jane as though she were describing 
 Uncle Ben to a stranger, "he'll go in that kitchen, and the 
 21 
 
322 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 fust thing you know you'll hear the heat a-sizzin' an' 
 a-fryin', an' yit the cold vittles that Feraby took out this 
 very day oughter last a week." 
 
 Uncle Ben made haste to get away, and in a few minutes 
 the occupants of the porch heard him singing a hymn, 
 giving out the words to himself in a most sonorous voice 
 and then intoning them in a style peculiar to the negro. 
 
 "A body 'ud believe," said Miss Jane after a little pause, 
 "that Ben wuz a-goin' right to glory, an' yit he'll go up 
 yonder to Floyd's grocery an' tote water all day fer a pint 
 er licker." 
 
 "It is very strange," remarked the schoolmaster as though 
 he had been pursuing an independent train of thought, 
 "how people will let their tongues run. There is Mrs. 
 Padgett, for instance" — 
 
 "You may well say that, William Wornum," responded 
 Miss Jane with unction. 
 
 "It would scarcely be right to blame her for talking 
 about Vanderlyn; but when she goes so far as to inquire 
 what people have for dinner, it is about time to examine 
 into the condition of the country." 
 
 "Well, Vanderlyn kin gitter 'long independent er her, I 
 reckon." 
 
 "O, there's no objection to her talking. A little gossip 
 well seasoned now and then is far more effective than a 
 sermon, provided the sermon be a poor one. Tattling, 
 whether it be idle or malicious, always conveys its own 
 moral. Talking about one's neighbors is an exceedingly 
 light-and-air occupation. It ought to be classed among the 
 professions. Give me a tin box full of snuff and three wom- 
 en who are unhappy when they are compelled to remain at 
 home, and I'll insure any reflective person an exceedingly 
 pleasant time. The entertainment will consist of farce, 
 comedy, and tragedy, all in a shape so mild that no serious 
 effects will ensue." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," said Nora, laughing. "You 
 are rarely here, Mr. Wornum, when your society meets. 
 [He had called it the Society for the Dissemination of Im- 
 portant Intelligence.] When Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Dusen- 
 berry and Mrs. Bagley come over for an afternoon, I often 
 wish you could be here. You lose a great deal." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 323 
 
 "I propose to join the society," said the schoolmaster. 
 "The time is fast approaching when every good citizen 
 will be called upon to talk about his neighbor. This is 
 directly in the line of modern progress, and I do not pro- 
 pose to be left behind when the wave passes over the coun- 
 try. I propose also to nominate Vanderlyn as a member. 
 He isn't much of a talker, but he can be trained. He is 
 very susceptible." 
 
 VIII 
 
 What Vanderlyn Found in the Woods 
 
 Wandering aimlessly and restlessly in the woods one day, 
 Vanderlyn came upon a little log cabin. It was built in 
 what might have been termed an island of pines. Sur- 
 rounding it upon all sides, the chestnut, the white oak, and 
 the hickory reared their lofty heads heavenward ; but nearer 
 still, and almost hiding the cabin with their green, feathery 
 foliage, a little thicket of pines had struggled into robust ex- 
 istence. It is scarcely probable that Vanderlyn would have 
 discovered the house had not a gaunt-looking cur, lying in 
 the shade of a sweetbrier, raised his head and barked 
 feebly. Going a little nearer, Vanderlyn saw the house, 
 which was fast going to ruin. There were no signs of life 
 save the dog. Desolation seemed to have brought peace 
 and quiet to the place. 
 
 "Hello!" cried Vanderlyn. "Who's a-keepin' house? 
 Hello !" he yelled again. "Is all hands gone a-visitin'?" 
 
 In response to this summons a pale, careworn-looking 
 woman, ill clad and with unkempt hair, came to the door. 
 "Does you want ennything, mister? We ain't nothing but 
 a passel er pore lone people here, and we don't trouble no- 
 body ner nothin'." 
 
 The sad and hopeless tone of her voice was as pitiful as 
 her appearance. 
 
 "I've bin walkin' 'roun' a right smart'm," said Vander- 
 lyn, "an' I'd like mighty well to git er drink er water." 
 
 "You'll have ter come 'roun' to the other do', mister." 
 
 Vanderlyn went, and a sight met his eyes as he lifted 
 the gourd to his lips that he never forgot while he lived. 
 In the end of the room (the cabin consisted of but one 
 room) were two pallets. Upon one lay an old man with hair 
 
324 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 as white as snow. The pallor of his emaciated face was 
 something awful, and Vanderlyn at first supposed he was 
 dead. Upon the other pallet a woman tossed and moaned 
 and muttered. 
 
 "What's the matter in there?" asked Vanderlyn in a low 
 tone. 
 
 "Starvation!" The reply came so suddenly and with 
 such terrible meaning that Vanderlyn was stunned for a 
 moment. "Starvation !" repeated the woman with an em- 
 phasis that made the strong man before her shudder. 
 "Pap's bin a-lyin' thar more'n a week, an' what he's et 
 indurin' that time wouldn't more'n make a meal fer a kit- 
 ten. Ef we wuz a-gwine ter die, mister, we aint got a bite 
 er bread er meat in the house ner a dust er meal er flour, 
 an' I'm that weak I can sca'cely ketch one breath atter an- 
 other. Ef it hadn't bin fer 'Cindy Ashfield, we'd 'a' bin 
 dead by this time, pap an' me, an' I wish ter the Lord she'd 
 'a' let us be. It 'ud all 'a' bin over by now. 'Cindy's lyin' 
 over thar burnin' up with fever, an' she's bin lyin' thar er 
 two weeks. I crawled down ter the road this mornin' an' 
 waited hours and hours, it 'peared ter me, fer some un ter 
 pass. Ef you got enny wimmen folks, mister, you better 
 git down on your knees in the woods out thar an' ast the 
 Lord ter look atter um better'n He's looked atter us." 
 
 "I think I can do better than that," said Vanderlyn in a 
 cheery voice ; but in . spite of this his thoughts flew back 
 to an old Virginia farmhouse wherein a hale and hearty 
 old man, his white hair falling to his shoulders, sat and 
 smoked his pipe in peace and comfort, and where a sweet- 
 faced old woman smiled at the romping grandchildren who 
 gathered around her. And somehow in this connection he 
 thought of Jack — Jack, who had never romped about the 
 grandmother's knee and over whose fair curls the gentle 
 hand of the grandfather had never passed. These thoughts 
 passed through Vanderlyn's mind so quickly and seemed 
 such a natural outgrowth of the woman's words that he 
 did not pause to analyze them. He stepped into the house 
 and stooped over the old man, who, aroused by the unusual 
 (the woman who had spoken to Vanderlyn was barefooted) 
 or by the mysterious instinct which even in the dark gives 
 warning of the presence of a strange person, turned rest- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 325 
 
 lessly and called out in a querulously feeble voice : "Mandy ! 
 Mandy ! O Mandy !" 
 
 "Here I is, pap. I ain't gone." 
 
 "It take you a mighty long time 'bout dinner, Mandy, a 
 mighty long time. Make 'aste, Mandy ; make 'aste, gal," 
 and then the feeble voice subsided to a low muttering that 
 was quite pitiful to hear. 
 
 The woman on the other side was still more restless. 
 She was in the delirium of fever. She laughed and talked 
 and wept, and more than once she called out: "Fetch my 
 baby back, Jim; my little baby. Jes' once, Jim, an' then 
 youk'n take 'im. O, fetch my baby !" 
 
 "How fur might it be to the big road ?" asked Vanderlyn, 
 who, as was his custom, had made his way through the 
 fields and woods. 
 
 "Half a mile right straight ahead," pointing out of the 
 door. 
 
 "An' how fur to town?" 
 
 "Three mile." 
 
 "Do ennybody in Rockville know your daddy?" 
 
 "Mighty few folks in these parts," responded the woman, 
 brightening up a little, "but what knows 'Cajy Cooper. 
 He uster be somebody when he had money." 
 
 "Well, now you better set down an' res'," said Vanderlyn 
 with some solicitude. "Insider er two hours you'll hear me 
 rattlin' up here, an' we'll see ef we can't fetch these sick 
 folks roun'." 
 
 The woman did as she was bid, collapsing rather than 
 sitting down upon the doorsill. "I'll set here tell you 
 come," she said patiently. 
 
 Vandelyn disappeared among the thick pines ; and the 
 woman, burying her face in her arms, sat swaying her body 
 from side to side and counting the minutes until his return. 
 Vanderlyn reached the road, turned to the right, and 
 walked toward Rockville. Presently he heard the rattle of 
 a buggy behind him, and he turned to look. It was Dr. 
 Tidwell — Dr. Frank, as the people of Rockville, old and 
 young, called him. Vanderlyn gave a yell that astonished 
 the Doctor's horse and surprised the placid old gentleman 
 himself. 
 
326 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Why, bless my soul, man !" he exclaimed as Vanderlyn 
 came running back, "what is the matter?" 
 
 "I tell you what, Doc, ef this ain't provadence, then I'm 
 a dirt eater. I wuz jes' gwine arter you, an' here you is. 
 Do you know 'Cajy Cooper?" 
 
 "I ought to. We went to school together." 
 
 "Well, the folks at his house is mighty sick, an' he's 
 wussen sick. He's starvin'." 
 
 "Tut, tut!" exclaimed the well-fed old physician. "I'd 
 like to hear of a man starving in this county. Why, sir, 
 it would revolt public sentiment. It would be worse than 
 assassination." 
 
 "My witness ain't fur, Doc," said Vanderlyn, "an' I want 
 you ter come an' look at 'im." 
 
 "Very well, I'll go. But I tell you the thing is impossible. 
 My son is the ordinary, and he" — 
 
 "This way, Doc," said Vanderlyn, seizing the reins and 
 turning into the woods. "It's right over yonder." And 
 the Doctor's gray, which had ambled peacefully over the 
 red hills and far-reaching valleys of that section, was urged 
 into a gallop. The rickety old buggy spun through the 
 trees in the most confusing manner, but before the aston- 
 ished physician could frame a protest the buggy was pulled 
 up at the door of the cabin. 
 
 "I tell you what, Doc, ef you gwineter be enny good 
 roun' here, you got ter be mighty spry." 
 
 Dr. Tidwell did not respond to this. He was looking at 
 the haggard face of the woman sitting in the door, who 
 had raised her head as the buggy came rattling up. 
 
 "Why, bless my soul, Mandy ! What's the matter with 
 you?" The old man had known her from a child. 
 
 "Lack er vittles, Dr. Tidwell," she replied with a pitiful 
 attempt at a smile. 
 
 "Who've you got sick here?" 
 
 "Me an' pap an 'Cindy Ashfield." 
 
 The physician got his medicine case from under the seat 
 of the buggy and went into the house. The old man was 
 still muttering and giving feeble directions about his imagi- 
 nary dinner, and 'Cindy Ashfield was imploring "Jim" to 
 bring her baby back. Presently the Doctor came to the 
 door again. His face was pale, and he appeared to be ex- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 327 
 
 cited. "Mr. Vanderlyn, I wish you would drive to town 
 and ask Dr. Ramsey to come out here as quick as he can. 
 This is a serious piece of business, a very serious piece of 
 business. Tell Ramsay to be in a hurry. Then drive to 
 my house and tell my wife to send a chicken, some rice, 
 and all the cold victuals she has in the house, and don't be 
 rough with Maggie." 
 
 Maggie was the mare, the ambling gray, and Vanderlyn 
 wasn't very rough on her; but people whom he passed on 
 the road said afterwards that nobody would have thought 
 the old nag — she was a sort of landmark in that section — 
 had so much life in her. It is to be presumed that Maggie 
 was somewhat astonished, but she was too conservative in 
 her methods to make any demonstration. She merely bent 
 her head to the bit, and in a very short time Vanderlyn was 
 in Rockville. It was not long before Maggie was return- 
 ing with an addition to her burden of Dr. Ramsay, a ham- 
 per of provisions, and a bottle of wine, which was sug- 
 gested by the thought fulness of the young physician. 
 
 It was a long struggle the old doctor and his colleague 
 had with disease and the results of want. For weeks 'Cajy 
 Cooper and 'Cindy Ashfield lay almost in the arms of death. 
 They were provided with every comfort, and Vanderlyn 
 watched by their bedside night after night until he came 
 to regard them as specially in his charge. There was some- 
 thing weird in the monotony of thus ministering to the 
 sick, engulfed, as it seemed to Vanderlyn, in the darkness 
 of the woods and the still greater darkness of the night. 
 What strange thoughts came to him in his loneliness will 
 never be known ; but sitting in the door, watching the far- 
 off stars and listening to the gentle sighing of the pines, 
 he caught glimpses of the man Vanderlyn and came to 
 know him more intimately than ever before. How few 
 men ever have opportunities of meeting themselves face 
 to face in earnest but friendly communion! "Know your- 
 self if you would know all men," says an old writer; but 
 no such philosophy occurred to the uncultivated giant who 
 was playing the part of the good Samaritan. It is more 
 than likely that culture would have driven him into other 
 and perhaps higher realms of reverie; but could it have 
 enabled him to put his thoughts in words when his other 
 
328 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 self, as it seemed, stalked out of the misty pines and stood 
 before him, shadowy but arrogant, they would have been 
 something like this : 
 
 "Who are you?" to the shadow. 
 
 "Daniel Vanderlyn." 
 
 "Who am I?" 
 
 "I neither know who you are nor what you will be." 
 
 "I am rid of Vanderlyn, then?" 
 
 "He will never trouble you any more." 
 
 "It is better so. Let him go his ways about the world. 
 I shall remain here and do my duty." 
 
 "But I was kind to you," from the shadow. 
 
 "After a fashion, yes. Kinder to me than I will be to 
 you." 
 
 "I gave you a child." 
 
 "That was well. But I will never wander up and down 
 the world with him as you did." 
 
 "Then you will never find your enemy, the man you have 
 been pursuing." 
 
 "I have forgiven him. The act that made him my enemy 
 gave me all the happiness I have ever had. He was my 
 benefactor." 
 
 And so, with the pines sighing gently, the stars glittering 
 overhead, a screech owl shivering and crying in the woods, 
 and a woman in the delirium of fever calling for her baby 
 always, Daniel Vanderlyn communed with the shadow of 
 himself that arose and came to him out of the darkness of 
 the night. 
 
 IX 
 
 A Cautious Kinsman 
 
 It came to pass, therefore, that while Mrs. Padgett was 
 dispensing her gossip and dipping her snuff, and while Miss 
 Jane Perryman was delivering her lecture, Vanderlyn was 
 either wandering between William Wornum's academy and 
 'Cajy Cooper's, or sitting in the door of the rude log cabin 
 listening to the katydids and the feeble cries of the woman 
 tossing and rolling in the delirium of fever, or communing 
 in a half serious or half humorous way with the shadow 
 of himself that seemed to gather shape in the oppressive 
 loneliness and gloom of the dark. It came to pass also 
 
Early Literary Efforts 329 
 
 that he did not accept Judge Walthall's invitation to dine 
 with him the day after the little incident with the horses. 
 He watched with the sick during the long nights and joined 
 the schoolboys in their sports in the cool afternoons. Only 
 Jack, the schoolmaster, and Dr. Tidwell knew of his mis- 
 sion, and these seemed to regard his utter devotion to his 
 charges as a matter of course, as something characteristic 
 of the man ; but none of them who could have followed 
 him to the hovel where distress seemed to have taken up 
 her abode would have recognized the Vanderlyn who 
 romped and played with the children in the man who sat 
 in the cabin door as silent as the gloom itself, thinking, 
 dreaming, watching, endeavoring to solve a problem that al- 
 ways eluded him. If he had dreamed that he was nursing 
 back to life one of the only two persons who could solve this 
 problem for him, perhaps he might have faltered in his 
 work of charity. Perhaps if the future could have been 
 unfolded to him as he sat night after night gazing into 
 darkness, if the shadow of his old self with which he com- 
 muned could have had the gift of prophecy, he would have 
 taken Jack by the hand and wandered forth through the 
 blossoming fields into strange lands. We shall never know. 
 It is enough to say that the shadow could not prophesy, 
 and he remained to face the future with the serene confi- 
 dence and courage that made him more of a man than most 
 of his fellows. He knew he had a duty to perform ; and 
 though this was the problem that returned always to per- 
 plex him, he never for a moment faltered. He must do his 
 duty, but how and when? This was the question. 
 
 Thus, with the problem continually before him and his 
 other self flitting through the pines a pitiful ghost of the 
 past, he ministered to the sick and watched the legions of 
 wakeful stars sweep slowly across the skies in vain pursuit 
 of the sun. But after a few nights his loneliness, except 
 in a vague way, ceased to oppress him; and his problem, 
 while it was ever present, no longer vexed him. The sol- 
 emn silences by which he was surrounded seemed to soothe 
 him, and the night wind rippling tremulously through the 
 leaves of the oak and softly through the feathery boughs 
 of the pines ministered unto his vexations, so that what- 
 
330 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ever thought or feeling came to worry was quickly dissi- 
 pated by his surroundings. 
 
 Neither poet nor philosopher has written adequately of 
 the vast silence of the deep woods when night has muffled 
 all ordinary sounds. We chatter of this as of the infinity 
 of space and pass it by ; we make faces at the moon and 
 measure the voids that yawn upon her sterile surface ; we 
 look at the sun and run trippingly back to her first eclipse ; 
 we weigh Sirius and boast of having measured Mercury; 
 we laugh at the wandering comet that rushes through the 
 skies, pursued by myriads of meteors, and we entangle the 
 shining star drifts ; but we cannot solve the mysteries nor 
 measure the magnitude of the silence that seems to settle 
 upon all nature and all space in the lonely hours of night. 
 It appears to be a cause rather than a condition, marvelous 
 and awe-inspiring. It was in the midst of this silence that 
 Vanderlyn, for want of something better to do, came to 
 inspect himself and to analyze his feelings and impulses, 
 not gloomily, but cheerfully, as one engages in a pastime; 
 and thus it was that he came to know himself. 
 
 A few nights after Vanderlyn had installed himself as 
 nurse he was sitting in his accustomed place in the door 
 when his attention was arrested by the sound of some one 
 walking in the underbrush. It was a strange sound to hear 
 in that place at that hour (the position of the stars showed 
 that it was about twelve o'clock), and Vanderlyn was 
 curious to know what manner of person was abroad in the 
 wilderness. The sound of the footsteps came nearer and 
 then suddenly ceased. Then it began again, ceased once 
 more, seemed to come forward, and finally developed into 
 the figure of a man moving somewhat cautiously in the deep 
 shadows of the pines. Vanderlyn watched it with some 
 curiosity. It appeared to him one of the many phenomena 
 of the loneliness that surrounded him like the waters of a 
 sea, but the figure still pressed forward and came nearer 
 until it stood quite close to the silent watcher. 
 
 "You look like you sorter mistook your bearin's, stran- 
 ger." 
 
 "No," said the newcomer. "I'm a-huntin' up them that's 
 lost thern." 
 
 "What might your name be?" 
 
Early Literary Efforts 331 
 
 "That's neither here ner thar. Hit ain't a name that'll 
 stand bandy in' about in the dark." 
 
 "A man's good name," said Vanderlyn carelessly, "don't 
 gether no dust a-passin' f rum mouth ter mouth." 
 
 "No, I reckon not," responded the stranger, "an' it 
 don't lose nuthin' by bein' let 'lone. Similarly I ain't wor- 
 ried 'bout your'n, an' I ain't gwine to up an' ast you fer it. 
 I'm a-huntin' a woman named 'Cindy Ashfield." 
 
 "You ain't got fur to look," said Vanderlyn quietly. 
 "She's lyin' in thar at the pint er death." 
 
 "Sick?" asked the man eagerly, coming nearer. 
 
 "You'd think it. Outer her head the whole blessed time 
 an' a-talkin eternally." 
 
 "Will she die?" 
 
 "The doctor can't tell. It's a tough 'rastle. She gits 
 better ez soon's she gits wuss, an' gits wuss ez soon's she 
 gits better." 
 
 "Does she know folks?" 
 
 "She wouldn't know her own mammy frum Adam's 
 house cat." 
 
 Just then the woman turned uneasily in her bed and be- 
 gan to talk in the delirious fashion of those who are suffer- 
 ing from an extreme fever. It was the same old cry to 
 which Vanderlyn had become used : "Jim ! Jim ! O Jim !" 
 
 "It's me she's a-callin'," exclaimed the stranger in a 
 suppressed voice. "Nobody on this earth but me." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 "Yes, it's me. I know it. 'Cindy wouldn't holler fer no 
 livin' soul like that 'ceptin' it wuz me." 
 
 "Please, Jim, fetch back my baby, my little baby, my 
 poor little baby ! O, fetch 'im back, Jim ! Jes' once, Jim ! 
 My little babyl" 
 
 "No, 'tain't me," said the man eagerly. "It's somebody 
 else she's a-hollerin' arter. 'Tain't me." 
 
 "Do you know her?" Vanderlyn asked. 
 
 "Do you know your sister?" 
 
 "It is doubtful," Vanderlyn responded. "And so you're 
 her brother? Well, Mr. Jeems Ashfield, I am glad you 
 dropped around. It wuz gittin' durned lonesome a-settin' 
 here lissenin' to the crickets and the scritch owls." 
 
 "Does she take on much like this ?" asked Ashfield. 
 
332 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Frum mornin' tell night an' frum night tell mornin'. 
 Won't you go in an' see 'Cindy?" 
 
 "No, not jes' yit. Hit mout sorter daze 'er, you know. 
 Delereousness ain't gotter be tampered with, they tells me." 
 
 The man was evidently restless and nervous. He stood 
 first upon one foot and then upon the other and rubbed his 
 hands together incessantly. 
 
 "You ain't got nuthin' that 'ud fit the dampness like a 
 dram, is you?" he asked finally. 
 
 "No," said Vanderlyn. "Licker's too hot fer this kinder 
 weather." 
 
 "Wouldn't be too hot fer me," responded the other. 
 "I'm beginning to feel right coolish. Well," after a pause, 
 "I mus' be gittin' 'long. Clocks don't stop an' wait fer a 
 feller to stan' 'roun' an' turn loose his jaw, an' I got a 
 mighty fur ways to sa'nter." 
 
 "You might as well go in an' see 'Cindy," Vanderlyn 
 persisted. 
 
 " 'Twouldn't do no good, Cap ; she wouldn't know me, 
 an' I dessay I wouldn't know her. Hit's 'bout even. But 
 I'd like ding nation well to know who that Jim is she's 
 a-callin' on." 
 
 "Maybe she knows an* maybe she don't," answered Van- 
 derlyn dryly. 
 
 "That's what make I say what I do," continued the other. 
 "I don't know no Jim but me, an' the baby is a bran'-new 
 wrinkle. But it's bin mighty nigh six years sence I seed 
 'Cindy, an' I dunno what's turned up in that time." 
 
 "You've been travelin', I reckon," Vanderlyn suggested. 
 
 "Edzackly so, Cap, goin' 'bout frum pos' to piller. I 
 didn't find 'Cindy at home an' 'lowed maybe she might be 
 visitin' at Mandy Cooper's. Well, I'll drap in sometime 
 when Cindy mightn't be worried by strangers." 
 
 "Youer her brother, ain't you?" Vanderlyn inquired as 
 the man walked off into the darkness. 
 
 "Yes, I am, but what kin I do?" 
 
 "O, nothin'. Good night." 
 
 The sound of the man's footsteps died away, the crickets 
 and the katydids endeavored to impress Vanderlyn with 
 their presence, and a whippoorwill added her voice to the 
 concert. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 333 
 
 "Her brother!" Vanderlyn mused, lighting his pipe and 
 walking out under the shadow of the pines. "She ought 
 ter be proud of sech kin. A man that stays away six year 
 makes himself ska'se, an' yit [remembering the little farm- 
 house in Virginia] a man that stays away fifteen year 
 makes himself ska'ser. I'm a sinner ef he don't." 
 
 The next morning Vanderlyn rode to Rockville with Dr. 
 Tidwell, who visited the sick twice a day. 
 
 "Doc," said Vanderlyn after the two had ridden in silence 
 some little distance, "is 'Cindy Ashfield got a brother?" 
 
 "Well, really, now let me see. It can't be Jim" — 
 
 "That's the party," exclaimed Vanderlyn. "He give us 
 a pop call last night." 
 
 "Jim Ashfield!" bringing Maggie to a standstill in the 
 road. 
 
 "That's what he says, an' he's a good witness, I reckin." 
 
 "Why, bless my life, it can't be Jim Ashfield. With all 
 his villainy, he's no fool. He doesn't dare to come back 
 here. It was as much as my son and the sheriff could do 
 to prevent the people from lynching him not six years ago. 
 He'd be strung up sure. Why, he's the confoundest scoun- 
 drel unhung, that same Jim Ashfield. You don't mean to 
 tell me that the rascal is back again?" 
 
 "That's what he said, Doc. He didn't hang roun' long. 
 What's he done?" 
 
 "Why, bless my soul! Haven't you heard about Jim 
 Ashfield ? Any child can tell you. He is the most notorious 
 rascal in Georgia." 
 
 "Did he kill ennything?" 
 
 "Worse than that, sir," replied the Doctor with judicial 
 gravity. "Worse than that. He's an incendiary and a 
 child stealer." 
 
 "A child stealer?" exclaimed Vanderlyn, growing grave 
 himself. 
 
 "Yes, sir, a child stealer." 
 
 "When was this, Doc ?" 
 
 "In 1841. The way of it was this : He was forever hang- 
 ing around Judge Walthall's plantation, mixing and min- 
 gling with the negroes and giving them whisky, until one 
 day the Judge caught him sneaking about the place and 
 
334 Th e Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 ordered him off. The next day the Judge's dwelling house 
 was burned." 
 
 "Burned?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, burned to the ground ; and but for the carriage 
 driver, who happened to hear the popping and cracking of 
 the flames, the Walthall family would have been roasted 
 alive. Yes, sir, roasted alive." 
 
 "Did they ketch him ?" 
 
 "He was suspected, arrested, and brought to trial; but 
 the testimony was not sufficient to convict him, though 
 public opinion had already made up its verdict." 
 
 (She returned, the child was gone. It couldn't be found 
 high nor low. Jim Ashfield had been seen in Rockville 
 early that morning, and suspicion immediately fastened 
 upon him.") 1 
 
 "How old wuz the baby, Doc ?" 
 
 "Nearly a year old and as bright a child as you ever saw." 
 
 "Is the baby ever bin found?" 
 
 "We scoured the country," continued Dr. Tidwell, "but 
 no Jim Ashfield could we find ; and it was more than a year 
 after that when old Davy Roach, who had hauled a load of 
 cotton to Augusta, laid eyes on the wretch and had him ar- 
 rested. At first he denied that he had stolen the child, but 
 finally agreed to restore it if Judge Walthall would guaran- 
 tee not to prosecute him and to get him safe out of town. 
 The Judge jumped at the proposition, but the boys wouldn't 
 hear to it until Mrs. Walthall appeared among them. And 
 where do you suppose the baby was found? Why, sir. 
 'Cindy Ashfield had it all the time, even the clothes it had 
 on when it was stolen. A poor weak-minded creature 
 'Cindy is. She took on awful when the Judge and his wife 
 and the crowd went to get the child. She was really fond 
 of it, and she carried on to such an extent that Mrs. Wal- 
 thall employed her as nurse, and she nursed the baby until 
 it died." 
 
 "Did the baby die ?" asked Vanderlyn. 
 
 "Yes, sir. It never thrived. It just faded away. And 
 
 1 This matter in parenthesis was published just so in the Constitu- 
 tion, indicating unfinished work in Mr. Harris's manuscript. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 335 
 
 so Jim Ashfield's back again? Well, he'll have some fun 
 if he makes himself too prominent around here." 
 
 Voices in the Night 
 
 Vanderlyn made no more inquiries of the worthy doctor, 
 who, taking advantage of the silence that ensued, fell into 
 what the newspaper reporter of the present day would not 
 inaptly term "a genial doze." It was his custom, and in 
 inaugurating it he illustrated in a very forcible manner one 
 of Miss Jane's impromptu proverbs to the effect that "It's 
 an honest man that'll trust hisself with his own horse." 
 The mare knew her way, and as she ambled along Dr. Tid- 
 well slept and Daniel Vanderlyn surrendered himself to 
 his thoughts, and these invariably carried him back to the 
 sick woman calling for her baby and the old man who had 
 so narrowly escaped falling a victim to hunger. Somehow 
 or other he was not troubled about Jack as in the old days. 
 Nor need he have been. The boy rapidly grew in the good 
 graces of Miss Jane Perryman and the schoolmaster. He 
 was bright and tractable, and his precocity never assumed 
 the shape of pertness. In the evenings, while Vanderlyn 
 was engaged in his work of charity, the boy would lay his 
 head in the old lady's lap and listen quietly to the conver- 
 sation, occasionally making some modest comment of his 
 own or asking a question, and Miss Jane never seemed so 
 well contented as when she was passing her hands caress- 
 ingly through the thick curls of the little boy, who was so 
 good-natured, so patient, and so obedient. Upon such oc- 
 casions it was observed by the schoolmaster that she was 
 not as critical in her remarks and that even the tone of her 
 voice lost something of its old-time asperity. 
 
 They had famous times — Miss Perryman, Nora, the 
 schoolmaster, and Jack. They constituted a little social 
 world of their own, the quiet of which was never disturbed 
 save by the visit of some newcomer or the untimely sere- 
 nades of Tiny Padgett, the village poet, who made no at- 
 tempt to conceal that he was in love with Nora. Unfortu- 
 nately, Tiny's serenades were generally the result of that 
 befuddled condition of mind that usually waits upon a too 
 
336 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 frequent inspection of wine when it is red; and when his 
 weak voice rose upon the night air in startling proximity 
 to the quiet people who sat in the little porch, Miss Jane 
 was wont to remark: "Well, I wish I may die ef that Pad- 
 gett chap ain't on another spree !" 
 
 "O, don't make fun of him, sister," Miss Nora would say. 
 
 And then the schoolmaster : "No ; the boy's in love." 
 
 "Well, ef I wuz Nora, I'd marry him twice over but what 
 I'd stop that racket. It makes a body feel right flabby to 
 listen to 'im. It's sorter like wringin' the water outer a raw 
 oyster." 
 
 In justice to the love-smitten poet it must be said that he 
 was oftener sober than drunk, and upon such occasions he 
 contented himself with lounging upon a bench in front of 
 Vanderlyn's shop and watching his lady love's window from 
 afar. Through the mysterious influence of that pity which 
 the strong feel for the weak or from some other cause 
 Vanderlyn had come to be on very familiar terms with 
 young Padgett, who in his maudlin way was blindly de- 
 voted to Vanderlyn. One evening, some weeks after 'Cindy 
 Ashfield and 'Cajy Cooper had been pronounced convales- 
 cent by Dr. Tidwell, the occupants of Miss Jane's porch 
 saw the light of a cigar shining in the direction of Vander- 
 lyn's shop. It was a signal that Tiny Padgett was on hand. 
 
 "The faithful lover is at his post," said the schoolmaster. 
 
 "Well, I hope to gracious he ain't chuned up," remarked 
 Miss Jane fervently. "Why don't the little wretch act like 
 white folks an' come in the house. Nobody won't bite 
 him, I reckon." 
 
 "Poets are sensitive," the schoolmaster said. "They pre- 
 fer to worship at a distance. Mocking birds never sing in 
 flocks. The old troubadours never went in droves, and 
 even the wood robin hides himself to sing." 
 
 "Well, why don't Padgett hide, I wonder? Why don't 
 he go off in the woods, where nobody can't hear him ? It's 
 good fer him that he don't come a-howlin' under the win- 
 dows, else he'd git a shovelful er hot ashes." 
 
 But the poet did not tune his voice to sing, and presently 
 those who sat in the porch heard footsteps coming down 
 the street. 
 
 "That's Dan," said Jack with sudden interest. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 337 
 
 "Let's wait an' see what they say," said Miss Jane. 
 
 The strong, hearty voice of Vanderlyn broke the silence : 
 "Why, hello, little Padg! You here?" 
 
 "Yes," returned the poet in a piping voice, suggestive of 
 an accumulation of thought. "Yes, I thought I'd come out 
 and cool off a little and have a chat with you." 
 
 "You're mighty backward, Padg. Ef you don't mind, that 
 young Reed'll cut you out." 
 
 In spite of himself this allusion to Emory Reed jarred 
 unpleasantly upon the schoolmaster's ear, and he moved 
 uneasily in his chair. "You've gotter be mighty spry ef you 
 git ahead er Reed. They tell me that he breaks a bottle er 
 camp meetin' draps on his cloze ev'y day an' two on Sun- 
 days, an' he looks jes' like he comes outen a ban' box. It'll 
 belike draggin' a sack er salt thu' wet san' ef you take the 
 shine outer him." 
 
 The poet laughed a little weak laugh. "O, I'm not on 
 that line, Mr. Vanderlyn. I wasn't born lucky like some peo- 
 ple. I am unfortunate. . No good woman would want me 
 for a husband, and I should never think of marrying a 
 woman I really loved." 
 
 "How's that, Padgy?" 
 
 "I know my failings. I am one of the no-accounts. And 
 then there's the liquor; you know how that serves me. 
 Some people are born weak. I haven't touched a drop in a 
 week, and yet I may wake up in the morning with a desire 
 for drink absolutely uncontrollable. It was the way with 
 me at college, and that is why I was expelled." 
 
 "Damnation, man ;" exclaimed Vanderlyn savagely. "Ef 
 you kin let up on licker one week, youk'n let up a lifetime." 
 
 "O, it's very well for you to talk that way, Van. They 
 all say so. I hear it wherever I go. But I know better. I 
 know what I can do, and I know what I can't do. You 
 might as well say that old man Cooper could have con- 
 trolled his desire for food. Don't preach, Van." 
 
 "I ain't much in that line, Padgy," said Vanderlyn ; "but 
 durn me ef I wouldn't like to see you stan' at your full 
 height." 
 
 "O, I'll do well enough. There's this consolation, Van," 
 he continued with a little sigh: "I don't hurt anybody but 
 22 
 
338 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 myself. If I could be made to believe that any woman on 
 earth loved me, I should be miserable. It is better as it is." 
 
 Then, as if desirous of speaking of something else, Pad- 
 gett said : "What's all the news, Van ? They tell me you've 
 got to be a regular doctor." 
 
 "Yes," replied Vanderlyn in an earnest tone, "I'm a fust- 
 rate doctor. I'd like mighty well to take you in han', Padgy, 
 an' fetch you back to life." 
 
 "You are a good one, Van," he said a little sadly and 
 wistfully, "and you could do it if anybody could. But it 
 can't be done. Shortly after I left Athens a schoolmate 
 asked me to visit him. He was dead before I got the letter. 
 If I had taken him at his word, my visit would have been a 
 little late. I have fought with myself for years. A stronger 
 man would have conquered. Something was lacking. But 
 how about 'Cajy Cooper and the Ashfields? They told me 
 that Jim Ashfield had settled among us again." 
 
 "Well, that's the funny part, blamed ef it ain't," replied 
 Vanderlyn. "I talked to him once in the dark, but I wish 
 I may be shot ef I ever seed 'im again, an' 'Cindy ain't never 
 laid eyes on 'im." 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you what, Van, that 'Cindy is a deep one. 
 You have heard about the baby business ?" 
 
 "Jedge Walthall's little un?" 
 
 "Well, that girl kept the baby out there in the woods 
 more'n a year, and nobody knew it. The boys wanted to 
 send her along with the lovely brother of hers; but she 
 cried and cried and said she didn't know the baby was 
 stolen. She went on at a terrible rate. According to her 
 story, Jim told her that he had found the little thing in 
 the woods; but it was remembered by those who searched 
 her house for Jim and watched it afterwards that it was a 
 month or more before 'Cindy could be found. The child 
 was so changed by exposure and lack of proper food that 
 its own mother hardly knew it. That 'Cindy is a shrewd one. 
 If she hasn't seen Jim, the two have lost their cunning." 
 
 "No," said Vanderlyn decisively, "she ain't seen 'im. I 
 ast her." 
 
 Young Padgett laughed. "Maybe not, Van. It isn't for 
 me to judge even 'Cindy Ashfield." 
 
 The village poet made two friends that night. The school- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 339 
 
 master had regarded him as an utterly dissipated young 
 blackguard, and Miss Jane had always alluded to him as 
 "that drunken vagabond of a Padgett." They were both 
 impressed, and the schoolmaster was not a little saddened, 
 by what they had heard. The latter, moved by some sudden 
 impulse, arose, passed out of the little gate, and crossed the 
 street to where Vanderlyn and Padgett were sitting. "I 
 have appointed myself a committee," he said, "to come 
 over and invite you gentlemen to sit with us awhile. Miss 
 Jane and Miss Nora are nodding in the porch, and Jack 
 is fast asleep, and I am in need of company. I was 
 dozing myself until I heard Vanderlyn's voice. Won't you 
 come over, Mr. Padgett?" 
 
 "Me?" inquired the young man in a half-amazed, half- 
 amusing tone. It had been so long since such a cordial in- 
 vitation had been extended in Rockville. 
 
 "Certainly. Why not?" heartily. "Can't you be socia- 
 ble ? Come." 
 
 Tiny Padgett laughed. "I don't think I'm quite present- 
 able, Mr. Wornum." But he went all the same. The temp- 
 tation to be near Nora and hear her voice was even more 
 irresistible than his periodical thirst for liquor. It was a 
 memorable evening for him. Sitting where he could see 
 the lines of the beautiful face and listening for the pleasant 
 voice to break in the conversation, he gave himself wholly 
 up to the spell of the moment. He was well educated, thor- 
 oughly informed upon all current topics, and a fluent con- 
 versationalist. But upon that occasion he surpassed him- 
 self. Inspired by the presence of the woman he loved — yes, 
 worshiped from afar — he became brilliant. With admirable 
 tact the schoolmaster drew him out until even Padgett was 
 astonished at himself. But through it all there ran an under- 
 current of sadness. He seemed to hear the fair young girl 
 on the other side always asking: "Would you live a new 
 life for my sake?" And he was always replying: "It is too 
 late." 
 
 XI 
 
 Love's Labor's Lost 
 
 "Miss Kate !" exclaimed Miss Becky Griggs one after- 
 noon, flinging herself at the feet of her schoolmistress, a 
 
34Q The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 blushing heap of calico, auburn hair, and rosy cheeks. "Miss 
 Kate, what do you think?" 
 
 "I think a good many things, my dear." 
 
 "O, but this! I mean would you take me for a regular 
 little goose ? Mind now, a regular little goose." 
 
 The schoolmistress laughed. She was not much older 
 than the young girl who sat at her feet, blushing and look- 
 ing confused. 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't take you for a very small goose," Miss 
 Kate replied, looking down upon the very plump form of 
 her pupil. 
 
 "And I am not," assented Becky, pouting and growing 
 red. "I'm a great big goose." 
 
 "A goose that is either big or little or both to suit cir- 
 cumstances is a very accommodating bird, I'm sure." 
 
 "O Miss Kate, you are teazing. Why can't you sym- 
 pathize with me ?" 
 
 "Upon my word, you don't seem to need sympathy," an- 
 swered the schoolmistress with a very bright smile. "What 
 is the trouble, my dear?" 
 
 "I'm in love, Miss Kate," exclaimed the girl, half laugh- 
 ing, half crying. 
 
 "Is that all, my dear?" asked the fair Katherine Under- 
 wood gayly, but remembering some girlish experience of 
 her own, nevertheless. "That is easily cured. The disease 
 is not as desperate as the books would have you believe. 
 It is like the measles, troublesome, but harmless, especially 
 to young people. What you need, my dear, is a strong cup 
 of ginger tea and plenty of exercise. I have been attacked 
 in the same way myself. I was much younger than you, 
 though," she continued, observing the look of inquiry on 
 the girl's face, "a good deal younger. The poets say that 
 first love is the most lasting, and I believe them ; for I have 
 a tender spot in my heart for my first lover, although I 
 know he has been in jail for whipping his wife. The 
 love didn't last, but the romance did, and I don't know 
 that I am any the worse off for it. A cup of tea will cure 
 you." 
 
 "How can you talk so, Miss Kate?" 
 
 "Experience, my dear. You will learn one of these days 
 
Early Literary Efforts 341 
 
 that your dainty little idol, with his kids and polished boots, 
 is not so lovable, after all." 
 
 "That is the worst of it," said the girl; "he isn't hand- 
 some, and he isn't young, and," with a sudden burst of 
 anger, "I don't believe he is good. No, I don't. I believe 
 he is a humbug, one of the biggest kind of humbugs." 
 
 "Pray, who is this ugly old humbug?" asked the school- 
 mistress. 
 
 "I won't tell you, Miss Kate ; no, not if I was on the rack. 
 I'm ashamed of it every time I think about it." 
 
 "You will discover in time, my dear," said Miss Under- 
 wood seriously, "that true love is never ashamed." 
 
 "O, I don't mean that, Miss Kate," exclaimed this way- 
 ward girl, bursting into tears. "How could I? He is 
 brave and noble and pure, and I am unworthy to speak his 
 name." 
 
 "I think," remarked the schoolmistress, ignoring this pas- 
 sionate outburst and looking from her window across the 
 green fields, "that a walk would do us good." 
 
 And so the two, gathering themselves up into various 
 little beauknots and adjusting themselves with ever so many 
 hairpins, sallied forth into the avenue that answered the 
 purposes of a street. It was a queer avenue, too, for it led 
 in one direction to the courthouse square in Rockville and in 
 the other to a wide-spreading chestnut grove, and toward this 
 the two young women made their way, one nervous and 
 discontented and the other cool and inquisitive. As they 
 entered the grove and strolled under the green canopy that 
 shut out the sky overhead, save some delicious bits of blue 
 that gleamed here and there through the leaves, a sense of 
 rest and quiet seemed to steal over the younger of the two. 
 The most of us, I fancy, have had the same experience. It 
 seems to be impossible that any human being should defile 
 the vast solitudes of the woods by entering therein bearing 
 the burthens, the passions, and the vexations of everyday 
 life. Perhaps Katherine Underwood was more troubled at 
 heart than her love-smit pupil. She was a quiet woman, 
 little given to confessing her troubles even to herself, and 
 it was only upon rare occasions that her serenity was dis- 
 turbed. But she must have experienced some sort of relief 
 
342 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 in the cool shade of the chestnuts, for she lifted her hands 
 in a quick upward gesture and exclaimed: "Well, this is 
 comforting !" 
 
 "It is better than staying in the house and discussing 
 such a detestable subject as men," responded Becky Griggs. 
 
 "A little fresh air," said the schoolmistress, "is a won- 
 derful thing. It blows the mental cobwebs utterly away, 
 and we perceive that not a few of our giants are dwarfs." 
 
 "What good does that do?" asked the younger woman 
 petulantly. "We go back, gather up the cobwebs, and, lo 
 and behold, there we have our giants again." 
 
 "Well, it is a relief, at any rate," replied the other dryly. 
 
 "No," said Becky, "it wouldn't be any relief to me. All 
 my giants are real giants, thank goodness ! And if they 
 weren't, I shouldn't like to see them parading as dwarfs." 
 
 "It will be the end of it sooner or later, my dear. Time 
 turns the telescope as well as the hourglass. What ap- 
 pears close at hand to-day will seem to be far enough off 
 when you are a little older. In a very few years you will be 
 looking through the big end of the telescope. But all the 
 same I should like to know the name of the young man 
 who has stolen your affections." 
 
 "I was about to tell you once to-day, Miss Kate," said the 
 girl, "but I'm glad I didn't. I know how differently you 
 would have lifted your eyes, and then you would have 
 asked me about my music lesson." 
 
 The schoolmistress laughed merrily. "Well, my dear, I 
 know how these things are. You are young. If age was 
 not attended by experience, we should have no wisdom." 
 
 "You are not old enough to be my grandmother, Miss 
 Kate," remarked the girl. 
 
 "I am twenty-five, and you are sixteen," said the school- 
 mistress. "Nine years may represent a great deal or very 
 little, according to circumstances. In my case they repre- 
 sent a great deal." 
 
 As she spoke the shadow of a man fell across the path- 
 way, and the next moment a strong, hearty voice had broken 
 in upon the rippling treble of the conversation. 
 
 "Good evenin', ladies. We're havin' mighty pleasant 
 weather now." 
 
 Becky Griggs started and blushed violently. It was the 
 
Early Literary Efforts 343 
 
 voice that had haunted her dreams, and she knew it be- 
 longed to the man who appeared to her to be something 
 more than a mere hero. The schoolmistress was only 
 slightly disconcerted, but her eyes drooped as they had 
 drooped once before. 
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Vanderlyn," she said. "We were 
 just taking a little walk after school hours, Miss Griggs 
 and I." 
 
 "I seen you all a-sa'nterin' long," he replied placidly, 
 "an' I jes' thought I'd stop an' see how you wuz a-gittin' 
 on." 
 
 "O, famously, Mr. Vanderlyn, after the ride we had with 
 you. I am sure we can never get done thanking you for 
 your services that day. But for you I fear we should not 
 be walking here." 
 
 "Yes'm, you would; yes'm, indeed! Them horses wuz 
 blowed. They couldn't 'a' run a half mile furder. They 
 wuz stove up." 
 
 "I suppose, then, you stopped to consider all these 
 things?" inquired the schoolmistress so coolly that Becky 
 Griggs, forgetting her own embarrassment, looked at her 
 in astonishment. 
 
 "I sorter disremember now," he replied ; "but I reckon 
 I kinder figgered things up in my mind. Folks don't take 
 no chances when it comes down to gittin' mangled; least- 
 ways I don't." 
 
 Looking up, the schoolmistress imagined she caught a 
 quizzical expression in the blue eyes that gazed down at her 
 with such calm serenity ; but she was not sure, and she gave 
 the tall man by her side the benefit of the doubt. It was 
 clearly impossible, she argued to herself, that one so rough 
 should be thoughtful enough to be quizzical, though she 
 wondered afterwards, as women will, why she connected 
 thoughtfulness with the matter, and then she informed her- 
 self with some degree of asperity that she was a fool for 
 remembering anything about Vanderlyn at all. 
 
 "We intended to write you a note of thanks," she said, 
 speaking for Becky and herself. 
 
 "Me?" he asked in astonishment. 
 
 "Why, of course, Mr. Vanderlyn." 
 
 "What would you 'a' thanked me fer, ladies?" His face 
 
344 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 expressed the surprise he felt, but the tone of his voice 
 showed that he had a faint suspicion that the schoolmistress 
 was ridiculing him. 
 
 "Why, because — upon my word, Mr. Vanderlyn, I don't 
 understand you ! As a general thing, when men talk like 
 you women come to the conclusion that they are fishing for 
 a compliment." 
 
 "But he isn't," exclaimed Becky enthusiastically. It was 
 the first time she had ventured to speak, and when the 
 schoolmistress turned to look at her she was blushing vio- 
 lently. The calm blue eyes of Vanderlyn saw nothing in 
 the blush save the embarrassment of a schoolgirl. Kath- 
 erine Underwood saw therein the secret that Becky Griggs 
 fain would hide, and, seeing it, she felt a little shock of 
 surprise and displeasure. Whether the girl saw that her 
 secret was discovered and thereupon became less confiden- 
 tial in her bearing, or whether the schoolmistress felt a 
 contempt for a passion weak enough to proclaim itself, it 
 is impossible to say ; but from that moment the two friends 
 were less cordial to each other, until finally the coolness 
 between them came to be the subject of comment. 
 
 Poor Becky ! The walk that afternoon under the spread- 
 ing chestnut trees, with the yellow sunlight slipping serene- 
 ly through the leaves and breaking into golden waves upon 
 the path below and with her hero at her side and his voice 
 sounding in her ears, was to her a precious memory to the 
 last. The romance of youth threw its enchantment around 
 her, and love's sweet discontent caught the fleeting hour 
 and fashioned it into a memorial. The orioles flashed 
 through the green leaves like firebrands flung from unseen 
 hands, the dusky swallows swept tremulously through the 
 blue overhead, and a partridge in the underbrush called to 
 her wayward mate. All this the girl remembered to her 
 dying day, for within a year the oblivion that awaits us 
 all had overtaken her. Young, beautiful, and pure-hearted, 
 she passed from the world murmuring the name of Van- 
 derlyn to those who knew it not. Thus she passed from 
 the world, and thus she passes from this chronicle. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 345 
 
 XII 
 
 Nora's First Love 
 
 One day Miss Jane Perryman went to Mr. William Wor- 
 num with a serious face. He knew she was disturbed by 
 something out of the ordinary line of daily incidents, but 
 he kept the knowledge to himself. 
 
 "I ain't been so flurried," she began, "sence Ferraby got 
 hooked by the brindle cow. It's nothing but worriment in 
 this world, nohow. One minnit we're soun' asleep, an' the 
 nex' minnit a harrycane comes 'long an' lif's the roof off. 
 People that tries to git 'long peaceable don't have nothin' 
 but botheration from day's eend to eend. I ain't no sooner 
 got Ben outen the calaboose, which, if I do say it, he wuz 
 put in thar fer spite, an' I'll tell old Bagley so hisself, than 
 here comes this nice friend er yourn, this nice Mr. Em'ry 
 Reed, to worry me." 
 
 "What has Emory done now, Miss Jane?" 
 
 "You wouldn't believe it, William Wornum; but las' 
 night I wuz a-settin' out thar in the porch, an' what should 
 I hear but that Em'ry Reed makin' love to Nora in the par- 
 lor jest as sassy as a jay bird." 
 
 The schoolmaster rose from his seat, walked up and down 
 once, and then stood looking out the window. It seemed 
 strange that little things should attract his attention, but he 
 found himself interested in the evolutions of a flock of small 
 birds. They flew about over the fields and trees, now high 
 in the air, now close to the ground, always preparing to 
 alight and yet never alighting, until finally they lost them- 
 selves in the blue of the sky. "It is better that they should," 
 William Wornum thought. "If they could find no comfort 
 here, it is better they should fly away, each with its mate." 
 
 Miss Jane was too busy with her thoughts to pay much 
 attention to the schoolmaster. "You oughter heern 'im," 
 she continued. "He sot up thar on the sofy and talked like 
 he had waggin grease on his tongue." 
 
 "What did Miss Nora say," the schoolmaster inquired, 
 returning to his chair. 
 
 "O, she sot up like any fool gal an' lissened an' snickered 
 tell I had a great notion to jump in thar 'mong 'em an' 
 smack her jaw. I thought I'd come an' ast you what it's 
 
346 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 better to do. It's my own jedgment that I oughter give that 
 young feller his walkin' papers. I'm mighty sorry you ever 
 brung him here, William Wornum, mighty sorry. It's allers 
 de way." 
 
 "I don't see there is much harm done," said the school- 
 master. "You know that Nora's experience must be that of 
 other girls, and they all have love made to them, more or 
 less." 
 
 "Shucks ! Nobody never come hangin' roun' me a-whin- 
 in' an' a-splutterin' 'bout love. They had better sense. 
 Fools ez they is, men folks know who to worry." 
 
 "Well, I'm sure, Miss Jane," said the schoolmaster, "you 
 have no occasion to feel worried because Emory Reed is 
 making love to Nora. He is a man," continued the school- 
 master, remembering the bright, handsome face and frank, 
 winning manners of the young lawyer, "that any woman 
 might be proud to win." 
 
 "I don't like your nice men," said Miss Jane emphatically. 
 "I've seen some mighty game roosters trip theirselves up 
 with their wing. What must I do, William Wornum ?" 
 
 "I don't see that you can do anything, Miss Jane, save to 
 let matters take their own course." His tone was so cold 
 and indifferent and his manner so careless that Miss Jane 
 was at first surprised and then provoked. 
 
 "Let what matters take their course ?" she asked sharply. 
 "Ef you take me for a nat'l fool, William Wornum, I'd 
 thank you to tell me right out in plain Inglish." 
 
 "You asked me for my advice, Miss Jane. I have given 
 it to you. I don't see that you can better matters by offend- 
 ing young Reed or fretting Nora. If his attentions are 
 agreeable to her, it would hardly be becoming in you to 
 trouble yourself. Reed is no ordinary man. If I had a 
 sister or a daughter," the schoolmaster continued, still 
 speaking coldly, "I should ask no happier destiny for her 
 than that she become the wife of such a man as Emory 
 Reed." 
 
 "O, yes! You men are mighty smart. I ain't doubtin' 
 but what Em'ry Reed's the nicest man in Ameriky, but 
 I'd ruther see it'n to hear tell about it. What do I keer fer 
 his niceness an* his goodness? I ain't gwineter have 'im 
 
Early Literary Efforts 347 
 
 hangin' 'roun' crammin' Nora's years fuller his nonsense. 
 That's what I ain't gwineter have." 
 
 "Well, Miss Jane," replied the schoolmaster in a gentler 
 tone, "you asked my advice, and I have given it. In your 
 place I should say nothing to Nora and nothing to Emory 
 Reed. You are fortified in the fact that she is blessed with 
 common sense and that he is a gentleman." 
 
 "Well, William Wornum, ef it's gotter be a courtin' 
 match, I'll sen' word to Tiny Padgett, an' we'll have a 
 reg'lar sociable. He don't w'ar no slick hats, and he don't 
 put no cinnamon clraps on his han'kercher ; but I lay he's 
 good as your Em'ry Reed any day, an' more than that, he 
 won't be splittin' people's years a-howlin' an' a-singin' roun' 
 the house." 
 
 But Miss Jane did not carry out her threat. True, she 
 was more cordial to poor Padgett and less disposed there- 
 after to criticize his manifold weaknesses, but neither by 
 word nor sign did she give Emory Reed to understand that 
 she had overheard his little outburst of sentiment or that 
 she disapproved of his frequent visits. 
 
 The greatest change of all came over William Wornum. 
 Only at rare intervals did he join the little group that 
 usually assembled in the little porch or in the sitting room. 
 He seemed absorbed in his books. After school hours and 
 on Sundays he took long walks, accompanied always by 
 Jack and sometimes by Vanderlyn. He lost all interest in 
 everything — his negroes, his school, and his studies — and 
 took pains to avoid his friends whenever courtesy would 
 permit him to do so. 
 
 "Youer losin' ground with the gals, Profesh," remarked 
 Mr. Bagley one day, "an' youer losin' your health. You 
 look like you bin livin' in a holler tree, dad blamed if you 
 don't." 
 
 And, in truth, the schoolmaster was looking rather worst- 
 ed. He had fought a terrible fight with himself and had con- 
 quered. For days and nights he wandered up and down the 
 streets of Rockville and through the woods endeavoring to 
 bring himself to that point where he might contemplate 
 with perfect equanimity the contingency that would make 
 Nora Perryman the wife of Emory Reed. It was a hard 
 struggle, but he conquered. For months he had been 
 
348 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 vaguely aware that the blind girl was very dear to him, but 
 it was not until Miss Jane's announcement of Emory Reed's 
 intentions that the schoolmaster became fully aware of the 
 passionate strength and extent of his feelings. It was a 
 terrible blow to him, and it came upon him suddenly. He 
 was totally unprepared for it, but he managed to bear him- 
 self with tolerable composure; and Miss Jane, unsuspecting 
 soul, never dreamed of the torture that she was inflicting 
 when she asked his advice with respect to Emory Reed. 
 The schoolmaster resolved then and there to conquer his 
 passion, and to all outward appearance he did. His morose- 
 ness gradually left him, and after a time he fell into his old 
 habits. He was sorely tried, however. One afternoon, re- 
 turning from his academy, he found Nora in the parlor 
 alone. They talked on commonplace topics for a little 
 while, until finally, after a pause, she said : "You have been 
 troubled of late, Mr. Wornum." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, somewhat troubled. "Do you never 
 have any troubles, Miss Nora ?" 
 
 "O sometimes," with a little embarrassed laugh. "I have 
 had a good many recently. I knew you were troubled by 
 the tone of your voice." 
 
 "I suppose I betrayed myself even when I asked for more 
 sugar for my tea." 
 
 "Now, you are laughing at me. But it is true, and I 
 know you are never troubled by little things." 
 
 There was a pause, and presently she continued : "Were 
 you ever in love, Mr. Wornum?" 
 
 He winced a little and looked curiously at the fair face 
 before him. But the answer came without hesitation. 
 "Once, a long time ago," he replied to her question as frank- 
 ly as though a little child had asked it. 
 
 "Was it very long ago?" 
 
 "It seems so to me." 
 
 "And you never married?" 
 
 "It appears not," he answered, laughing a little. 
 
 "Did the lady die ?" asked the girl in a low tone. 
 
 "No. She lived on and lived happily. She was very 
 young, too young to be told that she was beloved by an 
 uncouth old man like me." 
 
 "And she never knew it ?" 
 
Early Literary Efforts 349 
 
 "I am happy in the belief that she never did." 
 
 "I think she ought to have known," said the girl with a 
 sigh. 
 
 "Why?" he asked a little bitterly. "If a true woman, the 
 hopelessness of the story would have grieved her ; if other- 
 wise, she would merely have wounded by her flippancy the 
 man who loved her. It is far better as it is. Besides" — 
 
 There was a pause. He feared to go on. Momentary 
 silence fell upon the two. The girl seemed to be listening 
 to sounds that no one but herself could hear. Her face was 
 pale, but O how beautiful ! The schoolmaster watched her 
 closely. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Wornum," she said presently, "you haven't 
 finished." 
 
 "Yes," he replied. "There is nothing more to be told. 
 A friend of mine loved this woman." 
 
 "And you gave way to this friend? I dare say," said 
 the girl a little scornfully, "that the lady appreciated such 
 generosity." 
 
 He regarded her curiously. Was this the gentle Nora of 
 old? 
 
 "I dare say she will one of these days," he answered. 
 "If you call it generosity, I was generous indeed. I gave 
 her a heart of gold, a man full of pure and noble impulses." 
 
 "And you are satisfied?" 
 
 "More than satisfied," he answered. "I feel the con- 
 sciousness of having performed a disagreeable duty, of hav- 
 ing made a little sacrifice of self, if you will." 
 
 "Such love as that is a conceit," she answered. 
 
 "As you will," he replied ; but her words and her tone cut 
 him to the quick. "It is a consolation to know that if it is 
 a conceit it has troubled no one but myself." 
 
 "Perhaps the lady loved you," the girl persisted. 
 
 "Impossible! We were friends. If she thought of me 
 at all, it was as a sister might think of a brother. My 
 friend who loved her was far worthier." 
 
 "And you are not unhappy ?" 
 
 "Far from it. My duty lay in the direction of unhappi- 
 ness for a time, but that time has passed. If I have been 
 the means of bringing happiness to her, I shall be satisfied." 
 
 "But if you have not?" 
 
350 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Well, I have done the best I could. I could do no more." 
 
 "You might have done less." 
 
 "Upon my word, Miss Nora," said the schoolmaster, 
 laughing and attempting to give a lighter turn to the con- 
 versation, "I shall have to tell Emory that you are growing 
 uncommonly wise of late." 
 
 "Why tell Mr. Reed ?" the girl asked, blushing a little. 
 
 "O, he would be glad to know. He is a great admirer of 
 yours." 
 
 "And a great friend of yours?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly. A very great friend. If there is a true- 
 hearted man on earth, it is Emory Reed." 
 
 "Is he as worthy as the friend for whom you made such 
 an unnecessary sacrifice?" asked Nora. 
 
 "Every whit. He is worthy of all the happiness that fate 
 is capable of bestowing upon him. He is worthy of any 
 woman." 
 
 Thereupon the conversation lagged for a few moments. 
 Nora was evidently not prepared to argue the question of 
 young Reed's merits. Finally she said: "I am afraid the 
 lady you loved is unhappy." 
 
 "Are you unhappy ?" he asked. 
 
 "Why do you wish to know ?" 
 
 "Because she is no more unhappy than you are. She is 
 young, and unhappiness never comes to the young." 
 
 "It might," she replied. 
 
 "But it rarely does," he persisted. 
 
 "You cannot tell," she said ; "you do not know." 
 
 XIII 
 
 Sweet Shrubs and Flowers 
 
 One afternoon, some time after Vanderlyn had met Kate 
 Underwood and her pupil in the wood, he received a dainty 
 little note, the purport of which was as follows: 
 
 "Dear Mr. Vanderlyn: Since I met you the other day I 
 have come to be more and more of the opinion that it is 
 my duty to express to you the gratitude I feel for your cour- 
 age in saving me and some of my friends from death some 
 time ago. It may appear indelicate at this late day for me 
 to express my thanks in this shape; but when I remember 
 
Early Literary Efforts 351 
 
 how grateful to you my mother will be and how, kneeling 
 by her hearthstone in "New England, her prayers will as- 
 cend to heaven in your behalf, I cannot refrain from send- 
 ing to you this poor acknowledgment of my gratitude. I 
 know how inadequate such an expression must seem to you, 
 but it is not impossible that some day, when you have noth- 
 ing better to think of, you may remember with a feeling 
 not altogether unpleasant that you were the means of saving 
 the life of a woman far away from home and friends and 
 that she was disposed to be grateful. 
 
 "Your friend, Katherine Underwood " 
 
 The reception of this note was a momentous event in 
 Vanderlyn's life. It was feminine from first to last. It was 
 written upon an exceedingly small sheet of paper, and just 
 the faintest shadow of perfume seemed to cling to it. The 
 handwriting was almost as delicate as the perfume, but 
 somehow or other Vanderlyn managed to make it out, and 
 then it seemed to him that it was nothing more than his duty 
 to thank heaven that he had been the means of saving this 
 woman's life. He reread the note time and again ; he even 
 held it up to the light to the wonderful exactness with 
 which the lines had been followed, and each time the faint 
 perfume, rising, it seemed to him, as an incense, scattered 
 itself mysteriously through the air, an essence more subtile 
 and overpowering to this great, rough man than anything 
 that had come to him. He did not stop to consider whether 
 it was lavender, attar of roses, musk, or sandalwood, but 
 he recognized its potency. It appeared — this faint odor — 
 to come to him as an appeal, a mysterious appeal which he 
 neither strove nor hoped to understand. It was as if he 
 had heard the plaintive cry of a little child in the darkness 
 and had searched for it only to find it safe in its mother's 
 arms. It awoke impulses in his soul that he had flattered 
 himself were beyond resurrection ; it stirred into life the 
 old romantic fancies that had made him a wanderer upon 
 the face of the earth. 
 
 Perhaps if he had known it was the custom of the fair 
 Katherine to submit her note paper to a bath of cheap 
 cologne water, the odor that distracted him would have 
 proved less potent ; but it was not given him to know, and 
 
3$2 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 the subtile perfume continued to exercise a strong influence 
 over him. He did not show the note to the schoolmaster, 
 nor did he take Jack into his confidence. He did not even 
 reply to it ; but in the summer mornings thereafter the fair 
 Katherine, going to her duties, found her schoolroom odor- 
 ous with all manner of wild flowers. The sweet shrub shed 
 its perfume from her desk, and the fragrance of the honey- 
 suckle and the wild jasmine floated through the room. 
 Vaguely guessing to whom she was indebted for these little 
 offerings, Miss Underwood, nevertheless, closely catechized 
 her pupils about the flowers, and even blushed when one of 
 them, a pale, puny little thing, replied in a loudly shrill 
 voice that "the man what cotched the run'way hosses'd 
 brung 'em." 
 
 It came to pass that Vanderlyn, idling through the long 
 days, divided his time between wandering through the woods 
 and attending the two schools in the capacity of privileged 
 visitor. At William Wornum's academy he played boister- 
 ously with the boys, and at Miss Underwood's he contented 
 himself with curiously watching the progress of the young 
 ladies, who soon came to regard his presence as a matter 
 of course. He never failed to renew the floral offering he 
 had laid upon the fair Katherine's desk. Sometimes it was 
 only a wild rose, sometimes a bunch of dogwood blossoms ; 
 but whatever it was, it was always there. At first the 
 schoolmistress was indifferent to these little offerings and 
 (by way of experiment, as she afterwards confessed) al- 
 lowed them to lie untouched and unnoticed where they had 
 been placed; but this seemed to have no effect upon the 
 giver. Fresh offerings took the place of the old ones every 
 morning, and Miss Underwood, with feminine inconsistency, 
 began to fear that Vanderlyn's flowers were laid upon her 
 desk more for his own gratification than hers ; and if her 
 conjecture was not correct, she never found it out from the 
 stalwart man who strayed to her school in the afternoon 
 and who seemed to be as much interested in the sports of 
 the little girls as in their recitations. Whereupon this prac- 
 tical woman resorted to trickery. She took to wearing 
 Vanderlyn's flowers in her hair, and upon one occasion she 
 pinned a little cluster of heartsease against her throat, and 
 a very perfect throat it was. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 353 
 
 She was not sure that Vanderlyn had observed this pro- 
 ceeding, which was intended to be a mark of special favor ; 
 but it happened that he remained until after school hours, 
 and the two walked together to the tavern where Miss Un- 
 derwood boarded. 
 
 "You perceive, Mr. Vanderlyn," she said, smiling bright- 
 ly, "that your flowers are not wasted." 
 
 He laughed. "I dunno'm ef 'tain't a waste fer folks to 
 pull 'em ; but they're growin' wile roun' here, an' ef I didn't 
 fetch 'em in the cattle'd trample on 'em an' the sun'd wilt 
 'em." 
 
 The fair Katherine resented this sort of philosophy. 
 
 "I am to suppose, then," she said somewhat sarcastically, 
 "that you pluck them by the wagonload and, in order to 
 prevent the cows from treading upon them, bring them in 
 and parcel them out among your friends. Mr. Wornum, no 
 doubt, gets by far the largest share." 
 
 "No'm, 'tain't like that ; but wimmen don't look right 'less 
 they've gotter lotter flowers lyin' roun'. That schoolhouse 
 er yourn 'ud look monst'ous lonesome 'less it had flowers 
 showin' up somewheres. It's funny," he continued, "but 
 one little bloom'll put you in mind er all out er doors. 
 Ef I had to be shet up day in an' day out, I'd take 'n' have 
 flowers strowed all roun', an' ef I could ketch a bird I'd 
 fasten him in jest to learn 'im what endyoance folks has to 
 have. It's sorter clippin' roun' the edges when it comes to 
 shettin' us up." 
 
 Evidently Vanderlyn failed to appreciate the drift of 
 Miss Underwood's remarks, and she was half inclined to 
 believe that he was stupid. 
 
 "Well," said she, "don't you think your flowers look bet- 
 ter here," pointing to her throat and blushing a little, "than 
 if they were lying upon my desk ?" 
 
 "O, a long ways !" he replied. "It helps the flowers, but 
 it don't help you. Pictures ain't made to set off frames." 
 
 It was a delicate compliment clumsily expressed, but she 
 appreciated it none the less on that account. It gave her a 
 clearer view of the man, and she came to perceive how 
 grand a quality the lack of egotism may become in simple, 
 brave natures. She saw for the first time how attractive 
 the utter unconsciousness of self may be, and Vanderlyn 
 23 
 
354 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 at once became an object of interest. In her own way this 
 Northern woman was a student of human nature; and al- 
 though she was gifted with more than ordinary acuteness, 
 she was puzzled to account for some of the characteristics 
 of this man. He was so thoroughly human that he baffled 
 her at every turn. 
 
 "I have seen pictures unworthy of their frames," she said 
 after awhile. 
 
 "Pictures !" he exclaimed, stopping in the street and look- 
 ing at her in surprise. His manner of emphasizing the word 
 was at once a protest and a declaration. Looking quickly 
 at him, Miss Underwood thought she had made a discovery. 
 His entire face, it seemed to her, had changed; but the 
 change was as sudden and as evanescent as a shadow pass- 
 ing over the grass, and it left her more puzzled than before. 
 
 "Well," she replied, "people called them pictures, and 
 how are we to judge? We know a good picture from a 
 bad one ; but who is to tell us what is a picture and what is 
 not?" 
 
 He laughed a little. "Nobody, I reckon. We're obleeged 
 to come down to guessin', an' when we git to guessin' we're 
 on our own groun'." 
 
 This was so different from what she expected that she 
 looked at him again; but if she sought a revelation in his 
 face, she failed to find it. 
 
 "Shall I tell you what I think of you, Mr. Vanderlyn?" 
 she asked presently. 
 
 "Yes'm," he said. His reply was so simple that she rather 
 faltered. 
 
 "Well, then, I think you are masquerading." 
 
 "Doin' which?" 
 
 "Masquerading, playing a part for a purpose. You 
 needn't pretend to misunderstand me." 
 
 He regarded her gravely, wishing in his soul that cir- 
 cumstances might permit him to walk by her side under the 
 clustering china trees and tell her of the struggle he had 
 had with the shadow of his former self in the woods that 
 surrounded old 'Cajy Cooper's cabin. If he could only lay 
 before her the problem that vexed and worried him day and 
 night, he thought it would be a great relief; but he shrank 
 from it. He had convinced himself that the time had not 
 
Early Literary Efforts 355 
 
 come. Had he betrayed himself to this sharp-eyed, keen- 
 witted woman? He thought not. 
 
 "I'm a sorter play actor, then, I reckon," he responded 
 placidly. "One er them fellers what goes a-trollipin' roun' 
 makin' out he's in love when he ain't." 
 
 "O, not that, Mr. Vanderlyn. I've never heard of your 
 trolloping around, as you call it." 
 
 "You ain't never heered much er me, then," he com- 
 mented. 
 
 "And I have never heard of your pretending to be in love. 
 You confuse me with some one else." 
 
 "And you are mixin' me up with some other feller. You'll 
 know ez quick ez the nex' one 'bout my playin' double." 
 
 "I dare say I will," said Miss Underwood dryly. "But I 
 wanted to say to you, Mr. Vanderlyn, that I appreciate your 
 kindness in bringing me flowers." 
 
 "O, it ain't no trouble," he replied. "I find 'em growin' 
 all over the woods. They come right to my han'. But 
 sweet s'ubs is a-gittin' kinder skeerce. The niggers is a-pull- 
 in' 'em, an' they are droppin' off the bushes. It's the last er 
 pea time with sweet s'ubs, an' you gotter go a mighty fur 
 ways if you git enny." 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Miss Underwood, "I found quite a 
 supply on my desk this morning. I have them here now in 
 my handkerchief." 
 
 Just then the two, sauntering along the wide street, passed 
 Mrs. Bagley and Mrs. Padgett. 
 
 "Well, I declare to gracious, Prue !" exclaimed the latter. 
 "Did you ever see anything like that ? Don't that beat your 
 time? I allers said that Yankee 'oman 'ud be up to some 
 devilment before she quit, and now she's a-settin' her cap 
 for that Dan Vanderlyn. I never seed sich imperdence." 
 
 "But she ain't ketched 'im yet," remarked Mrs. Prudence 
 Bagley sagaciously. 
 
 XIV 
 
 At Floyd's Bar 
 
 In the meantime William Wornum and Nora Perryman 
 
 seemed to drift farther apart. He was as familiar and as 
 
 cordial as before, but he was by no means as talkative. He 
 
 sat for hours in the evening without uttering a word, save 
 
356 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 when he was spoken to, and even then he vouchsafed but 
 brief replies. His struggle was harder than he suspected it 
 would be and his sacrifice far greater. Nor was he trou- 
 bled much with the small flippancies of conversation. Nora 
 herself grew strangely taciturn, and the querulousness of 
 Miss Jane needed but small reply. But occasionally when 
 he was sitting on the little porch alone with the blind girl 
 he found it incumbent upon him to talk, though even then 
 his conversation took strange turns. Tiny Padgett contin- 
 ued his visits, and the schoolmaster, who had grown won- 
 derfully familiar with this unfortunate victim of circum- 
 stance, seemed never so happy as when listening to his home- 
 ly humor. 
 
 "It's a pity, Miss Nora," said William Wornum one eve- 
 ning, "that you can't see the fireflies." 
 
 "I think not, Mr. Wornum," said Tiny Padgett, who was 
 sitting in the darkest corner. "What are the fireflies to 
 her?" 
 
 "What are they to any one ?" replied the schoolmaster in 
 a little heat. 
 
 "Nothing," said the other. "Absolutely nothing. They 
 float in the air and flare up, and that is the last of them. 
 They beat senselessly against the leaves of the trees and fly 
 clumsily on their way, but their small pulsations of light 
 only serve to make the night darker." 
 
 "They do the best they can," the schoolmaster persisted. 
 
 "O, I suppose so," remarked young Padgett. "The most 
 of us do that. But what does it amount to, after all?" 
 
 "Only this," said Nora gently, "the best we can do is the 
 most that is expected of us. I have never seen the fireflies 
 and can form no conception of them, save that I know they 
 strive to light up the night." 
 
 "But they fail," said the schoolmaster. 
 
 "After trying, yes. But is it their fault?" 
 
 "No," replied William Wornum. "I suppose if they had 
 a limelight they would endeavor to turn it on. It is a great 
 blessing to you, Miss Nora," he continued, recurring to 
 some idea that had impressed itself upon his mind, "that you 
 did not lose your eyesight after you became used to it. You 
 have been spared an affliction." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 357 
 
 "Affliction!" the girl exclaimed. "I think not. There is 
 no affliction in blindness." 
 
 "Not to you, perhaps. But suppose it had come upon you 
 gradually." 
 
 "I have often wished it had," she said, sighing gently. 
 "Then I could remember the faces of my friends. I should 
 know something of their appearance." 
 
 "Perhaps you would regret it," the schoolmaster sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "No," she replied, "I cannot conceive of such a thing. 
 They would never grow old to me. I might grow gray my- 
 self and gradually fade away, but my friends would remain 
 ever young and fair." 
 
 "We all ought to be blind, then," said Tiny Padgett with 
 sudden fervor. 
 
 "No," said the young girl; "we all ought to be satis- 
 fied." 
 
 "Well," responded the schoolmaster a little bitterly, 
 "that is only another name for blindness. It is better to be 
 blind." 
 
 "Yes," said Nora in a low tone ; "it is better to be blind." 
 
 Whereupon Tiny Padgett, conceiving that he had been 
 given a tough piece of philosophy to wrestle with, betook 
 himself to Floyd's bar, where in a very short time he be- 
 came personally interested in a game of poker and, dwelling 
 continually upon the words of the young girl, played so 
 recklessly and carelessly that he became the winner of a 
 large sum. Vanderlyn dropped in while the game was in 
 progress and laid a warning hand upon Padgett's shoulder, 
 but it was all to no purpose. "I'm in for it now, Van," he 
 said and continued the game. 
 
 While Vanderlyn stood watching the game a stranger 
 lounged carelessly into the bar. He was an individual that 
 would have attracted attention in any crowd. A fiery red 
 scar shone where his eyebrows ought to have been, and his 
 appearance was altogether forbidding. His voice was in 
 keeping with his general appearance. 
 
 "Mix me up a tod, Tom," he said to Floyd. "It's d— n 
 hot. I ain't seed no sich weather roun' these parts. Make 
 'er stiff, old man." 
 
 Vanderlyn did not turn around, but he recognized the 
 
358 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 voice. It had spoken to him in the darkness that surrounded 
 the lonely cabin of 'Cajy Cooper. 
 
 "Hello, Jim," exclaimed the barkeeper effusively. "You 
 here ?" It looks sorter like old times. But I tell you what, 
 you better make yourself ska'ce. Weather like this the boys 
 ain't to be depended on." 
 
 "O, they be durn!" said the other vehemently. "I bin 
 a-hidin' out an' a-slippin' roun' tell there ain't no sense in 
 it. Give us the tod, old man." 
 
 "I jest thought I'd drap a hint," said the other as he put 
 the liquor out. "You kin take the chances if you wanter, 
 but what I sez I sez wi' my mouth wide open. I don't 
 speechify much; but I keeps up a mighty thinkin', an' I 
 mighty nigh allers got one year open." 
 
 "I tell you what," said the man leaning against the coun- 
 ter carelessly, "what I done I done. I didn't make no bones 
 un it. When they run up on me, sez I : 'Gents, I'm your 
 man.' I wuz on the square. Sez I : 'Ef you let me 'lone, 
 I'll let you 'lone/ An' now, ef they come houndin' arter me, 
 a peaceable man, by God ! they'll light into business. You 
 needn't make no boast un it, ole man, but it's jest like I tell 
 you." 
 
 To all appearance the man was half intoxicated. He 
 spoke loud and boisterously, and his attitude as he leaned 
 against the bar was one of defiance. A half-smoked cigar 
 was stuck in his mouth, and his wool hat was crushed back 
 upon his head. Perfect silence reigned in the room. It was 
 the turn of Mr. George Wellington to deal. He sat facing 
 Tiny Padgett, and Vanderlyn stood just behind him. Mr. 
 Wellington dealt the cards leisurely and smoothly. The 
 little bits of pasteboard slipped through his fingers as though 
 they were oiled. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Padgett after a little, "for the sake of 
 the game I will call you. I have a queen full, with an ace 
 at the head." 
 
 He laid down his cards and rose leisurely from his seat. 
 
 "One moment, gentlemen," he said and walked up to the 
 man who was leaning against the bar. "Your name is Ash- 
 field, I believe." 
 
 "That's what they called me when I was younger," replied 
 the other somewhat defiantly. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 359 
 
 "I would like to see you outside a moment," Padgett said. 
 
 The room had gradually filled with people, and in various 
 portions thereof men were holding little whispered conver- 
 sations. 
 
 "You wanter see me, eh?" asked Ashfield defiantly. 
 "Well, you k'n jest stan' up an' look at me tell you git your 
 fill." 
 
 By this time quite a crowd had gathered, and it was a 
 very threatening crowd. 
 
 "The man is insane, Van," exclaimed Padgett ; "absolute- 
 ly insane." 
 
 As he spoke the young man turned to look at Vanderlyn, 
 and he saw a sight he never forgot. Vanderlyn was stand- 
 ing erect gazing at Ashfield with an intensity that was al- 
 most devouring in its ferocity. Ashfield stood glaring back 
 at the tall man with an expression of indecision upon his 
 face something similar to that we sometimes see in animals. 
 He was not a prepossessing man. Just above his eyebrows 
 was a red scar that seemed burned into his forehead, and it 
 seemed to flame out under the light of the candles like the 
 mark of Cain. It was a most horrible-looking scar and 
 gave to the man's face a singular expression of cruelty. 
 
 "Mr. Ashfield," said young Padgett, making one more 
 effort to get the man away from the crowd, some of them 
 drunk and all of them somewhat excited, "I would like to 
 see you alone a few moments." 
 
 The crowd was not large; but Padgett perceived, as he 
 remarked afterwards, that it had the elements of business 
 about it, and he wanted to get Jim Ashfield away. 
 
 "It's no use, young man. You can't come that kinder 
 game over me. You ain't gwineter git me out thar in the 
 dark wi' this gang hangin' roun'." 
 
 "Well, there's this much about it," said a tall young fel- 
 low named Tump Spivey, "if you stay here, you'll git ac- 
 quainted with a mighty rough set. If I was you, I'd take a 
 walk." 
 
 Whatever else might be said of Jim Ashfield, he was not 
 afraid. 
 
 "A d — n nice lot you've got here, Tom," he remarked to 
 the barkeeper. "You keep 'em here to sorter set off the 
 
360 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 place, don't you ? You oughter rent 'em out to hang up in 
 parlors." 
 
 There was a threatening movement in the crowd, but 
 Vanderlyn interposed. He stepped up to Ashfield and laid 
 his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, "I've been a-huntin' this man 
 mighty nigh ten years, an' now I've found him. He's mine." 
 
 Ashfield looked at Vanderlyn, and the very scar on his 
 face paled. The face of the stalwart man standing before 
 him seemed to be a revelation. He would have shrunk 
 away, but the hand of the other restrained him. 
 
 "Gents, this man'll murder me," he cried. 
 
 Vanderlyn laughed. " 'Tain't my day for killin' folks," 
 he said. "I wanter see you outside, Mr. Jim Ashfield." 
 
 The two went out into the moonlight, and those who were 
 curious enough to watch them saw them sit down on the 
 steps of the courthouse and engage in what appeared to be 
 an earnest conversation. They sat thus for some time, and 
 then Jim Ashfield arose and slunk away in the shadows. 
 Vanderlyn remained, and the gray dawn of morning found 
 him sitting where Jim Ashfield left him. 
 
 xv 
 
 Thus the seasons drifted over Rockville. There was 
 trouble, indeed, but it seemed to fall lightly upon the people 
 to whom it has been the purpose of this brief chronicle to 
 introduce you. It was blown away by the soft winds or 
 dispelled by the generous sunshine. The days ran pleasant- 
 ly into each other, and the seasons drifted together without 
 clang or clamor. The schoolmaster, Miss Jane, Nora, and 
 all were swept unconsciously into the future. The birds 
 sang all around them, the wonderful birds ; and the flowers 
 bloomed, faded, and bloomed again. Only the sun and age 
 were constant. The one shone steadily, and the other crept 
 on apace, but both came upon Rockville serenely. Time 
 dealt gently with the people who played their small parts 
 and whose brief histories it has been my purpose to record 
 here. It developed Jack into a manly youth and added, if 
 such a thing were possible, to the marvelous beauty of Nora 
 Perryman. It gave a touch of dignity to even Mr. Bagley's 
 
Early Literary Efforts 361 
 
 careless profanity, and Vanderlyn himself seemed to gain 
 something from the years. The school prospered, and the 
 people were at peace. 
 
 "It's so danged quiet," said Mr. Bagley, tapping the coun- 
 ter of Floyd's bar gently and reflectively, "that it looks l&e 
 makin' a fuss to take a drink er water." And Mr. Bagley, 
 not being fond of making a row, took very little water. 
 
 Jim Ashfield had disappeared. The demonstration made 
 in Floyd's bar, though not of a very riotous character, was 
 sufficient to convince him that his presence was not desir- 
 able to the people, and he stayed away. Vanderlyn strayed 
 through the woods, played with the children, and gave him- 
 self almost wholly up to the enjoyment of others. To quote 
 again from Mr. Bagley, "He looked arter other people and 
 hovered roun' Jack." He seemed to live and move as one 
 in a quandary. A great change came over him. Whatever 
 was weak received his sympathies, and he searched for 
 helplessness that he might aid it, not obtrusively, but gently 
 and delicately, the very refinement of kindness. He was 
 exceedingly fond of visiting the Walthalls, and once he met 
 Robert Toombs there. Those who meet this remarkable man 
 now have little conception of either his power or his appear- 
 ance. It is not true that age has dulled his intellect, but he 
 has become more composed. His impulses are the same, 
 but his ambition has been satisfied. He was a marvelous 
 figure in his youth, fighting his way through the confusion 
 of politics, and it is a figure that has become historical. I 
 know of no fitter emblem of all that is distinctively Southern 
 in nature, sentimental and suggestive, than a portrait of 
 Robert Toombs as he appeared in 1850 and 1853. Probably 
 I do not make my meaning clear, because I speak of him as 
 an embodiment and not as an individual. He thus appeared 
 to Vanderlyn, who was pleased with the imperious manners 
 and dogmatic utterances of the man. A leader of men can- 
 not even afford to give a hint of servility. A leader may be 
 wrong, but he must be in earnest even in his errors. Dog- 
 matism is the ultimate shape of truth, and imperiousness is 
 merely a form of conviction. It is the one quality — perhaps 
 I should call it an element — of the human mind that is never 
 overtaken by insincerity. 
 
 I mention the fact of the meeting of these two men be- 
 
362 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 cause it had great influence in bringing about the events 
 which it is the purpose of this narrative — if it can be dig- 
 nified by the name of narrative — to relate. Toombs was 
 young, vigorous, and outspoken, and he gave his convic- 
 tions the full benefit of the truths he thought they repre- 
 sented. It is probable he lacked the quality of repression, 
 but it is certain that he lacked caution. But later, on a 
 memorable occasion, he rose in the midst of an excited 
 crowd of his countrymen (it was in Rockville, and Vander- 
 lyn was one of the audience) and said: "Caution is a non- 
 essential. Those who are right have no need to be cautious. 
 Right will assert itself. Principle is deathless. I tell you 
 here that principle can never die. It may involve the loss 
 of life, of hope, of peace, and of everything that now seems 
 to comfort us. It may even involve the loss of what people 
 flippantly call honor. I know of nothing so honorable as 
 upholding our convictions. We may deliver to our children 
 the heritage of valor. We may leave to them the trashy 
 endowment that gives traffic its importance and renders 
 competition endurable. We may make them miserably 
 poor or proudly poor ; but we shall have made them grand 
 and noble and powerful, indeed, if we have but convinced 
 them that behind all legacies, all life, and all experience 
 there is a principle to defend, if we but show them that there 
 is something dearer than gain, something higher than greed. 
 I tell you now that unless you stand up to yourselves and to 
 your principles the trouble of strife will fall upon you. I 
 do not see visions, nor do I dream dreams. No man is true 
 to himself who cannot sacrifice himself. When there comes 
 to be a lack of martyrs in the land, there will be a lack of 
 patriots." 
 
 All this, eloquently spoken and passionately delivered, had 
 a remarkable effect upon Vanderlyn. The entire oration 
 was upon the duties of the people of the South ; but the man 
 who was struggling with a problem took no note of its gen- 
 eral bearing. It seemed addressed to him; it seemed in- 
 tended for him. He could not escape its conclusions; he 
 could not reply to its arguments. He had no opportunity 
 for thought and no time for any ; but he recognized the fact 
 that behind and beneath the fire and passion of that wonder- 
 ful orator the pulse of truth was beating coolly, calmly, and 
 
Early Literary Efforts 363 
 
 serenely. And afterwards, when the speaker was through 
 and the people around him were discussing it, Vanderlyn 
 seemed as eager to hear the comments as he had been to 
 hear the discourse. 
 
 "I think," said Judge Walthall to William Wornum a 
 little while afterwards, "that Toombs may succeed as a 
 leader, but never as an organizer. The tendency of his 
 thought is disorganization." 
 
 "I doubt this," replied William Wornum. "Is an archi- 
 tect who tears down a building that he may perfect it to 
 be called a disorganizer? Those who prefer the whole truth 
 to half truths have to wander in strange and devious ways. 
 Truth sometimes leads to revolution." 
 
 "Is it not possible," asked the Judge, who was conserva- 
 tive in all his methods, "that what you speak of as truth is 
 really fanaticism?" 
 
 "Possibly," said the other. "Those who have the courage 
 to advocate what they believe to be right do not take the 
 trouble to remember whether they are fanatics or not. Men 
 who have convictions are generally fanatics, whether they 
 are right or wrong." 
 
 "O well, as to that," said the Judge, "I am willing to 
 admit that I was deeply impressed by Toombs's speech, but 
 there is such a thing as indiscretion." 
 
 They were sitting in the wide veranda that ran around 
 the Judge's house, and Vanderlyn was sitting with them. 
 
 "In doing what is right ?" asked the schoolmaster. 
 
 "Not exactly that," answered Judge Walthall. 
 
 "You mean a man should not become the victim of his 
 opinions?" 
 
 "Precisely so. He should not become a slave to his prej- 
 udices. That which is right in theory may be awkward, 
 even wrong, in practice. At least it may be embarrassing." 
 
 "Then ef it's hard to do right, we oughtn't to do it, I 
 reckon," said Vanderlyn, straightening himself up a little. 
 
 "Why, we ought to do right, as a matter of course," an- 
 swered the Judge. 
 
 "Well, now, Jedge, supposin' in your younger days you 
 had a brother, a wild sort of a young fellow who got into a 
 row with you an' some others an' strayed off from home 
 
364 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 before you knowed what kind of a man he was a-gwineter 
 make." 
 
 "Well/' replied the Judge, turning suddenly in his chair, 
 "I did have a younger brother who wandered away from 
 home in his youth. He was a little wild and reckless, but 
 that was all. Did you ever meet him ?" 
 
 "I reckon I have, Jedge. He wuz a mighty loose young- 
 ster when I knowed him fust." 
 
 The Judge rose and paced the floor. "You misjudge 
 him," he said. "The fault was mine. But why have you 
 alluded to him ? He is dead." 
 
 "Well, jest this, Jedge. We wuz a-talkin' 'bout what's 
 right an' what ain't right. S'pose that brother er yourn wuz 
 to walk in on you some day. I don't say he's comin', but 
 suppose he wuz to drop in on you. Would it be right for 
 you to divide your property with him ?" 
 
 The Judge paused in his walk. "Did you know my broth- 
 er? He was very young when he left home. I have tried 
 of late to remember him, but the remembrance is exceeding- 
 ly vague. I know he had a terrible temper." 
 
 "When I knowed him," said Vanderlyn, laughing a little, 
 "he didn't have no temper. He wuz mighty cool and calky- 
 latin'." 
 
 Upon this Judge Walthall became very eager to learn 
 something of the brother the memory of whom seemed al- 
 most a dream. But Vanderlyn professed to know but little, 
 and his replies to the anxious questions of the Judge were 
 anything but satisfactory. The schoolmaster, looking at 
 the tall, brawny man and watching somewhat narrowly the 
 placid, indifferent manner in which he replied to the eager 
 inquiries, formed a theory of his own. But he was so aston- 
 ished at the absurdity of his suspicions that he did not act 
 upon the impulse that prompted him. He merely asked: 
 "What was the name of this whimsical youth who could 
 so far forget his duty as to leave his friends and his fam- 
 ily?" 
 
 "I disremember now," said Vanderlyn, "but I think they 
 called him Calhoun." 
 
 "That was his name," said the Judge, looking out over the 
 fields. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 365 
 
 "Is he dead?" asked the schoolmaster, watching Vander- 
 lyn narrowly. 
 
 "He ain't so dead but what he might be brung to life," 
 said the latter. 
 
 "Yes," said the Judge, "he is dead. He was wild and 
 wayward, but he was not ungenerous. He was not unfor- 
 giving." 
 
 "But," remarked Vanderlyn, preparing to leave, "s'pose 
 he sorter got 'shamed er his prank, s'pose he's a-fixin' up a 
 plan that'll kinder make up for his shortcomings." 
 
 "Well," said the schoolmaster, "I think he is committing 
 a very grave error." 
 
 "It is impossible," said the Judge ; "he is dead." 
 
 xvi 
 
 Catching Grasshoppers. 
 
 "Why do you think your brother is dead, Judge?" asked 
 the schoolmaster, watching Vanderlyn narrowly. 
 
 "It has been so long ago," answered Judge Walthall, toy- 
 ing with his watch fob somewhat nervously. "I cannot con- 
 ceive how the indignation of a youth can perpetuate itself. 
 He was a mere boy, a child almost, but very impetuous. I 
 know now that it was wrong to endeavor to harshly restrain 
 him in his boyish whims or to attempt to control his foolish 
 fancies. But he was generous. In time he would either 
 have forgotten or forgiven what he, lacking judgment, con- 
 ceived to be an undue exercise of authority." 
 
 "Well," said the schoolmaster gravely, as if preparing to 
 argue the matter, and still looking curiously, if not inquisi- 
 tively, at Vanderlyn, "it is possible that it may have been 
 otherwise. It may be that pride and not generosity is the 
 cause of the singular absence of your younger brother. It 
 may be that other circumstances have intervened. We can- 
 not tell. It is not for us to judge. After all, he may be 
 dead. But where the human heart is concerned, human 
 judgment is at fault. You remember, Judge, that the old 
 philosophers — and new ones too, for that matter — write 
 long disquisitions on human motives and impulses, and we 
 know no more of these than of the sprouting corn, and not 
 so much. In nature like begets like, but in the human heart 
 
366 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 one impulse begets another totally indifferent in kind and 
 degree." 
 
 "I understand that," said the Judge sadly. "I understand 
 that well enough; but at the same time I can conceive of 
 nothing, no circumstance and no contingency, that could 
 have intervened between my brother and his family when 
 he had once come to understand his duties, when he had 
 once come to discover that his future had been marred by 
 boyish folly." 
 
 "This is true, Judge Walthall," said the schoolmaster, 
 "according to our methods of reasoning, but our desires con- 
 trol our reasoning just as they control our appetites. Hu- 
 man nature, in every respect, is pure selfishness from begin- 
 ning to end — or, I may say, pure vanity. None of us, of 
 course, feel like analyzing the motives of martyrdom. But 
 suppose they were analyzed. What then? We would all 
 be surprised. Perhaps we would "be mortified. At any rate, 
 I believe we would be most grievously disappointed." 
 
 Vanderlyn arose, walked the length of the veranda, and 
 sat down again. He seemed to be greatly troubled, and yet 
 he yielded to the inclination to laugh a little at the rather 
 odd direction the conversation had taken. 
 
 "Jedge," he said promptly, "this brother er yourn never 
 went to school ; he didn't have time. I knowed him mighty 
 well," he continued as if calling to mind the appearance of 
 some scene or picture. "I knowed 'im like he knowed 
 'isse'f," he went on, smiling in such a peculiar manner as 
 almost to confirm the theory of the schoolmaster. 
 
 That same afternoon the fair Katherine Underwood, 
 walking, as was her custom, under the spreading chestnut 
 trees, heard her name called. She knew the voice was that 
 of Vanderlyn, but such a change had seemed to come over 
 it that she turned quickly to look. A change seemed to have 
 come over the man. If possible, he walked more erect, and 
 it seemed that he had gathered from some source new 
 strength and new dignity. 
 
 "Miss Underwood," he said simply, "I would like to walk 
 with you a few moments." 
 
 She noticed the change in his voice and manner, the 
 change in his language. He was dressed more carefully than 
 
Early Literary Efforts 367 
 
 usual, and his whole appearance had undergone some re- 
 markable metamorphosis. 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Vanderlyn," she said, coloring a little. 
 She was astonished — more astonished, indeed, than if she 
 had had no suspicions. It was a revelation she had pre- 
 dicted, but had not expected. 
 
 "You told me some time ago," his strong, firm voice 
 sounding musical, "that you believed me to be masquerad- 
 ing. You were quite right, save that my masquerade is in 
 some respects a serious one. I am in a quandary, and I 
 come to you for advice. You are wise and good and true, 
 and I know that whatever you may say to a wayfaring man, 
 a stranger almost, will be just and kind." 
 
 And so the two, followed by Miss Underwood's smallest 
 pupil, bearing an exaggerated bouquet of flowers in her 
 little hands, wandered through the green dusk of the great 
 woods, and Vanderlyn told his story. The little girl, playing 
 with her grasses and flowers, gave little heed to the two. 
 Whatever the nature of the story, its effect was lost upon 
 her. She played in the sunshine, and the voices of the man 
 and woman came to her as confused as the murmur of bees. 
 But when Miss Underwood and the child, leaving Vander- 
 lyn standing under the great trees, started homeward, the 
 little girl saw with wonder that the lady was weeping, not 
 as one in grief, but gently and quietly. Whereupon with 
 childish- sympathy she dropped her grasses and flowers and 
 put her hand in that of her teacher; and then the woman, 
 overcome by some sudden emotion, stooped and kissed the 
 little one, and they went homeward hand in hand. 
 
 Vanderlyn stood where Miss Underwood had left him 
 until the lady and the little girl had passed out of sight; and 
 then he turned his steps toward the old church, whose spire 
 shone in the sun. Here was the village cemetery, and 
 through this Vanderlyn wandered until his attention was 
 attracted by a woman placing flowers upon a grave. She 
 was bareheaded. Her hair was disheveled, and her clothes 
 were old and threadbare. It was 'Cindy Ashfield. She rose 
 as Vanderlyn came forward. 
 
 He forgot to drop into the provincial dialect that had 
 become habitual. The image of the schoolmistress, her' 
 tenderness, and her sympathy were still with him. 
 
368 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 " 'Cindy," he said, "do you remember me ?" 
 
 "She raised her hands in the air as if in deprecation of 
 the question and exclaimed : "Why, good Lord, Mr. Van- 
 derlyn! I'd know you anywheres? I'll remember you to 
 the day er my death. I wuz jest a-puttin' some flowers," 
 she continued in a tone that conveyed the idea of an apolo- 
 gy, "on the grave uv a little baby." 
 
 There was a pause. Vanderlyn glanced at the marble 
 tablet. The name it bore was "Calhoun Walthall." He 
 stood like one in a dream. Finally he turned to the forlorn- 
 looking woman and said : 
 
 " 'Cindy, would you do me a favor?" 
 
 "I'd crawl on my knees fer you anywheres and any time." 
 
 Vanderlyn smiled a little. "I am going to ask you to do 
 something that will be very hard for you to do," he said 
 gently. 
 
 " "T won't be hard for me," she replied. Then, a little 
 more calmly: "When you want me, you jist call on me." 
 
 "Very well, 'Cindy. When I do, you must remember 
 that it is not for my sake, but for yours, that I ask you to 
 make a sacrifice. Have you seen your brother lately?" 
 
 "Jim? I ain't seen Jim since punkins wuz ripe. I heer 
 tell that Jim's a-settin' up to a gal down 'bout Augusty." 
 
 "Well, suppose I should want him," asked the other. 
 "What then?" 
 
 "O, he'd come. Where' he's tuk one resk, he'd take an- 
 other. Jim ain't afeerd of snakes, I kin tell you." She was 
 evidently proud of this vagrant brother of hers. 
 
 "I must see him before very long. If you can get word 
 to him, I would be glad." 
 
 With a profusion of promises the woman picked up her 
 faded old sunbonnet and disappeared through the fields that 
 lay beyond the burying ground just as William Wornum 
 came in sight, walking in a thoughtful mood. 
 
 "I was just thinking," he said without further greeting, 
 "of that brother of Walthall's and the motive that prompted 
 him to leave his friends and all he held most dear. He was 
 a royal youth, no doubt. Where he couldn't reign he re- 
 fused to abide." 
 
 Vanderlyn laughed. "I reckon he thought they wuz 
 a-hummin' at 'im a little too lively," once more dropping 
 
Early Literary Efforts 369 
 
 into the provincial speech. "Then, ag'in, maybe he didn't 
 wanter be cooped up in the little house where he was 
 borned ; an' then maybe, arter he gotter wanderin' roun', he 
 sorter liked the business." 
 
 "O, we can imagine any motive that controlled him. We 
 can say that he had a streak of the vagabond in him and that 
 he was weak enough to be influenced by it. But what I 
 want to get at, if I can, is the real motive that controlled 
 him. You knew him, I believe?" 
 
 "Passing well," said Vanderlyn in a tone that somewhat 
 startled the schoolmaster. At least it is presumed that he 
 was startled. He jumped up, slapped Vanderlyn on the 
 shoulder, and laughed most immoderately. It was evident 
 from this that amusement was thoroughly mixed with as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 "Well, by George, Vanderlyn !" he exclaimed. "This is 
 getting to be rich — in fact, I may say interesting. 'Passing 
 well !' Upon my soul, it is curious how two little words like 
 that will dispel a delusion." 
 
 "Well, now, schoolmaster," said Vanderlyn, "I tell you 
 what, it's a mighty long lane that ain't got no turnin'." 
 
 The schoolmaster stopped him. "Come, now, this won't 
 do. You must at least be candid with me." 
 
 "Candid !" exclaimed the other, laughing. "How could I 
 propose to ask your advice in regard to a matter that 
 touches me very nearly?" 
 
 "At any rate," replied William Wornum, grumbling over 
 this as over other things, "you ought to have allowed me to 
 point my moral. I was going on to preach quite a sermon 
 about duty ; but as this is a very intricate matter and involves 
 much logic, I am glad to have the opportunity of foregoing 
 the lecture. You have been spared an affliction. It was 
 prepared beforehand. This changes matters. The royal 
 duke will proceed to drop his mask and inform the audience 
 what particular part he is playing. Hang it all, old fellow, 
 let an agitated spectator come behind the scenes." 
 
 "Well, the truth is, Mr. Wornum," replied the other, 
 straightening himself up a little, "I was about to ask your 
 advice, and in this instance to ask your advice is to make a 
 confession." 
 
 Which he proceeded to do, and the two sat talking until 
 24 
 
37° The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 long after darkness had fallen upon the scene — sat talking 
 until Nora Perryman grew weary of listening for the school- 
 master's footsteps and until Jack grew weary of hunting for 
 Dan. What they talked about and what they determined 
 upon will be developed as this chronicle proceeds to a con- 
 clusion. Finally they arose, walked homeward through the 
 shadows of the night, and parted at Miss Perryman's gate. 
 Tiny Padgett, sitting over against the little cottage, pensively 
 gazing in the direction of Nora's window, heard the two 
 coming slowly along the street and caught a portion of the 
 conversation. 
 
 "It will be a delicate undertaking," the schoolmaster was 
 saying. 
 
 "But it must be undertaken all the same," Vanderlyn said. 
 
 "Yes," said the other, "that is my advice. But first we 
 must find our man." 
 
 "That is my undertaking," said Vanderlyn. "I will find 
 him. It may be a little troublesome, but I will find him." 
 
 They were about to part when Vanderlyn turned to the 
 schoolmaster suddenly and said : "I am worried about Jack. 
 This has troubled me all along. What will he say ?" 
 
 "Of this you may be certain," the schoolmaster said, 
 "whatever happens, you may be sure of Jack's love. Few 
 boys love their fathers as Jack loves you. You may be as- 
 sured of that." 
 
 "Well," said Vanderlyn, his strong voice faltering a little, 
 "it's all for Jack's good, but it's hard. You can't imagine 
 the way Jack and I get along." 
 
 "O yes, I can," replied the schoolmaster. "I thought it a 
 little queer at first, but it is the best. I often envy you." 
 
 "Envy me ?" asked the other in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes," said the other sadly. "I envy any man who is 
 beloved." 
 
 And Nora, hearing the words and catching the sadness 
 of the tone, arose from the window where she had been 
 sitting and walked up and down through the darkness of 
 her room, wringing her hands and weeping. And Tiny 
 Padgett, sitting on the other side, stroked his mustache re- 
 flectively and came to the conclusion that he and the school- 
 master were in the same boat ; for he could not penetrate the 
 
Early Literary Efforts 371 
 
 darkness and behold the trouble of the fair young girl, nor 
 could he look into the future and behold what was to come. 
 
 The two men parted, one going to his room and the other 
 wandering aimlessly and thoughtfully under the elm and 
 china trees, but both leaving young Padgett alone with the 
 night. He sat there as silently as darkness itself. He sat 
 there until the gray dawn shone as white as the ashes on his 
 cigar; and then he arose, looking pale and haggard, and 
 went toward his home, caring little for his forlornness, but 
 thinking always of the blind girl he loved, but whose love 
 he did not hope to win. He did not reach home. Upon the 
 street near the courthouse he met Vanderlyn. 
 
 "We're having lots of fun, ain't we, old man? If the 
 crash was to come now, we would be numbered among the 
 early pilgrims. By the by, Van, I noticed to-night that 
 you had ceased to talk like a stage driver. I told Miss Nora 
 a long time ago that you were a humbug, but a good one." 
 
 "Tiny," said Vanderlyn, placing his hand upon the young 
 man's shoulder in an affectionate way, "what are you doing 
 wandering around this early in the morning?" 
 
 "Viewing nature," said the other gravely, "and hunting 
 up great big humbugs like yourself. I also have a habit of 
 driving grasshoppers through the dew. Their wings get 
 damp, and they are easily caught." 
 
 Behind these light words Vanderlyn could see the signs 
 of great mental suffering, and he sympathized most keenly 
 with the wayward youth whose ultra-carelessness could not 
 conceal his distress. 
 
 "The grasshoppers that you find at this hour," said Van- 
 derlyn, "must be desperately early risers. They are prob- 
 ably hard to catch." 
 
 "They are never caught," replied Tiny. "Though there 
 were legions of them, they would elude me." 
 
 "Ah! yes," said Vanderlyn, "they elude the best of us. 
 They flutter into our hands and out again." 
 
 "They rise upon the wind," said Tiny, "and are blown out 
 of reach." 
 
 "I cannot tell, but they seem to be worth striving after." 
 
372 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 XVII 
 
 Thistledown Blown by the Wind 
 
 Wandering through the streets of Rockville one after- 
 noon, the schoolmaster was overtaken by young Reed. The 
 latter was pale and excited, and he laughed nervously when 
 the schoolmaster asked anxiously as to the condition of his 
 health. Suddenly as they walked along the younger of the 
 two turned and laid his hand upon the shoulder of the other. 
 "I have asked Nora Perryman to marry me." 
 
 William Wornum had endeavored to prepare himself for 
 such an emergency. He had endeavored to school himself 
 so that he c^uld smile serenely upon whoever made this an- 
 nouncement, and he partially succeeded, but in spite of 
 himself his hand trembled as he grasped that of the other. 
 "I suppose I must congratulate you/' he said simply. 
 
 "No," replied the other bitterly; "it is Miss Nora whom 
 you must congratulate." 
 
 "And why not you ?" 
 
 "Upon my failure?" 
 
 William Wornum, looking at his friend narrowly, read 
 upon his handsome face the disappointment of an unsuc- 
 cessful lover. 
 
 "You don't mean to say," he asked, stopping short, "that 
 she has refused you?" 
 
 "I mean just that," replied the other. 
 
 "Well," said the schoolmaster, "you must never give up. 
 Maybe she is only teasing you. Women know how to tanta- 
 lize, especially young women. You will have to try again." 
 
 "No," said Reed, "she is not playing with me. She was 
 very kind and very gentle, but very much in earnest. She 
 gave me to understand," he continued, "that she loves some 
 one else. It must be Padgett." 
 
 "Impossible !" said the schoolmaster. 
 
 "Why impossible?" 
 
 "He is utterly unworthy of her love." 
 
 "As a matter of course, but what has love to do with 
 worthiness or unworthiness ?" 
 
 "It has everything to do with it," replied the schoolmaster. 
 
 The young lawyer laughed. "It has everything to do with 
 it and nothing," he said. "If you feel in the humor," he 
 
Early Literary Efforts 373 
 
 said grimly, "we will go out here in the woods and make the 
 matter a subject of debate. I do not know of a more appro- 
 priate theme. I shall insist that love is utterly independent 
 of every motive and every incident of human life, and you 
 will hold that it is not. We shall have a good deal of amuse- 
 ment, no doubt." 
 
 The schoolmaster observed that the young man's tone was 
 full of bitterness, and he made some feeble effort to console 
 his friend, dwelling upon the probability that her rejection 
 of his suit was merely the result of a girlish whim. 
 
 "Why, Wornum, do you think I could be mistaken in a 
 matter of this kind? If she had smiled, if there had been 
 any hesitation in her manner, I should have dreamed of a 
 possibility; but she seemed to be full of sorrow that she 
 should be compelled to disappoint me." 
 
 "Do you remember her words ?" asked the schoolmaster. 
 
 "Perfectly. 'Mr. Reed/ she said, 'I regard you as a very 
 dear friend, but I cannot love you as a wife should love her 
 husband.' I can tell you no more," said Reed. "That is 
 sufficient." 
 
 "Yes," said William Wornum, "that is quite sufficient." 
 But he determined in his own mind that it was not sufficient, 
 and he concluded to investigate the matter. He saw Nora 
 that evening. She was sitting in the porch when the school- 
 master went home, and he lost no time in approaching the 
 subject. 
 
 "Nora," he said, "what is this about young Reed? Are 
 you prejudiced against him?" 
 
 "Not in the least. On the contrary, I regard him as a 
 very dear friend, nothing more. ' 
 
 "He has asked you to become his wife?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you refused?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I am an old friend. Would you mind telling me why ?" 
 
 "You might as veil ar •; me, Mr. Wornum, why the wind 
 blows from the east or the i .orth instead of from the south 
 and west. I only know that I do not love him. Why, I 
 cannot tell. I an. v~ry sorry." 
 
 "Yes," said the schoolmaster; "so he said. He said he 
 was touched by your sympathy." 
 
374 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Did he ask you to come to me, Mr. Wornum?" the young 
 girl asked so coolly that it somewhat embarrassed the school- 
 master. 
 
 "No ; I came on my own accord. He is my friend. He is 
 noble, generous, and brave. Few men's lives are so pure. 
 I believe you could aid him to make a great career." 
 
 "You talk like a lawyer, Mr. Wornum. Mr. Reed should 
 congratulate himself that he has such able counsel." 
 
 Her tone and manner were cold. It seemed to the school- 
 master that the petulant girl whom he used to tease had sud- 
 denly grown out of his recollection. The serenity of wom- 
 anhood seemed to have settled upon Nora ; but, somehow or 
 other, it occurred to the man who was talking to her that 
 the sudden dignity with which she had cloaked herself was 
 nearly allied to sorrow. 
 
 "In a matter of this kind, Nora," he replied gravely, "I 
 am, of course, counsel for you as well as for my friend." 
 
 "Did your friend ask you to appear in his behalf ?" 
 
 "No, no ! Nothing like that. I came of my own accord. 
 I came in the interest of two very dear friends. Perhaps I 
 have made a mistake." 
 
 "You certainly have made a mistake, Mr. Wornum." 
 
 "Well," he said lowering his voice, "I know you will par- 
 don me. I am unfortunate. We are all liable to make 
 mistakes." 
 
 He went to the window and looked out over the green 
 fields. The whole world seemed stretched out before him. 
 It was the future, he thought, and it appeared to invite him. 
 
 "I am sorry to have troubled you," he said presently. 
 "But it is a small matter, after all. We have been friends 
 since you were a little girl. I remember as well as if it were 
 yesterday the first time I saw you. I should be glad to go 
 over all the old days again. I would be glad for you to recall 
 them now, for in searching your memory you can tell me 
 where I have been unkind or even thoughtless. I want 
 you to forgive me." 
 
 He turned and saw that she was weeping as though her 
 heart would break, and he stood watching her a little while. 
 Presently he said, and his tone was very gentle : "I am going 
 away shortly, and it will be pleasant to know that you do 
 not remember me unkindly." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 375 
 
 "Going away !" 
 
 "Yes, I am going to Europe. By the time I return time 
 will have made vast changes, and I do not care to go away 
 with the impression that I have been unkind to any of my 
 friends." 
 
 "You have not been unkind to me, Mr. Wornum." 
 
 "And yet I have wounded your feelings," he replied. 
 
 "No," she said, "you have not wounded me. You do not 
 understand." 
 
 "I am afraid not," he answered. "I do things very awk- 
 wardly. I am sometimes amazed at my own stupidity. 
 When Reed told me that you would not marry him, I con- 
 cluded that he was laboring under a delusion, and I came 
 to you in his behalf." 
 
 "He was laboring under no delusion, Mr. Wornum. How 
 could you possibly believe I was trifling with him?" 
 
 "Well," he said, "you know how women are. There is 
 an old saying that 'A woman's will is the wind's will.' " 
 
 "The will of a true woman, Mr. Wornum, can neither be 
 blown about by the wind nor bleached by the sun." 
 
 "It should not be," he said, "but it often is. We cannot 
 tell. The best we can do is to make a mistake and then 
 correct it. I have made a mistake and have attempted to 
 correct it." 
 
 "You have corrected it, Mr. Wornum." 
 
 "I should not have made it," he answered. 
 
 "That is true. You have known me for years, and yet 
 you seemed to believe me capable of trifling with the feel- 
 ings of your dearest friend." 
 
 "Yes," said the other. "I am unaccustomed to these things. 
 I could not see how a young girl could throw away such a 
 heart as Emory Reed could offer/' 
 
 "But what of the girl's? Suppose she had none to give 
 him in return?" 
 
 "I had an intimation of that," he answered, "but I did 
 not believe it. I cannot understand how love can be be- 
 stowed unworthily." 
 
 "Unworthily, Mr. Wornum ?" 
 
 "Yes, I cannot understand, for instance, how a woman 
 could come to prefer Tiny Padgett to Emory Reed." He 
 was apparently determined to cross-examine her. 
 
376 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "And pray, Mr. Wornum, who has such a preference?" 
 She spoke as coldly as at first. "Which of your lady friends 
 has expressed herself as preferring Tiny Padgett to Emory 
 Reed?" 
 
 "O, none. I am only drawing a comparison. I was think- 
 ing of such a possibility. And yet it is possible that in some 
 woman's mind, some woman who knows little of the world, 
 the two might be rivals, and her choice might alight upon 
 Padgett." 
 
 "And if it did?" asked Nora. "I will say to you frankly, 
 Mr. Wornum, that of the two men I greatly prefer Mr. 
 Padgett. Do you wish to know why ?" 
 
 "I have no right to know," he answered. 
 
 "I have a right to tell you," raising her hand in the air 
 as if to brush away something in the air about her. "I like 
 him," she continued, "because he knows what trouble is; 
 because with all his faults he is gentle, tender, and thought- 
 ful of others." 
 
 "And because he loves you." 
 
 "I am glad he does," she cried impetuously. 
 
 The schoolmaster had never seen her so excited, and he 
 thought that Padgett must be fortunate indeed to have won 
 the esteem of such a woman. It was a problem he could not 
 solve, and yet how easy it was of solution ! To this girl the 
 rumors of Padgett's excesses, the talk of his wickedness, 
 was as thistle blown upon the wind. She only knew of his 
 gentleness. He was wont to say to himself that he left his 
 waywardness at the door of the little cottage, and he did 
 leave it there. Sin dropped from him like a garment when 
 he entered the gate; and the blind girl only knew of him 
 that he was gentle, tender, considerate, and always disposed 
 to disparage himself. 
 
 "I can understand that," said the schoolmaster, replying 
 to her exclamation ; "but are you not glad that Emory Reed 
 loves you?" 
 
 "Yes," she said quietly. "I am glad, but that is all." 
 
 XVIII 
 
 The schoolmaster passed out of the room and went into 
 the street. He did not look at Nora as he turned to go, or 
 
Early Literary Efforts 377 
 
 he would have seen how pale she was and how tightly her 
 hands were clasped together. She stood thus and heard the 
 gate shut behind him and then the sound of his footsteps 
 as he passed up the street, until finally all was silent. Then 
 she went slowly to her room and sat by the window. It was 
 her favorite position when she felt in the mood for thought 
 or when anything troubled her. The afternoon waned. The 
 sun, a great red globe of fire, hung suspended for a moment 
 in the mists that veiled the horizon and then sank slowly 
 out of sight. The gray twilight deepened into dusk, and the 
 dusk made way for her mistress, Night. But still Nora sat 
 at the window. Miss Jane looked in once, but spoke no 
 word. She thought the girl was in one of her "tantrums," 
 as she forcibly expressed it, and she went away. The night, 
 accompanied by sad stars, drifted steadily toward the pale 
 morning. The moon, an awkward crescent, peeped for a 
 moment over the hills and then moved steadily up the dark 
 skies. Aroused, perhaps, by some mimic dreams, a mocking 
 bird flew upward out of a bush in the garden and, fluttering 
 a moment in the air, dropped back upon its perch and broke 
 into a song of wondrous melody, strength, and variety, but 
 the marvelous execution of the bird was lost upon Nora. 
 She sat at the window thinking, thinking, always thinking, 
 and the burthen of her thoughts was always the same : "He 
 is going away !" She knew now why she had listened for 
 the schoolmaster and why in the pleasant evenings it had 
 been her delight to sit quietly by while he wove his strange 
 fancies — learned, quaint, or foolish — into words. 
 
 Nora knew she loved him, but this knowledge gave her 
 neither pain nor uneasiness. Indeed, she was comparatively 
 happy. No thought of a change ever occurred to her, and 
 she was content as long as matters remained as they were. 
 Therefore, when the knowledge came to her that William 
 Wornum was going away, the shock it gave her surprised 
 even herself. For a moment she was paralyzed, the next 
 she was wondering why, and then she found herself quietly 
 conversing with the schoolmaster. Whereupon she won- 
 dered why she was so calm and was then surprised that she 
 had thought of anything else save that he was going away. 
 
 Sitting thus, thinking of the trouble that had come to her, 
 
378 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 she heard the sound of voices. It came nearer and nearer, 
 and presently she was able to distinguish the words. 
 
 "It's pretty late, I reckon," said one, which she knew to 
 be Vanderlyn's. 
 
 "Past two o'clock," said the other, which she knew to be 
 William Wornum's. 
 
 "Well," said the first, "we've got that business all ar- 
 ranged, and nothing remains except to fetch the man to 
 law." 
 
 "That is all," said the other; "and the sooner it is over, 
 the better for me. I propose to take a long journey. I am 
 going to Europe." They had slowly drawn nearer to Miss 
 Perryman's cottage; and if the eyes of the blind girl had 
 possessed the power of vision, she could have seen the two 
 standing in the moonlight, the one tall and burly and the 
 other tall and slender. 
 
 "Going to Europe !" said Vanderlyn, laughing. "That is 
 a mighty nice name for a schoolhouse. Why didn't you 
 think of it before?" 
 
 "It is a wide schoolhouse that I am going to," said Wil- 
 liam Wornum with a sigh that was echoed by the fair young 
 girl at the window, "a schoolhouse in which I hope to un- 
 learn much that I have learned and to forget all that trou- 
 bles me here." 
 
 Vanderlyn was struck by the peculiarly sad tone of the 
 schoolmaster. "Well, look here. By George, Wornum! 
 You can't be in earnest, can you? Ain't this rather sud- 
 den?" 
 
 The answer sent a thrill through the bosom of the young 
 girl. 
 
 "I made up my mind this afternoon." 
 
 "Well, this is a pretty come-off !" exclaimed the other. 
 
 "I need rest," continued the schoolmaster, not heeding 
 the exclamation of his companion, "and there is no rest for 
 me here. Repression is worse than death to me. It is a 
 sort of mental executioner that is all the time whetting his 
 ax right before your eyes. For weeks I have been under- 
 going the tortures of a prisoner who looks through the bars 
 of his dungeon and sees the gallows upon which he is to be 
 hung gradually taking shape. I tell you, it is terrible, terri- 
 ble !" He gave such emphasis to the last word as might be 
 
Early Literary Efforts 379 
 
 expected from a man in the deepest distress, and Nora 
 shrank away from the window as if some one had struck 
 her a blow. 
 
 "I think I understand," said Vanderlyn gently. 
 
 "No," cried the other passionately, "you can't under- 
 stand ; you know nothing about it, nothing whatever. If you 
 knew it, you would not believe it." 
 
 Vanderlyn laughed. "Well, I'm a mighty good guesser, 
 Wornum. But what you want to pack up and run off for 
 is more than I can make out." 
 
 "Let me put a case to you," replied the schoolmaster 
 eagerly. "I want to appeal to your judgment. Suppose a 
 man, unattractive and awkward, is fool enough to fall in 
 love with a woman he knows will never regard him other 
 than a friend. He is thrown with her every day until finally 
 his love becomes maddening" — 
 
 "How did you know?" asked Vanderlyn suddenly in a 
 strangely repressed tone. 
 
 "Know what?" 
 
 "Why, about — about this man." 
 
 "I don't understand you." 
 
 "O, I thought you might have seen something. Come, 
 now, Wornum," appealingly, "don't be joking me on that 
 score. I know I'm an ass, but that's a sore subject you are 
 on now. Let's drop it. Are your crops good this year ?" 
 
 Nora, sitting in the window, smiled, in spite of her own 
 troubles, at the ludicrous tone of embarrassment in Vander- 
 lyn's words. 
 
 "Why, you must be crazy, Vanderlyn," said the school- 
 master, astonished beyond measure. 
 
 "You may be shooting at a mark in the dark, Wornum, 
 but you're hitting it every time plumb center." 
 
 "Then perhaps the target may sympathize with the marks- 
 man. Well," after a pause, "suppose the case is like I tell 
 you. Would you advise the man to go to the woman and tell 
 her what a fool he is ?" 
 
 "No," said the other quietly ; "I can't say I would." 
 
 "What would you advise him to do, then ?" 
 
 "I think your remedy is the best." 
 
 "What remedy?" 
 
 "Why, to pack up and go off." 
 
380 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "O, I didn't"— 
 
 "And I know a man that proposes to try it," continued 
 Vanderlyn, ignoring the schoolmaster's interruption. 
 
 "And pray who is he?" 
 
 "Your Uncle Dan." 
 
 The schoolmaster laughed a little at this blunt confession. 
 "Well, Uncle Dan," said he, "you'll have company. But in 
 the meantime we'll see about this little business of ours, and 
 then we'll talk about this other matter." 
 
 "Yes," said Vanderlyn, "and we won't be long about it. 
 When does the Superior Court meet?" 
 
 "The first Monday in next September." 
 
 "Then the man we want will be on hand." 
 
 "I trust you are sure of this," said the schoolmaster. "1 
 can't stand the strain much longer." 
 
 "O, I'll have him here ; you may depend on that." 
 
 "Very well. Good night." 
 
 "And pleasant dreams ?" asked Vanderlyn cheerily. 
 
 "No, no !" said the schoolmaster a little bitterly. "We 
 want no pleasant unrealities." 
 
 And so they parted. 
 
 The young girl sat in the window. Her grief had given 
 way to elation; and while the tremulous tide of stars drift- 
 ed westward and the gray dawn began to weave a silver 
 veil over the face of the moon, she wondered if she were 
 really beloved of this man, the schoolmaster. 
 
 XIX 
 
 The Dawning of the Day 
 
 He was going away ! A bird stirred and chirped in the 
 hedge of Cherokee roses that had grown up and hidden the 
 garden fence. The dusky silence of dawn was broken. The 
 wind rose, shook its invisible wings, and sent its messen- 
 gers abroad. They came in at the window and gently played 
 with the golden hair of the girl. They went among the 
 trees and rustled the velvety leaves of the mulberry tree in 
 the garden and scattered the dead rose leaves upon the 
 ground. He was going away ! The yellow moon grew 
 white and cold, and the morning star glistened a moment 
 
Early Literary Efforts 381 
 
 upon the blushing bosom of the east and disappeared. A 
 swallow twittered overhead, and, lo ! the day had come. 
 
 How long after this Nora sat at the window she did not 
 know, but she was aroused by the shrill voice of her sister 
 in the yard below. 
 
 "Well, the Lord 'a' massy ! Look at dem chickens ! I 'lay 
 if Mary Ann Pritchett don't keep her fowls at home, I'll 
 have their heads in the pot." And then, after a deal of in- 
 effectual "shooing" and various snappish remarks : "Ben, 
 O Ben ! Come out er thar, you lazy villain, an' take a rock 
 an' kill them chickens. I declar' to grashus ef it ain't 
 enough to aggervate a saint ! Fust it's the niggers, an' then 
 it's the chickens, an' then it's the wimmen. Thar ain't no 
 peace nowheres. You, Ben !" in a higher key. "Why in 
 the name of goodness don't you cum outer thar an' kill them 
 chickens? Mary Ann Pritchett's old roster's tore up eve'y 
 squar' in the gyarden." 
 
 But by the time Uncle Ben came out, chuckling and mak- 
 ing excuses, Jack had appeared upon the scene and sent 
 the frightened fowls in every direction. 
 
 "Ef it wuzzent fer that boy," Miss Jane remarked com- 
 placently, "the whole blessed place would go to rack and 
 ruin." 
 
 "Mars Jack mighty peart, dat's a fact," assented Uncle 
 Ben with unction. 
 
 "Don't come a-talkin' to me," said Miss Jane severely. 
 "Ef you'd 'a' bin wuth your salt, them chickens wouldn't 'a' 
 scratched up the whole place." 
 
 "Why, Mistiss, how you 'spec' I gwineter keep dem chick- 
 ens out 'fo' day? Hit 'pears unto me dat dey roosted out 
 dar 'mong de pea vines. Folks ain't got no bizness wid 
 chickens 'less dey takes an' clips der wings. Dat's w'at I 
 say, an' dat's w'at I'll stick unto." 
 
 "I dessay," replied Miss Jane sarcastically, "frum the 
 way you git aroun' lately I reckon somebody's clipped your 
 wings." 
 
 "Mistiss, you's one sight. Nobody ain't been foolin' 'long 
 er me, an' dey ain't gwineter, 'cepen a spasm er sumpin 
 ketches me in de middle er de road." 
 
 "Where you goin' to loaf at to-day besides Floyd's cor- 
 ner?" 
 
382 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Mars Daniel Vanderlyn say he want me fer to go wid 
 him." 
 
 "An' where's he goin'? It looks to me that he'd had 
 plenty er traipsin' roun'." 
 
 "I dunno'm. He des say he want me fer to go 'long er 
 him, an' I tole him I'd ax you." 
 
 "O, you kin go," said Miss Jane in a relieved tone. "You 
 kin go. I don't want you piddlin' roun' here worryin' the 
 life outer me." 
 
 "You ain't heerd the news, is you, Mistiss?" inquired 
 Uncle Ben, as if to change the subject. 
 
 "What news?" 
 
 " 'Bout Mars Willium gwine to Yurup." 
 
 "Gwine where?" 
 
 "Dat's what I hears. Gwine ter Yurup." 
 
 "Who was tellin' you ?" 
 
 Uncle Ben hesitated. "I wuz stirrin' up de roots ter dem 
 dar mornin'-glories yistiddy, an' I hear Mars William tell 
 young Mistess dat he wuz gwine 'way." 
 
 "What else did you hear?" asked Miss Jane, her suspi- 
 cions aroused and her curiosity whetted. 
 
 Nora, sitting in the window, shrunk back, pale and fright- 
 ened. O, if she could but raise her finger at the garrulous 
 old negro ! But Ben was prudent. He worshiped his young 
 mistress, and he would have toiled day and night to have 
 spared her one pang. 
 
 "I dunno'm," he said presently. "Dey talked right smart- 
 ually, an' den Mars Willium he says he want some res' an' 
 dat he wuz gwine away." 
 
 Nora could have hugged the old man. From that day he 
 never wanted for anything that she. could supply ; and upon 
 one occasion, after calling his attention to the conversation 
 which I have just chronicled, she said: "I am under obli- 
 gations to you, Uncle Ben." 
 
 He grinned from ear to ear. "Dey don't git fur ahead er 
 de ole nigger, sissy" — he always addressed her as "sissy" — 
 "an' when dey does, dey gotter git up 'fo' de sun done in 
 sight, sho's youer born." 
 
 This was long afterwards. For the present Miss Jane 
 was interested in the intention of the schoolmaster, and she 
 continued her cross-examination of Uncle Ben. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 383 
 
 "You say you heard him tell your Miss Nora he was 
 goin' away?" 
 
 "Yes'm. Dat's w'at he said. He spoked it right out loud. 
 Hit sorter soun' like he wuz sorry, and it sorter soun' like 
 he wuzzent." 
 
 "What'd Nora say?" 
 
 "I dunno'm. I wuz so flurried when I hear dat Marse 
 Willium was gwineter sail out an' lef us dat I disremembers 
 w'at passed arterwards." 
 
 There wasn't much to be got out of Ben, but Miss Jane 
 had heard enough to cause her to put on her "thinking cap," 
 as she expressed it. First she went to Nora. 
 
 "What's all this stuff 'bout William Wornum going 
 away ?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know, sister. He merely told me he was 
 going." 
 
 "Didn't he say why?" 
 
 "He said he needed rest ; that was all." 
 
 "Rest, fiddlesticks ! He gits more rest now than a settin' 
 hen. He needs work, that's what he needs. If he'd go out 
 into the woods an' split five hunderd rails a day fer forty 
 days, he wouldn't come a-talkin' about rest. My goodness ! 
 How kin a man rest when he don't work? That's what I 
 want to know." 
 
 Just then she heard the footsteps of the schoolmaster 
 himself and hurried downstairs to meet him. Miss Jane 
 was not a woman to mince matters, and she had upon her 
 tongue's end a very sharp lecture for William Wornum's 
 benefit; but it was forgotten as soon as her keen eye rested 
 upon his pale, careworn face. He seemed to have grown 
 old in a night. He had seated himself in the parlor with 
 a book; but he rose and smiled as Miss Jane entered — but 
 such a weary ghost of a smile ! 
 
 "What in the name of gracious is the matter with you, 
 William?" 
 
 "With me, Miss Jane? If there is anything the matter 
 with me, I have yet to be notified of the fact. What does 
 it appear like to you ?" 
 
 "Why, you look like a man that had the fever an' ager a 
 year." 
 
 "Likely enough," he said simply; "likely enough," he re- 
 
384 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 peated musingly. "I did feel a little chilly yesterday and 
 last night." 
 
 "Well, you better go to bed right now, an' I'll make you 
 some red-pepper tea." 
 
 "No," he replied ; "a little walk in the sun will put me to 
 rights. I have work to do." 
 
 "What's this about your going away, William?" asked 
 Miss Jane. 
 
 "Nothing," he answered, "except that I must have rest 
 and a change. I can't stand this strain much longer." 
 
 "Miss Jane looked at him steadily. "William Wornum, 
 ef it wuzzent jes' for manners' sake, I'd say you wuz a start 
 natural fool." 
 
 "Your diagnosis would be the correct one, Miss Jane ; but 
 it is so easy to be a fool that I have forgotten whether it is 
 a habit or a disease. I am inclined to think, however, it is 
 a disease — at least in my case." 
 
 Something in his own mind or something in the appear- 
 ance of Miss Jane as she stood regarding him with a frown 
 on her face must have amused him, for he laughed heartily, 
 somewhat after the old fashion, and while he was laughing 
 Nora came in. She was pale ; but the schoolmaster, looking 
 up, thought her more beautiful than ever. She was no 
 longer a girl; she was a woman, and she seemed to exult 
 in the knowledge of the fact. 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Wornum. Mrs. Dusenberry says it 
 is a sign of bad luck for one to laugh before breakfast." 
 
 "Good morning, Nora. I dare say Mrs. Dusenberry is 
 about right. But one who has no luck — good, bad, or indif- 
 ferent — can very well afford to laugh, even before the sun 
 is up. It has a tendency, I find, to give an appetite. I have 
 seen it stated that a man may harden his muscles and im- 
 prove his health by merely imagining that he practices with 
 dumb-bells every morning. If this be true — and I have no 
 doubt it is — I can laugh to my heart's content and still 
 imagine I am lucky." His old manner seemed to have come 
 back to him. "There is no want," he continued in the half- 
 frivolous, half-humorous, and wholly characteristic vein 
 that was at once the puzzle and the delight of his friends, 
 "there is no want," he continued, "that the imagination can- 
 not supply. People who are starving sit down in their 
 
Early Literary Efforts 
 
 3©:> 
 
 dreams to tables loaded with food. Thirst is quenched, love 
 satisfied, and even grief becomes dumb." 
 
 "O, but those are dreams, Mr. Wornum !" said Nora. 
 
 "True. But it is only in the wide, dim halls of sleep that 
 the unfettered mind can render itself wholly to the gro- 
 tesque spell of the imagination. I have sometimes thought," 
 he went on with a sigh, "that sleep is the soul's vacation. 
 All day long it frets and pines for freedom, until finally sleep 
 unbars the prison door." 
 
 "It's a mercy," remarked Miss Jane with considerable 
 emphasis, "that the asylum ain't far from here." 
 
 "I am told," he said gravely, "that it is a very quiet place, 
 a place where people attend strictly to their own business 
 and never interfere with each other. At any rate, they 
 do have their own private reasons for it, and under the cir- 
 cumstances they are to be excused." 
 
 "You speak as one who had beheld visions, Mr. Wor- 
 num," said Nora. 
 
 "Aye, and dreamed dreams," he answered. "Little chil- 
 dren smile in their sleep. As they grow older they cry out. 
 I do not know of anything more fatal to content than knowl- 
 edge and experience. They are conspirators against happi- 
 ness. Where they make one philosopher they educate ten 
 fools to harass him, and the odds are that even the philos- 
 opher will degenerate into a mountebank." 
 
 "You are quite a cynic to-day, Mr. Wornum." 
 
 The schoolmaster was puzzled at the tone of exultation 
 that seemed to ring and quiver in Nora's voice. It was so 
 much at variance with the womanly composure with which 
 she seemed suddenly to have clothed herself. He paused a 
 moment to study her face and then went on: "A cynic is 
 one who tells disagreeable truths. I think I have said 
 nothing disagreeable." 
 
 "Stuff, William Wornum !" said Miss Jane vigorously. 
 "Youer gittin' light-headed. What you want is er cup of 
 pepper tea, an' you want it hot. The quicker you git to bed, 
 the better. You'll need right smart rest ere you git to 
 Yurup." 
 
 "No," said he, "I want to go out into the sunshine and 
 stretch myself." 
 
 25 
 
386 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Well, we're not going to wait breakfast for you, I can 
 tell you that," Miss Jane remarked. 
 
 "I am not suffering with hunger," he replied and went 
 out. 
 
 At the gate he met Vanderlyn, whose face wore a very 
 serious expression. 
 
 "I was just coming after you, Wornum. Look at these." 
 He held up a handful of charred lightwood splinters. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I found them under the corner of my shop. They are 
 warm yet." 
 
 "What does it mean?" asked the schoolmaster. 
 
 "It means," said Vanderlyn quietly, "that if they had kept 
 on burning, the probability is you would have been raking 
 about in the ashes to discover my bones." 
 
 "Why, this is infamous !" exclaimed the schoolmaster ex- 
 citedly. "What can it mean?" 
 
 "It means," said the other, "that I have a friend who is 
 very attentive. I am not sure, but I think that if Jim Ash- 
 field would call and leave his card, this" — holding up the 
 splinters — "would be about the size of it." 
 
 xx 
 
 Is the World So Wide? 
 
 There had undoubtedly been an attempt to fire Vander- 
 lyn's shop. Lightwood splinters had been placed under his 
 bedroom, which was in the rear of the building, and these 
 had been fired by the incendiary. It was only by the merest 
 accident that the attempt was not successful. The kindling 
 had been hastily and, therefore, clumsily arranged, and to 
 this was due the fact that the flames which had charred the 
 incendiary's fuse were not communicated to the old wooden 
 structure. The two men examined the place and its sur- 
 roundings carefully and compared notes. 
 
 "Why do you think Ashfield is the man ?" said the school- 
 master presently. 
 
 "It is merely a suspicion," answered the other. "I have 
 suspected the man ever since I jerked him out of that 
 crowd in Floyd's bar. I think he owes me a grudge for that. 
 It may be that he has got an inkling of my business here, but 
 
Early Literary Efforts 387 
 
 that doesn't seem reasonable, and yet," Vanderlyn continued 
 thoughtfully, "he is a very shrewd man." 
 
 "Perhaps," suggested the schoolmaster, "in your talk 
 with him the night you took him out of the hands of the 
 boys you let fall some hint" — 
 
 "No," said Vanderlyn quickly, "I was very careful. I 
 talked very little. I simply let him tell his own story in his 
 own way. I did not so much as cross-examine him. I led 
 him far enough to make sure I was not mistaken, and then 
 I left him. Maybe I do him injustice; but, somehow or 
 other, I thought of him as soon as I awoke and found my 
 room full of smoke." 
 
 "If it is his work," remarked William Wornum, "you 
 have gained a point." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Why, you know he can't be far away." 
 
 "O, I'm sure of him, anyway. He will be forthcoming," 
 said Vanderlyn confidently. 
 
 "That remains to be seen." 
 
 "Well, I think myself," laughing a little, "that the sooner 
 we make sure of the matter, the better." 
 
 "If this is his game," said the schoolmaster gravely, "you 
 must proceed at once. He is dangerous. It won't do to be 
 sleeping over a matter like this," looking curiously at the 
 spot where the feeble flames, seeking something to devour, 
 had left the black trace of their fiery tongues upon the cor- 
 ner of the house. "But, after all," he continued, "I am al- 
 most afraid to believe it is he." 
 
 "Well, you needn't be scared about that, Wornum. 
 Whether it's him or not, I am getting tired of waiting for 
 developments. We might as well be on the safe side by 
 hurrying through with the whole business." 
 
 As the two men stood talking together Kate Underwood 
 passed along on the opposite side of the street. The school- 
 mistress clung fondly to most of her New England habits, 
 and among these was a love for open-air exercise. She 
 would get up between four and five o'clock in the summer 
 time and make long excursions through the fields and over 
 the hills that intervened between Rockville and the wilder- 
 ness of great woods that lay beyond. This habit of hers 
 astonished the easy-going inhabitants at first and then 
 
388 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 amused them; but they finally became accustomed to what 
 they were pleased to term the "eccentricities" of the beauti- 
 ful Yankee woman, and some of them finally went so far as 
 to allow their daughters to accompany her, which was quite 
 a concession on the part of these sturdy citizens, whose 
 opposition to utilitarianism in all its forms was antique in 
 its aggressiveness, albeit it went under the name and in the 
 guise of conservatism. There was Bagley. Bagley would 
 have told you, without waiting even for the mild formality 
 of a nod or a wink, that "these dad-blamed newfangled 
 notions they er gittin' up is a-ruinin' the country teetotally." 
 
 "I'm danged," he used to remark to the boys who gath- 
 ered in the piazza of the tavern Sunday afternoons, "I'm 
 danged ef 'tain't gittin' so a feller don't know what's a-gwine- 
 ter turn up. We're havin' something new ever' day, an' 
 the world is a-populatin' more and more ; but I disremember 
 when we wuz wuss off — I does, gents, for a solid fac\ I 
 leave it to John Bell ef these railroads ain't a-bustin' me up. 
 I useter haul folks plum' to Macon, but now I'll be dad- 
 blamed ef I kin git a passenger to Golyin's Crossin'. You 
 kin whoop up your steam an' your enventions, gents, but 
 I'll jes' be dad-fetched ef money don't git sca'cer ever' day. 
 Look at cotton ; look wher' it's gone to." 
 
 Bagley, you perceive, was conservative; and, in a some- 
 what modified form, his conservatism was typical. But all 
 this had no place in the thoughts of the schoolmistress as she 
 walked briskly past the two men, nodding and smiling to 
 each. Vanderlyn broke abruptly away from the schoolmas- 
 ter, walked across the street, and joined the fair Katherine. 
 
 "You are out early," said Vanderlyn. 
 
 "O no; I overslept myself this morning. I am rather 
 late. But, pray," glancing at the pine splinters and laughing 
 merrily, "what is that you have got?" 
 
 Vanderlyn looked at his smutty hand, which still held the 
 kindling, and blushed like a girl. The schoolmistress had 
 never seen him so embarrassed. He had forgotten that he 
 still held them in his hand. 
 
 "O, these? These are nothing but some little pieces of 
 lightwood I picked up." 
 
 "I have heard," said Miss Underwood in a serio-comic 
 tone, "that lightwood splinters properly steeped in whisky 
 
Early Literary Efforts 389 
 
 make an excellent tonic. Do they have to be burned, Mr. 
 Vanderlyn? I should think that fire would be fatal to the 
 medicinal virtues of the pine." 
 
 "Well, I will tell you the truth, Miss Underwood," he 
 said, looking straight into the depths of her sparkling eyes. 
 "I found them under my shop. Some one has complimented 
 me by endeavoring to burn my little effects and me along 
 with them." 
 
 The schoolmistress turned as white as a sheet. "The 
 black-hearted wretch !" she cried, clutching her hands nerv- 
 ously. "O, how can any one be so cruel ? Do you know who 
 it was?" 
 
 "Why, no, not precisely," answered Vanderlyn, controll- 
 ing with an effort the embarrassment which her tone and 
 manner had occasioned. "I couldn't come right out and say 
 for certain who made the attempt, but I reckon I could come 
 within one of it. There is but one man in the wide world 
 who could have the motive for such a crime." 
 
 "Who is he ?" asked the schoolmistress eagerly. 
 
 "He," replied Vanderlyn, "is my friend Jim Ashfield." 
 
 "I knew it !" she exclaimed. "I knew it ! I saw him this 
 morning. He is the man; he and no other. I shuddered 
 when he passed me." 
 
 "If he is the man," said Vanderlyn, with something like 
 a sigh of relief, "the occurrence is a fortunate one for me. 
 The problem that has been worrying me, and that I told you 
 about, has solved itself. But it will be a great trial to me; 
 and after it is all over, my only remedy is to go away. Wor- 
 num and myself have arranged for a trip to Europe." 
 
 She had stopped when he told her of the attempt to burn 
 the house; and the two now stood on the sidewalk, she self- 
 poised and eager, swinging her dainty parasol, and he calm 
 and cool, leaning against an elm tree. Waiting for her to 
 speak, he raised his eyes to her face. She was looking away 
 to the west, where numberless snow-white cloud ships were 
 sailing the upper seas. She seemed suddenly to have lost 
 interest in the attempt of the would-be incendiary ; and but 
 for a certain pensive expression, vague and yet tangible, her 
 features would have struck Vanderlyn as cold and naughty. 
 
 "We leave in September," he continued, more for the 
 purpose of continuing the conversation than anything else. 
 
390 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Wornum needs a change, and so do I. Nothing cures 
 restlessness like moving from post to pillar." 
 
 Kate Underwood waved her parasol in the air as though 
 she would thereby destroy an unpleasant vision. "The 
 world is a wide world, Mr. Vanderlyn," she said after a 
 little. "It is a pity." 
 
 "What is a pity, Miss Underwood?" 
 
 "That the world should be so wide." 
 
 "It is none too wide for those who try to escape from 
 their troubles," he answered. 
 
 "People who are brave and unselfish generally face their 
 troubles. O, if I were a man !" she exclaimed vehemently. 
 
 "You would do as men do, Miss Underwood. There are 
 some troubles," he said gently, "that the bravest men dare 
 not face." 
 
 "I am to understand, then, that your troubles are all 
 arranged upon a magnificent scale. I thought you had 
 solved the problem that had been perplexing you of late." 
 
 "It isn't that. If I have acted a lie, it has been for the 
 sake of others. Circumstances have justified me. My con- 
 science is clear. I would cheerfully play the part over again. 
 It is not that." 
 
 "I suppose it would be impolite for me to question you," 
 she said, smiling a little. "You have heard about the native 
 curiosity of women." 
 
 "It would not be impolite," he made answer. 
 
 "Well, then, what is it?" she asked almost eagerly. 
 
 "If the circumstances were different," he answered with 
 a smile, a sad smile as she thought, "if Providence had been 
 a little kinder, I would not hesitate to tell you fully and 
 freely. As matters stand, you of all women should be the 
 last to know." Gazing upon her, he saw the red blood rise 
 to her face and flow away again ;_and, blundering, as all men 
 do, he did not even suspect that'he had already told her all 
 she desired to know. 
 
 "Am I, then, so unsympathetic as to be proscribed ?" she 
 asked, tossing her head prettily in order the more effectually 
 to conceal her embarrassment ; and then with a little coquet- 
 tish air that seemed absolutely ravishing to the great tall 
 man beside her: "I should like very much to be told. I 
 
Early Literary Efforts 391 
 
 know it must be something very mysterious and very ro- 
 mantic, or you wouldn't hesitate so." 
 
 "O, I'm not hesitating," he answered, laughing at the 
 idea. "There is nothing to hesitate about. I cannot tell 
 you." 
 
 "You will change your mind, Mr. Vanderlyn." 
 
 "When I do, Miss Underwood, you will be the first to 
 know — and the last too, for that matter." 
 
 "That would be nice," she rejoined, "to have your mys- 
 terious secret all to myself." Her tone and manner were 
 altogether foreign to her, and it puzzled him. 
 
 "Mind that man, Mr. Vanderlyn," she said. "He is dan- 
 gerous. The sooner you dispose of him, the better." 
 
 "Trust me for that," he said lightly and went his way. 
 
 XXI 
 
 Upon reaching her room, Miss Kate Underwood acted 
 somewhat singularly — that is to say, somewhat after the 
 manner of women. She snatched her bonnet from her 
 head, flung it on a chair, strode in front of her mirror, and 
 looked at the pleasing reflection of herself long and seri- 
 ously. Then she flushed and fell to laughing. The whole 
 proceeding was impromptu and to a spectator would prob- 
 ably have been entertaining, but not instructive; for who 
 can understand a beautiful woman? Who can study her 
 peculiarities with profit? The student becomes a lover and 
 the lover a fool. There were no students of human nature 
 at hand, however, to take note of the remarkable antics of 
 Kate Underwood upon this particular occasion, else they 
 had been sorely puzzled. Her fit of hilarity may have been 
 hysterical ; it may have proceeded from that peculiar method 
 of self-criticism which in cultivated people takes the shape 
 of ridicule. It is one of the mental phenomena which escape 
 the analysis of the philosophers, for the reason, in all prob- 
 ability, that the philosophers do not trouble themselves to 
 investigate matters that never attract their attention. It is 
 impossible, therefore, to say whether the schoolmistress was 
 really amused or whether her laughter was the result of that 
 inner conflict between trouble on the one hand and self- 
 ridicule on the other, a conflict that is experienced by the 
 best of us, I fancy, more than once in a lifetime. Howbeit, 
 
39 2 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 her hilarity was short-lived. Recovering herself, she gazed 
 once more into the mirror and raised her forefinger warn- 
 ingly to the image she saw there. It appeared that the image 
 had also grown grave and suddenly prudent, for its fore- 
 finger was also raised warningly. 
 
 "If I were as old as you," said Miss Underwood to the 
 reflection of herself, "I wouldn't make a fool of myself. 
 Here you are getting along in years, and yet you can't speak 
 to Somebody — no, and you can't pass Somebody on the 
 street without blushing until your face is afire. And people 
 call you a discreet woman! What are you to Somebody, 
 and what is Somebody to you? If I were you, I would be- 
 have myself. That is the least you can do. Do you under- 
 stand? Behave yourself. That is my advice." 
 
 And then, strange to relate, Miss Underwood changed 
 her tactics. Instead of laughing, she flung herself in a 
 chair, covered her face with her hands, and cried as though 
 her heart would break. A little child she had frequently 
 made much of strayed into the room, looked wonderingly a 
 moment at the woman in tears, and then spoke in baby 
 fashion: "N-o-w! Somebody done w'ip my Taty. Nasty, 
 mean somebody. Menie w'ip um back adin, me will." 
 Then after a pause: "Ef my Taty ty, me ty too," where- 
 upon the little toddler set up a most resonant yell and re- 
 fused to be comforted until her "Taty" took her to her 
 bosom, and the two, the woman and the little child, mingled 
 their tears together. 
 
 Meanwhile Vanderlyn, leaving the fair Katherine at the 
 hotel, walked toward the old church. He had not proceeded 
 far before he heard some one calling him. Pausing and 
 looking around, he saw Tiny Padgett sauntering toward 
 him, swinging a rattan cane. 
 
 "Morning, Van !" exclaimed the young man heartily. 
 "What's up? You look as grim as a North Carolina bull- 
 bat." 
 
 "Exercise," said the other. "I have to stretch myself 
 after being cramped up in bed all night. What pulls you 
 out so early?" 
 
 Padgett laughed. "Business, as well as inclination," he 
 answered. I am not up as early as you might suppose. I 
 haven't been to bed." 
 
Early Literary Efforts 393 
 
 "What have you been doing ?" 
 
 "O, playing the old Harry. Knocking around among the 
 boys, drinking, carousing, 'rastling with the world, the flesh, 
 and the devil, and getting the worst of it." There was a 
 touch of sadness rather than of recklessness in the emphasis 
 with which he went over the catalogue. "But, after all," 
 he continued with a sigh, "I came out about even. We 
 roped in that artist, the new fellow who has come here to 
 take daguerreotypes." 
 
 "Roped him in?" 
 
 "Rather. He is a very nice man. He has a romantic 
 name and a very romantic appearance. He is an exceedingly 
 nice man. I reckon if you were to go a ten days' journey 
 you wouldn't find a nicer man. And smart — you wouldn't 
 hardly believe how smart he is unless he told you himself." 
 Vanderlyn had become accustomed to the irony which Pad- 
 gett used, with as much effect against his own weaknesses 
 as against those of other people, and remained silent. "You 
 think I am joking," Padgett continued after a little pause, 
 "but I am not. O no ! How could I joke about a man 
 named Claude Wellington? And even if he was not named 
 Wellington, he is from New York, which amounts to the 
 same thing. He hadn't been in town twenty-four hours be- 
 fore he found his way to Floyd's, and then he wanted to 
 tackle somebody at poker. He told us all about how he took 
 the money of the New York and Philadelphia chaps, and 
 then he said if we didn't know the game he would teach us. 
 I took a few lessons under him, and it just cost him three 
 hundred and seventy-five dollars." 
 
 "That is considerable," was Vanderlyn's curt comment. 
 
 "Yes," said Tiny, "I not only got his money, but all his 
 history. He is a mad wag. He and Miss Kate Underwood 
 were children together and grew up together. I rather think 
 he is inclined to be sweet on her still." 
 
 "The d — d scoundrel !" exclaimed Vanderlyn passionately. 
 "Did he talk about her in a barroom?" 
 
 "He did but sing her praises, my lord," said the other in 
 a tragic tone, "and his voice was most enchanting. Ah! 
 Vanderlyn," he continued, growing serious, "you will have 
 to crawl into my boat, after all. If women are all alike — 
 
394 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 and they are when it comes to that — you will have to secure 
 passage with me. It is better than floundering about in the 
 deep sea. You would make a famous vagabond. If I had 
 your height and breadth, I should become famous in ten 
 counties. To be a successful loafer requires as many spe- 
 cial gifts as those which go to make an orator. But, above 
 all, one must have the pressure. Pressure is what catches 
 the crowd; it is everything." 
 
 Vanderlyn strode onward without a word, and Padgett 
 walked by his side. Presently the two plunged into the 
 woods that skirted the western portion of the town and 
 quickly lost themselves in the cool green hollows that nature 
 had built. They had left the world behind them. Here the 
 birds sang, and the breezes blew. The pines gave their sub- 
 tle aroma to the winds, that seemed to breathe and faint and 
 breathe again, lapping the sterile red hills that bordered the 
 forest and pouring its incense through all the myriad chan- 
 nels of the air. 
 
 "You see," said Padgett with the air and authority of one 
 who was about to elucidate a difficult problem, "you see, 
 women are mighty curious. They are the proud possessors 
 of what old Uncle Ben calls mulishness. They know they 
 are mulish, and they appear to be glad of it. I never saw 
 but one woman in my life that was true to her impulses, 
 and she," he continued with a sigh, "had no opportunity of 
 observing the hypocrisy that both men and women have to 
 meet and match, if they can. A fellow like me, who has 
 nothing to lose and nothing to gain by flattering any of 
 them, can afford to sit off and study them as people study a 
 puzzle. It is a fine employment. The only objection is that 
 it gives youth a sort of premature experience; but, after all, 
 it is a sort of experience that precept can never hope to 
 compass." 
 
 "Did you say his name was Wellington?" inquired Van- 
 derlyn. It was plain that he had not heard the fine oral 
 essay which Padgett had been delivering. 
 
 "I don't remember what you are talking about," answered 
 Tiny, seized by a spirit of deviltry. 
 
 "This man Wellington. Who did you say he was?" 
 
 "O, you are speaking of the duke. Yes, I understand. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 395 
 
 Well, of course you know all about him. He had enough of 
 Waterloo to give Napoleon a slice. There are more Napo- 
 leons than Wellingtons. At any rate, the most of us have 
 a little private Waterloo of our own. But it is a great pity 
 that Wellington had to depend on Blucher. I am going to 
 name my eldest grandchild Blucher." 
 
 "He loved her in her youth," said Vanderlyn contempla- 
 tively. "He must be a happy man." 
 
 "To be sure," said Padgett, laughing in spite of himself. 
 "He loved her passing well — better than Napoleon loved 
 Josephine. But look here, old man. Don't you think you're 
 running history a little heavy?" 
 
 "I think I hear some one walking," said Vanderlyn. 
 
 "Well, you ought to be certain before you prefer charges. 
 Many a mouse has got credit for what the moths have 
 done." 
 
 "Don't you hear somebody walking?" asked the other. 
 
 "I saw some one walking," replied Padgett, "and to that 
 extent mine eyes confirm mine ears." 
 
 "The liquor you drank last night seems to last," said Van- 
 derlyn dryly. 
 
 "It won't last until Christmas," responded the other, who 
 seemed to have been seized by the imp of the perverse. "But 
 it will outlast a man's affections and a woman's memory. 
 You mustn't judge liquor by its results. You must — But 
 where the devil did that fellow go ?" 
 
 "Which fellow?" 
 
 "Why, the party who was coming down the blind path 
 there." 
 
 Vanderlyn was reclining against a tall pine and had not 
 taken the trouble to turn his head in the direction of the 
 noise he had heard. Before either one of them had an op- 
 portunity to grow curious over the disappearance of the 
 man Padgett had seen, the sharp crack of a rifle was heard, 
 and the ball tore through the bark within half an inch of 
 Vanderlyn's head. For a moment neither of the two com- 
 prehended what had happened ; but the next instant Padgett 
 was upon his feet, running like a deer in the direction of a 
 little ring of blue smoke curling lazily upward from a clump 
 of bushes about fifty yards away. Whether the promptness 
 of Padgett took the would-be assassin by surprise or wheth- 
 
396 The Life of J oel Chandler Harris 
 
 er he was too sure of his aim to make any attempt to escape, 
 it is impossible to say ; but when Vanderlyn reached the spot 
 he found Tiny engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle 
 with — Jim Ashfield. 
 
 "This is my meat, Padgett," he said, laying his powerful 
 hand upon Ashfield. "This is the man I'm a-hunting for. 
 Providence brought him here, and Providence aimed that 
 rifle. Stand up, Mr. Ashfield, and give an account of your- 
 self. You ain't improved much since we traveled together 
 fourteen years ago." 
 
 "O, I know you !" exclaimed Ashfield in a shrill, passion- 
 ate voice. I know you, and you needn't think I don't. I 
 know'd you, durn you, that night at Floyd's bar, an' I ought 
 to 'a' settled wi' you then. But it's all in a lifetime. We'll 
 git even." 
 
 "We are already even," said Vanderlyn. "You have saved 
 me the trouble of hunting all over creation for you." 
 
 "In other words," said Padgett, arranging his somewhat 
 disordered clothes, "he can count on your sympathy and 
 support." 
 
 "That's the way I look at it," replied Vanderlyn. "You 
 are not a very good marksman, Ashfield," he continued, 
 laughing. 
 
 "I would 'a' bin," said the latter, "ef 'twuzzent fer that 
 d — d partner er your'n a-bobbin' his empty head in the way." 
 
 "Why, sir," exclaimed Padgett, "your politeness is over- 
 powering. Your consideration is extraordinary. I shall 
 treasure your remarkable forbearance in my memory. What 
 can I do to repay you?" 
 
 "You can fix up that, Padgett, after we get to town. Mr. 
 Ashfield will accompany us." 
 
 "I shall take pleasure, Mr. Ashfield," said Padgett lightly, 
 "in aiding to escort you. The procession will please form. 
 Are you ready, Mr. Ashfield?" 
 
 "As ready as I'll ever be," replied the other sullenly. 
 
 XXII 
 
 While Miss Jane Perryman was engaged in the arduous 
 duties of picking a chicken for dinner she was astonished 
 by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Dusenberry. Miss Jane, 
 alluding to this visit long afterwards, said she was "afeard 
 
Early Literary Efforts 397 
 
 the 'oman, seein' that a chicken wuz to be put in the pot, 'ud 
 stay all day," but it is more than probable that this was an 
 afterthought. Mrs. Dusenberry had chickens of her own, 
 even if they were not of the "yaller-legged" variety. She 
 had seen the procession, which had been so unceremoniously 
 formed into line in the woods by Padgett, pass in front of 
 her house, and she hastened to convey the intelligence to 
 some one who could share and sympathize with her bewil- 
 derment. She was unceremonious. 
 
 "Howdy, Jane. How's Nora? They've got 'im. I seed 
 rim." 
 
 "Well, in the name er gracious ! What makes you so 
 flustrated? Who've they got?" inquired Miss Jane, looking 
 coolly at her visitor. 
 
 "They've got Jim Ashfield ; that's who they've got, an' 
 they've got him bad." 
 
 "What are they foolin' 'long er that miserable wretch fer, 
 I'd like ter know ?" 
 
 "It's more'n I kin tell, Jane; but they've got 'im. I seed 
 'em pass my house not more'n two minnits ago. That man 
 Vanderlyn had a rifle, and Tiny Padgett had a cornstalk, 
 makin' believe it wuz a gun. It's my 'pinion the man had 
 been drinkin'." 
 
 "Which man ?" asked Miss Jane severely. 
 
 "Why, that Tiny Padgett. You oughter 'a' seed 'im. He 
 was a-gyratin' roun' an' flourishin' his cornstalk like he 
 wuz the boss of the whole camp meetin'. It's a lastin' pity 
 that some people don't have no sense." 
 
 "What's Jim Ashfield done now?" inquired Miss Jane. 
 
 "Lord love you, I don't know !" replied Mrs. Dusenberry. 
 "But he wuz a-marchin' on before, an' this man Vanderlyn 
 was a-follerin' along, an' Tiny Padgett wuz a-caperin' roun', 
 fust makin' b'lieve his cornstalk wuz a gun an' then ridin' 
 it like it wuz a hoss." 
 
 "Did they have 'im tied?" 
 
 "It wuzzent nothin' but a cornstalk hoss, Jane." 
 
 Miss Jane looked scornful. "Did I ax you 'bout the 'bom- 
 inable cornstalk? What in the name er gracious you want 
 ter mix folks up with cornstalks for?" 
 
 "Well, 'tain't me, Jane. It's that Padgett. What's he 
 wanter go an' be totin' a cornstalk like a gun an' then the 
 
398 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 next minnit be a-straddlin' it like a hoss? What's a man 
 wanter be makin' a specktikle er hisself for? That's what 
 I wanter know. They took Jim Ashfield right to'rds the 
 jail." 
 
 "What are they takin' him to jail for?" 
 
 "That's what I wanter know, Jane." 
 
 "Well, jails ain't a bad place these days," said Miss Jane 
 sententiously. "Somebody's always a-wantin' ter git into 
 'em, an' I know some folks's families that 'ud be better off 
 ef they's all git put in." 
 
 "That's what I say," remarked Mrs. Dusenberry, anxious 
 to propitiate the frowning Miss Perryman; "an' it's what 
 I've said all the time. Ef thar wuz more jails, folks 'ud git 
 'long a sight better." 
 
 "Ef we had better men," said Miss Jane, giving epigram- 
 matic emphasis to her words, "we wouldn't have no jails an' 
 no lawyers an' no jedges. It's got so now there's five law- 
 yers to every piece er rascality an' a jedge to every law- 
 yer." 
 
 In the meantime Jim Ashfield was really marching to the 
 jail. His captors were good-humored, Padgett even hilari- 
 ously so ; but both were obdurate, and the would-be assassin 
 knew that it would be idle to resist. Therefore he made the 
 best of it and appeared to be as good-humored as the others. 
 When Padgett pranced out in front of him astride of a 
 cornstalk, as children ride a broomstick, and apparently 
 making a great effort to prevent his impoverished horse 
 from running away then and there, Ashfield laughed and 
 said : "You oughter let out your surcingle, Cap., an' take up 
 your sterrups a hole er two. Ef that hoss er your'n should 
 happen to shy at a hog in the fence, you'd be left in the 
 dirt." 
 
 "Why, Jimmy," Padgett responded, "you can't expect me 
 to dismount right here. It wouldn't look altogether fash- 
 ionable. This horse only needs exercise to make him as 
 gentle as a lamb." 
 
 "Whatter you gwineter put me in jail fer, anyhow, gents?" 
 inquired Ashfield after awhile as they trudged on toward 
 the gloomy building that stood in the edge of the village— 
 a warning, it seemed, to all who came within sight. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 399 
 
 Vanderlyn was silent; but Padgett, whose loquacity ap- 
 peared to be still experiencing the effects of the spree of the 
 night before, answered for him. 
 
 "It's because you shot at a squirrel and missed him. An 
 old sport like you ought to know. It's an offense against 
 good morals to deliberately aim at a squirrel and miss him. 
 It's contrary to the law. Whoa, Wildcat !" — this to the corn- 
 stalk. 
 
 Nearing the tavern, Padgett became more demure. He 
 flung his cornstalk away and walked by Vanderlyn's side, 
 assuming a dignity that was in laughable contrast with his 
 wild pranks of a few moments before. A lady and a gen- 
 tlemen were standing upon the piazza. 
 
 "Now, by the good King Harry !" exclaimed Padgett. 
 "This is an early beginning. Behold, my Lord Vanderlyn, 
 the culmination of a beautiful romance! That is the noble 
 Wellington. He seeketh out the fair Katherine and wooeth 
 her. But, by Jove" — in a tone of astonishment — "don't he 
 stand the racket, though ? He looks as fresh as a lily pad." 
 
 And he did look fresh, this Mr. Wellington, as he stood 
 leaning against one of the wooden columns talking earnestly 
 to the schoolmistress. He was a handsome man, too, Van- 
 derlyn thought — lithe, graceful, straight as an arrow, self- 
 poised, and with an air of languid arrogance that well be- 
 came his pale, intellectual features and his fine figure. 
 
 "When a blind owl gets any drunker than he was last 
 night," pursued Padgett, "and gets over it with more dis- 
 patch, I'll pay for the owl, that's all." 
 
 "I would rather have the owl than the man," said Vander- 
 lyn contemptuously. 
 
 "That's because you are not a woman," replied Padgett 
 sarcastically. "A woman would swap the owl for that nice 
 man twenty times a day and give a bracelet to boot." 
 
 "Yes," said Vanderlyn, "I suppose so. But what is that 
 to you or to me ?" 
 
 At this moment they were nearly opposite the schoolmis- 
 tress and the fascinating Wellington. Padgett raised his 
 hat, smiled, and bowed. Vanderlyn strode onward, turning 
 his head neither to the right nor to the left ; and in a few 
 moments the "procession" had turned a corner and was out 
 of sight, leaving the fascinating Mr, Wellington and the fair 
 
400 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Katherine Underwood standing together upon the long 
 piazza. 
 
 "O, I'm so glad !" exclaimed the schoolmistress, who had 
 turned pale and then red. 
 
 "Glad of what, Katie?" asked Mr. Wellington, tapping 
 his boots lightly with the little cane he held in his hands. 
 
 "Why, that they have caught that man. He is a terrible 
 desperado." 
 
 "Was it that tall fellow?" 
 
 "Why, how absurd !" exclaimed the schoolmistress warm- 
 ly. "He is the best and noblest man I ever knew." 
 
 "Well, I'm a stranger, Katie. I am not supposed to know 
 all your noblest men on sight. But, upon my word, if some 
 one had paraded the three before me, I should unhesitatingly 
 have pointed out the big man as the heavy villain. He is a 
 strapper. A friend of yours, I presume." 
 
 "No," said the schoolmistress cautiously; "an acquaint- 
 ance. In Rockville we have very few friends, but a wide 
 circle of acquaintances." 
 
 "I understand. Provincial altogether. Decidedly pastor- 
 al. I can conceive of nothing more charming." 
 
 The man was gradually losing ground without knowing it. 
 In the old days this man standing before her with so much 
 self-confidence had been the ideal hero of Kate Under- 
 wood's life; and perhaps it was this fact, well known to 
 him, that made his later wooing somewhat arrogant in its 
 effect, if not in its intent. In her girlish dreams this man 
 Wellington had rescued her from old castles full of trap- 
 doors and secret chambers and had slain the fiery dragons 
 that beset her path. But it was all so different now. It 
 was pleasant enough to remember; but somehow between 
 her and the love of her youth a full, stalwart, manly figure 
 interposed itself, a figure capable of slaying real dragons 
 and of storming real castles, if need be, not only for the 
 woman he loved, but for any one in distress. And then, 
 somehow or other, she found herself contrasting the mod- 
 est, manly figure whose very homeliness seemed suggestive 
 of all that was pathetic and tender with the self-sufficient, 
 conceited man who came to claim from the woman what he 
 had received from the girl. The contrast was not a favor- 
 
Early Literary Efforts 401 
 
 able one to Wellington, and this fact would have made itself 
 apparent if he had been less sure of his ground. 
 
 "Yes," she said, responding somewhat coldly to his ban- 
 tering words ; "it is quite charming here, as you will find, if 
 you choose to put the place and its people to the test." 
 
 "God forbid !" he exclaimed fervently, probably remem- 
 bering the result of the night before. 
 
 "We are contented here, at least," said the schoolmistress, 
 pretending not to heed his interruption. "We are contented, 
 and that is something." 
 
 "Contented, Katie?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "contented; more than contented — 
 happy." 
 
 "And yet you would like to leave here ; you would like to 
 return to the old place. You remember how we used to 
 hunt the robins' nests in the orchard?" 
 
 "Ah, yes ! That was ever so long ago. We hunted for 
 them, and we found them, and that was the end of the rob- 
 ins' nests, so far as we are concerned." 
 
 "But what of the robins, Katie?" The man was stirred. 
 After a manner he was sincere. He had traveled many a 
 mile to find this woman ; and he was determined, if possible, 
 to reestablish the dreams of his youth. "But what of the 
 robins?" he repeated, seeing that she was gazing vaguely 
 away past and beyond him, but not seeing the sturdy figure 
 that seemed to be standing near, imploring her by its very 
 silence. 
 
 "O, the robins !" she exclaimed, still watching the vision. 
 "Would we know them if we saw them again? Would you 
 know them ? Would they know us ?" 
 
 "But maybe the nests are still there, Katie." His arro- 
 gance seemed all at once to desert him. She saw it and 
 pitied him. 
 
 "And if they are," she replied, speaking in a gentle tone, 
 a tone that riled him utterly, "the robins have deserted 
 them. The past is like the robins' nests," she continued, 
 still pitying this lover of her youth. "It is a memory, and 
 that is all. We may as well attempt to call back the young 
 birds that fed so confidently from our hands as to call back 
 the past." 
 26 
 
402 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "I have come a long journey, Katie," he said after a little 
 pause, "and you know what I have come for. I have looked 
 forward to this day for many a weary year." He was thor- 
 oughly in earnest now, but he seemed to anticipate what the 
 result would be, and yet it seemed so impossible. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I know what you have come for. I 
 know all that you would say. I am sorry, indeed." 
 
 "But, Katie, consider what I have lived for all these 
 years," he said impetuously. 
 
 "I do," she replied gently. "I consider it all ; and if I 
 could bring back the past, I would, but I cannot." 
 
 "And this is how women are faithful," he exclaimed bit- 
 terly. 
 
 "I do not know. To be true to you, I should tell you the 
 truth. I could not be to you now what I thought I was in 
 the old days. It is a pleasant memory to me, and that is all." 
 
 "Very well," he said. "I admire your frankness. I am 
 going North. What shall I say to your friends ?" 
 
 "Say to them that you found me contented with my lot. 
 Is it good-by?" she asked as he held out his delicate white 
 hand. 
 
 "Unless you will it otherwise," his face white and drawn. 
 
 "Good-by, then," she said firmly, and Mr. Wellington 
 went his way. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 Wellington went his way. He was not wholly a bad man. 
 He loved the woman not as well as he loved his toddy, but 
 nearly as well. His experience had been a varied one. He 
 had wrestled and fought with Satan in all his forms until 
 it was of little importance to either which came off con- 
 queror. Eut, somehow or other, this woman lived in his 
 memory and disturbed his dreams. She was associated in 
 his recollection with his mother, a prime old New England 
 lady, who was always ready to couple a warning with a 
 benediction, whose life was full of fervor and whose death 
 was as peaceful as the setting of the sun. He had made so 
 sure of his future ! He had been careless in his actions, but 
 not in his anticipations. He had bought the old Underwood 
 house in Sunbury, not because it was an inviting structure 
 or desirable as a homestead, but because he thought Kate 
 
Early Literary Efforts 403 
 
 would like it. It was there he had first seen her. It was 
 there she had grown into womanhood, while he journeyed 
 among the pioneers of the West and learned to fleece them 
 of their small savings in a genteel way. It was there he 
 fondly dreamed she would be glad to spend the remainder 
 of her days. Perhaps if he had told her all, if he had taken 
 the trouble to go over his struggles, if he had been inclined 
 to speak to her of the old homestead, the result might have 
 been different; and yet who knows? A woman's will is 
 wilder than the wind's will. A vane guides you as to the 
 wind, but who has been insane enough to fix a gauge for a 
 woman's will? To Kate Underwood the romance of her 
 youth had lost its piquancy. The assurance of her old-time 
 lover had lost its flavor. If he had been a trifle less confi- 
 dent, if he had wooed as one who had little hope, if he had 
 concealed his arrogance beneath a veil of mock despair, as 
 most sensible men do, perhaps he might have been success- 
 ful. At least he might have created an impression; at the 
 very least he might have diverted her attention temporarily 
 from the man who had begun to appear to her in dreams 
 and who seemed to be the one hero of her wildest romance. 
 But Wellington failed utterly. He undertook to gauge the 
 woman by the girl he had known in the olden time; and 
 when he walked away, vanquished and disappointed, he 
 knew that he had failed, but he did not know the reason. 
 But he accepted the result ; and when he stepped from the 
 piazza and wandered languidly up the street, whirling his 
 rattan cane in the air, he passed from Kate Underwood's 
 sight forever. It was well for him that he did ; it was well 
 for her. She thought of him no more. Years afterwards, 
 when little children played at her feet and called her moth- 
 er, she remembered almost with a shudder how nearly she 
 had come to surrendering her life to the keeping of this 
 most inconstant man; and, knowing his after history, fa- 
 miliar with his stormy career, she clasped her babes to her 
 breast and thanked heaven that she had not followed him 
 into the wilderness, and yet sometimes she dreamed that she 
 might have led him to a nobler and higher destiny. Who 
 can tell? Who knows what possibilities were wrapped up 
 in this man's soul? Who can say that the keen edge of 
 disappointment did not wound him utterly? Fate is inex- 
 
404 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 orable. Her grim figure oftenest stands between hope and 
 consummation, and that which we call chance or accident 
 is always the result of the inevitable. We are but dreamers 
 at best. That which seems the most substantial may be dis- 
 pelled by the breath of dawn, while that which appears to 
 be immaterial may endure forever. He who asks for the 
 time of day but desires to chronicle his own decay; and the 
 only consolation of the best of us is that the oblivion which 
 lies upon the outskirts of time and turmoil affords an escape 
 from disappointment, contumacy, and even fate itself. The 
 future holds no miracles for the philosopher, and the tame 
 tragedies of life possess no pathos. But who among us will 
 assume the patient garb of philosophy or claim contentment 
 as our own? Who shall know sin from wisdom? In the 
 midst of mortality we see but dimly at best, and it is too 
 early to condemn the schoolboy who a thousand years from 
 now shall stone the monuments that we have erected to per- 
 petuate our pride, our pomp, or our affection. 
 
 Wellington went his way, not slowly as one in sorrow, 
 but jauntily as one who goes to a festival. He went his 
 way and knew not, in losing, how near he came to winning. 
 Nor did the woman know how deep a wound she had in- 
 flicted. The phantom we call Fate strode in between the 
 twain, and they passed on — she to fulfill her destiny, and he 
 to fulfill his ; she to fortune and to happiness, and he to the 
 misfortunes that so continually beset us all. 
 
 Those of the inhabitants of Rockville who trouble them- 
 selves to read this hasty chronicle will remember Wellington 
 as a desperate gambler and drunkard, careless of his own 
 future, but generous to the last degree, a man whose char- 
 ities were limited only by the scantiness of his purse. 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Dusenberry had aroused the neigh- 
 borhood. From Miss Perryman's she proceeded to Mrs. 
 Bagley's ; and then the two, intent on being the first to learn 
 gloomy tidings, marched in solemn procession to Mrs. Pad- 
 gett's and recounted in the most profound manner the ec- 
 centricities of Tiny in connection with the startling fact 
 about Jim Ashfield. 
 
 "An' ef I do say it myself," remarked Mrs. Dusenberry, 
 complacently smoothing out the various imaginary folds in 
 her gingham apron, "that Tiny acted scandalous. He had 
 
Early Literary Efforts 405 
 
 a cornstalk, an' he rid it roun' like as ef 'twas a reg'lar 
 built hoss, an' sech another kickin' up you never seen. It 
 was scandalous, ef I do say it myself." 
 
 Mrs. Padgett was too anxious to hear the particulars to 
 come to the rescue of Tiny. Besides, she looked upon Mrs. 
 Dusenberry almost as one of the family, and her criticisms 
 were generally of far less importance than her informa- 
 tion; for Mrs. Padgett, though possessing a native pride 
 peculiarly her own and a native temper of absurd propor- 
 tions, was much readier to brook an insult than to miss an 
 item of gossip. Confine the female mind to an area of half 
 a mile (it cannot be conveniently confined in a less), and 
 it runs to gossip as naturally as the mocking birds sing, even 
 when they are pent up in a cage; not that the imprisoned 
 birds sing naturally, but it is their misfortune that they will 
 attempt to sing and thus give thoughtless people an excuse 
 for caging them. 
 
 Mrs. Padgett smoothed her irritation as best she might, 
 making a martyr of herself in the attempt, and then the 
 women fell to gossiping as pleasantly and as vivaciously as 
 though they were the sincerest friends and did not despise 
 each other most heartily. They conversed the matter thor- 
 oughly, and they were still canvassing it when Tiny strode 
 into the house. 
 
 "Now we'll know," said Mrs. Dusenberry complacently, 
 untying her bonnet and flinging it upon a lounge as if 
 preparing for a siege. 
 
 Mrs. Padgett looked neither elated nor confident. She 
 had good reason to fear that Tiny would not add to their 
 scant stock of information. She had reason to know some- 
 thing of his contempt for the small but persistent curiosity 
 of women. She had long ago become familiar with, but 
 not accustomed to, his astonishing waywardness, and she 
 was not sanguine that he would be inclined to respond read- 
 ily to the inquiries in store for him. She knew by his move- 
 ments, however, that he was in good humor. He came in 
 singing and passed through the hall to the back porch, 
 where the ladies presently heard him yelling at Aunt Patsy, 
 the cook. 
 
 "Come out of there, you old reprobate, and get me some- 
 thing to eat !" he bawled. "Do you think a man's going to 
 
406 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 starve just because you like to sit and feel the flies crawling 
 on you?" 
 
 Aunt Patsy, who fairly worshiped her young master, 
 principally because he was one of the ideal vagabonds of 
 the era, made a great pretense of perpetual gruffness in her 
 dealings with him. 
 
 "How you reckon I gwineter git dinner ef I gotter be eter- 
 nally gittin' breakfus' two times in de blessid mornin'? 
 Look like dat some folks is allers a-huntin' roun' seein' ef 
 dey can't frustrate somebody. Ef I git you enny breakfus' 
 now, you better count it dinner, 'cause I ain't gwineter be 
 sailin' roun' an' gittin' yo' dinner after supper, I kin tell 
 you dat now." 
 
 "No, you old villain. You sit here and stuff" yourself 
 day in and day out, and you think nobody else wants to eat. 
 I want you to hurry up with that banquet." 
 
 "Whar dat pipe w'at you promise mammy?" This in a 
 conciliating tone. "I 'lay you didn't fetch it, an' now here 
 you come a-hollerin' an' a-bawlin' 'bout victuals w'at you 
 oughter dun et yistiddy." 
 
 The querulous old darky knew he had the pipe; and so 
 she didn't wait for a reply, but went bustling around getting 
 together the little delicacies she had saved for her favorite. 
 
 Meanwhile Tiny, going into the sitting room, was attacked 
 by the ladies, who were lying in wait for him. He was 
 saluted with a chorus of questions about Jim Ashfield. Was 
 he in jail? Really and truly in jail? What for? What 
 had he done? Who put him in there? Was he chained? 
 Was it very dark in the jail? Did he try to escape? 
 
 "Well, I can't tell you much, ladies," said young Padgett 
 in reply to the chorus. "But I'll say this : It is a very mys- 
 terious case. The man will have trouble before he is 
 through with it. It looks to me like a very plain affair." 
 
 The ladies were excited. Didn't they say so? Hadn't 
 they told each other over and over again that there was 
 something wrong about the man ? They didn't know what, 
 but they were sure it was something. Yes, indeed ! He 
 looked like a murderer. Hadn't they noticed the cut of his 
 eyes? and didn't they remark the reckless way he had of 
 walking? To be sure, they had, not once, but frequently. 
 It was a mercy that with such a man roaming around that 
 
Early Literary Efforts 407 
 
 way every woman and child in the country hadn't been 
 killed every night in the week. Thus the chorus went on, 
 until finally Padgett remarked gravely : "I am one of the 
 lawyers, ladies, and some of you may have to be summoned 
 as witnesses." Whereupon each woman became suddenly 
 ignorant. Mrs. Dusenberry hardly knew the man by sight, 
 and Mrs. Bagley vowed that if John Bell hadn't told her 
 who Ashfield was she would have failed to recognize him. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 The incarceration of Jim Ashfield created considerable 
 excitement in Rockville. In fact, it was a sensation, the 
 first that had been vouchsafed to the village since he had 
 been arrested and jailed several years before, so that some of 
 the older citizens were moved to remark that it seemed as if 
 Providence had had some hand in preserving the man for 
 the purpose of providing exciting interludes in the dead 
 calm of peace and prosperity which had brooded over the 
 little town. 
 
 Both Miss Jane and Nora endeavored to get the partic- 
 ulars of the affair from William Wornum, but he was de- 
 cidedly reticent upon the subject. They knew he had long, 
 confidential talks with Vanderlyn, but somehow he did not 
 seem inclined to be communicative. Nora, however, was 
 persistent, and she never lost an opportunity to refer to the* 
 subject. 
 
 "I think it is hard," she said one afternoon as they sat 
 together in the porch, "that he should be put in jail." 
 
 "Yes," replied the schoolmaster, "it is hard." 
 
 "I mean it is cruel." 
 
 "Yes; but in order to be just it is necessary that we should 
 be both hard and cruel." 
 
 "I do not think it just," she said. 
 
 "No, because you cannot understand that cruelty should 
 accompany justice. It may be that this is one of the neces- 
 sities inherited from the era of barbarism, but it is a neces- 
 sity, nevertheless." 
 
 "But he has a sister," she persisted. 
 
 "It is her misfortune that she has such a brother," the 
 schoolmaster replied. "It is one of the accidents of fate that 
 
408 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 she must make the best of it. If Ashfield's bullet had hit 
 its mark, we should have pitied Jack ; but how would that 
 have consoled him ? Would our pity repair his loss? Does 
 pity justify murder?" 
 
 "You put it too harshly," she said gently. "I was only 
 thinking of the loneliness of the poor woman whose brother 
 is in jail. The thought of her grief confuses me." 
 
 "I only put it fairly," he made reply. "The fact that this 
 woman's brother is in jail is her misfortune. We all have 
 our misfortunes, and we all have to make the best of them. 
 Here was a deliberate attempt at murder, according to all 
 accounts." 
 
 "What motive could the man have had for committing 
 murder?" 
 
 "We will endeavor to establish the motive during the 
 trial. We hope to prove that, at the very least, he had 
 motive enough to make the attempt." 
 
 "But the grief of his sister must be very bitter, whether 
 he be guilty or not," Nora said, clinging to the womanly 
 argument which had first suggested itself. 
 
 "If he be guilty," responded the schoolmaster, "he should 
 be punished, whether his sister's grief be bitter or not. It 
 may be that my sympathy for the sister is not as keen as 
 yours ; but, nevertheless, I sympathize with her. I am told 
 that she is devoted to this vagabond brother of hers. More's 
 the pity. It is not the first time he has brought grief upon 
 her, but I dare say it will be the last. There are other peo- 
 ple," he also continued, thinking of his own troubles, "who 
 need your sympathy." 
 
 "Need my sympathy?" she asked, her heightened color 
 failing to verify the incredulity of her tone. "Who are they, 
 pray?" 
 
 "Various people," he replied coolly ; "various people whom 
 you do not take into account. It is true they are insignifi- 
 cant people; but they have their troubles and their griefs, 
 nevertheless." 
 
 "We can pity only those whose sorrows we know of," she 
 said gently. 
 
 "We are continually learning," he replied, laughing a little 
 harshly. "I had thought that sympathy embraced all the 
 sorrows we could conceive of. But this is a practical age; 
 
Early Literary Efforts 409 
 
 and pity, for want of something better to do, has become a 
 census taker." 
 
 "Now you are laughing at me," said Nora, pouting pet- 
 tishly. 
 
 "No," said he ; "I am only reasoning with you. I am only 
 insisting that if sympathy is a missionary and sorrow a 
 heathen, it is well not to follow the old example of searching 
 them out in foreign lands. The pagans are at our very- 
 doors." 
 
 "You make too severe an application of your morals," 
 she replied. "I was speaking of this man's sister. We can 
 sympathize only with those whose sorrows and whose mis- 
 fortunes we know. Otherwise our sympathy becomes sen- 
 timental and purposeless. I know of no one who needs to 
 be pitied more than this poor woman." 
 
 "And yet there are others," said the schoolmaster. 
 
 "I do not know them," said the blind girl gently. "They 
 keep their troubles to themselves. They have little need of 
 the sympathy of one like me." 
 
 "You cannot tell. None of us can tell. It is best we 
 should not know. Sympathy sown broadcast over the land 
 is the best, after all. It is sure to reach its mark." 
 
 This was one of the many attempts of Nora to find out 
 the probable motive that induced Jim Ashfield to attempt to 
 burn Vanderlyn's shop and afterwards to make an effort to 
 assassinate him. All sorts of rumors were afloat in the 
 town and in the country. One was to the effect that Van- 
 derlyn had made an attempt to poison Ashfield's sister while 
 she was sick. Another was that Tiny Padgett had exasper- 
 ated the man by laughing at him until he was obliged to 
 shoot him in self-defense. Hundreds of such rumors were 
 abroad. Mrs. Dusenberry had her theory, Mrs. Bagley hers, 
 and Miss Jane hers. It is needless to say that they were all 
 wide of the mark, but that made little difference. They 
 were as stoutly held to as though they had been verified over 
 and over again, and some of them became traditions long 
 after the true facts were known to every man, woman, and 
 child within fifty miles of Rockville — insomuch so that it is 
 doubtful if those who ought to be well acquainted with the 
 circumstances will not look upon this hasty chronicle as an 
 exaggeration of fiction. 
 
410 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 But the gossips had their way, and the law had its way. 
 The summer waned, and autumn took her place. September 
 came in with a touch of winter, and the time for the meeting 
 of the Superior Court came rapidly on. It was an eventful 
 period to those who have figured in this unpretentious 
 sketch. It was the culmination of the history which I have 
 endeavored to write. 
 
 xxv 
 
 The languor of September fell upon the village of Rock- 
 ville quietly and serenely. The amber sunsets burned the 
 pleasant days to ashes in the west, and the rosy morning 
 fanned them to flames in the east. As the time for holding 
 court approached, the gossips grew more and more confi- 
 dential, and the substantial men of the town communed 
 together with an air of mingled sadness and reproach, as 
 v/ho should say : "This is nothing to us. We have done the 
 best we could. This man Ashheld is to be tried, but that is 
 none of our affair." The high sheriff of the county, Colonel 
 John B. Pitts, became more dignified and less communica- 
 tive. The Colonel was the center of attraction; for, in the 
 minds of the people, he wielded a great deal more power 
 and was, therefore, more powerful than the fat, good-na- 
 tured judge who presided upon the bench and who, while 
 the lawyers were lashing themselves and the jury into a 
 passion with their fiery eloquence, frequently fanned him- 
 self to sleep and dreamed strange dreams of men who way- 
 laid strangers in the wilderness and devoured them bodily 
 without compunction. Mr. Bagley was very much interested 
 in all this and had made frequent attempts to approach 
 Colonel Pitts on the subject, but the Colonel was inexorable. 
 
 "It's no use, boys," he would say on such occasions. "The 
 law's gotter take her course. What the law says, that's 
 what I say, and I don't say no more. When she clamps 
 down on a man, he's got for to lay thar tell she let's up. 
 That's the law." 
 
 And it was the law in those days. Lately the law has 
 given way to the freaks of the lawyers. But when Jim Ash- 
 field lay in jail in Rockville the lawyers could do nothing 
 for him. Indeed, they didn't try. In the first place, public 
 sentiment was against him ; and, in the second place, he was 
 
Early Literary Efforts 411 
 
 unable to secure a lawyer and was altogether without coun- 
 sel until Emory Reed volunteered to defend him. I am of 
 the opinion that young Reed was prompted to do this by the 
 sympathy which Nora Perryman was in the habit of ex- 
 pressing. Somehow she seemed to feel unutterable pity for 
 the sister of the wretched man, and this led her to recur to 
 his case again and again. 
 
 A change had also come over Tiny Padgett. He forsook 
 his wild companions; and if he drank at all, he did not 
 drink to excess. It was true, as he had said, that he had 
 been engaged as the prosecuting attorney for the prosecu- 
 tion, and he seemed to be devoting his whole attention to 
 the case. He was cool, collected, and industrious. He had 
 long walks and talks with Vanderlyn, and he had made up 
 his mind to pursue a line that would astonish the prosecu- 
 tion and the defense, as well as the judge and jurors. He 
 was not as reticent as Sheriff Pitts, for he really had some- 
 thing to conceal, while the sheriff had nothing; but he was 
 less communicative. He had devoted himself entirely to the 
 case, so much so that the State solicitor was content to occu- 
 py a position in the background. 
 
 Kate Underwood was as inquisitive as the rest, but she 
 had little opportunity to see Vanderlyn, who seemed to 
 avoid her; and as Miss Jane knew as little about the matter 
 as any one else, her curiosity was not at all satisfied. 
 
 In the meantime the first day of court week drew rapidly 
 nigh, and finally it dawned. The people began to come in 
 from the country early in the morning, all eager to be pres- 
 ent at what promised to be the most sensational trial Rock- 
 ville had ever witnessed. Lawyers came from a distance, 
 and the inhabitants of the village, each and every one, got 
 ready to swell the crowd of spectators. Judge Vardeman 
 was early in his seat, and various smaller cases were dis- 
 posed of or postponed. Finally the clerk of the court, a pale 
 little man, read from the docket : "The State versus James 
 Ashfield — assault with intent to murder." There was a 
 hush in the courthouse. Ashfield sat in the prisoner's bar, 
 eying the crowd sullenly and wickedly, while Emory Reed, 
 his counsel, talked earnestly to him. William Wornum was 
 busily engaged in turning over the leaves of a ponderous 
 volume in calf, while the solicitor was nervously thumbing 
 
412 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 a number of papers bound with a piece of red tape. All 
 seemed to be engaged except Tiny Padgett, who sat tilted 
 back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, 
 watching the clouds as they passed in panoramic procession 
 before the windows. A jury was quickly impaneled from 
 the large number of citizens present. But just as the case 
 was about to go in Padgett arose, passed his fingers care- 
 lessly through his hair, and said : "May it please your hon- 
 or, I move that the indictment be quashed and that we pro- 
 ceed to try the next case." 
 
 There was some little sensation in the court room, and 
 the judge fanned himself somewhat petulantly as he 
 asked : "What is the next case, Mr. Clerk?" 
 
 "The State versus James Ashfield — child-stealing." 
 
 The sensation deepened. Perhaps the only ones who were 
 not astonished were the prisoner, Padgett, and the pale 
 clerk. 
 
 "May it please the court," said Emory Reed, "this is a 
 new turn of affairs to us. We are not prepared" — 
 
 "Your honor," said Padgett, rising quickly to his feet, 
 "they are as well prepared as they will ever be. They have 
 all their witnesses here. They have had due notice." 
 
 Emory Reed consulted for some time with his client ; but 
 the consultation did not seem to be satisfactory, for he final- 
 ly arose with a frown upon his handsome face and said: 
 "We are ready, your honor." 
 
 And then the trial began. The opening speeches of the 
 counsel were exceedingly tame, at least to the spectators. 
 The prosecution maintained that the prisoner, some years 
 before, had stolen the child of Judge Walthall and should 
 suffer the penalty of the law therefor; while the defense 
 held that, having restored the child, he was, in effect, guilt- 
 less. 
 
 "If you are through, gentlemen," said Judge Vardeman 
 when the counsel for the defense had taken his seat, "we 
 are ready to hear testimony." 
 
 "Mr. Sheriff," said Tiny Padgett, "call Mr. Daniel Van- 
 derlyn." But it was needless to call him. He was present, 
 and when he heard his name he pressed forward. 
 
 "Did I understand you to say you wanted me?" he asked, 
 glancing first at the Judge and then at Padgett. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 413 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Vanderlyn," said the latter, waving his hand 
 coldly toward the witness stand. "I desire to ask you a few 
 questions/ 5 
 
 Vanderlyn was evidently taken by surprise. He was cool 
 and imperturbable, but it was plain that he did not under- 
 stand the tactics of Padgett. He glanced quizzically at the 
 young lawyer; but the latter was still looking languidly at 
 the procession of clouds that passed before the window, 
 some white and silvery, some fringed with gold, and some 
 black and threatening. Not once did he turn his eyes from 
 the window. He seemed to know by intuition what was 
 passing around him ; and when all was ready he rose to his 
 feet and, with one hand upon the back of his chair, the other 
 toying with a small ball of paper, and his face still turned 
 toward the vague perspective that stretched away from the 
 window, he proceeded to examine the witness. His method 
 of examination was new to the experience of the Rockville 
 court; and the older lawyers, watching him closely, mar- 
 veled at his indescribable coolness. People who had known 
 him all their lives seemed to forget that they had ever seen 
 him. He appeared before them for once completely sober. 
 There was no trace of dissipation upon his face. The 
 schoolmistress, sitting where she could see him in profile, 
 was reminded of the pictures of Raphael, a resemblance 
 that was intensified by the remarkably sad expression which 
 seemed to light up his features. One young woman — Vic- 
 toria Sparks, I think her name was — said long afterwards 
 that he looked that day like a poet. Nora Perryman, sitting 
 with her hands clasped upon her sister's arm, heard his voice 
 and recognized with a thrill that some great change had come 
 over him. All his old-time humor seemed to have fled. 
 Where was the boisterous, reckless wag that even the ne- 
 groes familiarly alluded to as Tiny Padgett? The school- 
 master, who was a great student of character, found him- 
 self mystified and puzzled beyond measure at the great 
 change that had come over the young man. And the Judge, 
 who had only known Padgett as a reckless young vagabond, 
 who often made trouble in the court room by turning the 
 most serious episodes into ridicule, stopped fanning himself 
 to regard with astonishment the pale, pathetic face. Few of 
 the people who saw him standing there ever forgot his ap- 
 
414 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 pearance, for few of them ever saw him again. He stood 
 for a moment, until the noise in the court room had entirely 
 subsided — until, indeed, the silence seemed to be breathless. 
 Then, half turning to Vanderlyn, but still looking out 
 through the window, he began the examination. 
 
 "What is your name ?" His voice was firm, cold, and curt. 
 
 "I— that is"— 
 
 Padgett waved his hand imperiously. 
 
 "What is your occupation?" Vanderlyn drew a deep 
 breath in relief. 
 
 "I am a gunmaker." 
 
 "You make guns and set yourself up as a target. Very 
 well. Do you know that man ?" 
 
 "Do you mean Jim Ashfield?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I have met him before." 
 
 "Do you remember when and where you met him ?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 XXVI 
 
 Padgett repeated the question : "Do you remember when 
 and where you met this man, this Jim Ashfield ?" 
 
 "Perfectly well." 
 
 "Do you mind stating the particulars to the jury?" 
 
 "Not in the least. I met Ashfield at 'Cajy Cooper's, where 
 his sister was lying at the point of death." 
 
 "How often did you meet him?" 
 
 "Once only." 
 
 "Did you know him ?" 
 
 "May it please your honor," said Vanderlyn, appealing 
 from the curtness of Padgett to the apparent benevolence 
 of the Judge, but Padgett anticipated him. 
 
 "The court is not examining you, Mr. Vanderlyn. You 
 must answer my question. Did you know this man Ashfield 
 when you saw him at 'Cajy Cooper's ?" 
 
 There was a pause. Vanderlyn looked at the Judge, who 
 was fanning himself placidly, at Padgett, who was still 
 watching the clouds float past the window, and at the crowd, 
 which seemed to be eager to hear his answer. 
 
 "I thought I knew him," he finally answered, 
 
 "You were not sure ?" 
 
Early Literary Efforts 415 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Did you meet him afterwards ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "At Floyd's saloon." 
 
 "Did you know him then ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "By what sign did you recognize him ?" 
 
 "By a scar upon his forehead." 
 
 All except Padgett turned their eyes upon Ashfield. Just 
 above his brows there shone a livid scar, a scar that might 
 have been taken for the trail of a fiery serpent. 
 
 "It would appear from this, Mr. Vanderlyn, that you 
 knew this man even before you met him at 'Cajy Cooper's. 
 Am I right?" 
 
 There was another pause. Vanderlyn's glance wandered 
 from judge and jury and finally rested upon Kate Under- 
 wood. Something in the sadness of that fair face seemed to 
 reassure him. Turning slowly, he glanced at Judge Wal- 
 thall, who sat within the bar, and replied in a tone that rang 
 through the court room : "You are right." 
 
 "You knew this man before you met him at Coop- 
 er's?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Before you came to Rockville ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Will you state to the court and to the jury the circum- 
 stances under which you met the prisoner?" 
 
 "Your honor, am I compelled to answer these questions ?" 
 asked Vanderlyn, turning to the Judge. 
 
 "The witness must answer all questions having a tendency 
 to inculpate or exculpate the prisoner. We must get at all 
 the facts bearing directly or indirectly upon this extraordi- 
 nary case." 
 
 No one but Padgett and the schoolmaster knew why the 
 complacent Judge alluded to the case as an extraordinary 
 one. 
 
 "Where did you first meet the prisoner?" pursued Pad- 
 gett, as though nothing had occurred. 
 
 "At Roach's Ferry," responded Vanderlyn. 
 
 "When?" 
 
416 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "In 1841." 
 
 "Will you please state to the court and the jury the cir- 
 cumstances ?" 
 
 "I was peddling tobacco," said Vanderlyn. "I was driv- 
 ing a wagon. I reached this ferry about dusk. This man 
 here was sitting upon the bank and asked me to give him a 
 lift to the next town. I was a stranger in these parts, and I 
 told" — [Omission in copy.] 
 
 "Why were you so quick to help this stranger along?" 
 
 "He seemed to be broken down. It was pure charity." 
 
 "Was there no other reason?" asked Padgett, turning for 
 the first time and looking the witness straight in the face. 
 
 There was a momentary pause. Glancing around, Van- 
 derlyn once more caught the clear eyes of Katherine Under- 
 wood resting upon him. That decided him. But even this 
 pause gave Padgett an excuse for repeating his question. 
 
 "Was there no other reason ?" 
 
 "There was." 
 
 "Well?" Padgett's voice was cold and informal, almost 
 cruel. 
 
 "He had a little child with him," the other replied gently, 
 but not so gently that in the breathless silence that reigned 
 his voice did not go to the uttermost parts of the hall. 
 
 There was a little stir among the ladies, and then they all 
 looked at each other in a deprecatory way. Miss Victoria 
 Sparks stated afterwards in her strong vernacular that 
 "Kate Underwood sat bolt upright, as white as a sheet." 
 Tiny Padgett flipped his ball of paper through the window 
 as though he had carried a point. Something of his old 
 manner returned, and for the first time he turned and looked 
 straight at the witness. 
 
 "Mr. Vanderlyn," he said, "will you give to the court and 
 the jury the history of that child? Will you tell us what 
 disposition was made of it?" 
 
 "I have no objection," said the witness. "But before I 
 proceed I would be glad if you would read this," handing a 
 slip of paper to the young lawyer. "I was told to give it to 
 you." 
 
 Padgett received the slip and, apparently without looking 
 at it ; passed it to the schoolmaster with the remark : "This 
 is to be filed with the other documents," 
 
Early Literary Efforts 417 
 
 Whether it was filed or not, it was never known ; but it 
 was never produced. Indeed, William Wornum seemed 
 shortly afterwards to grow tired of this trial ; for he arose, 
 beckoned to Jack, who sat among the spectators, and the 
 two went out together. It was observed by the older law- 
 yers who were present that the witness underwent a great 
 change. He spoke without embarrassment and was more 
 communicative. 
 
 "Shall I go on?" he asked presently. 
 
 "Certainly," said Padgett. "We desire the full history of 
 the case." 
 
 "I was peddling tobacco," Vanderlyn began, "and I had 
 occasion to cross the Oconee at Roach's Ferry. It was 
 nearly dusk when I reached the landing, and the first thing 
 that attracted my attention was a man sitting down by the 
 side of the road with a child in his arms. The child was 
 crying. While waiting for the ferryman I drew this man 
 into a conversation, and I discovered that he was traveling 
 in my direction. He asked me if I would give him a lift. 
 I told him I thought I could. I was impressed by the crying 
 of the child. It seemed to be exhausted. I took this man 
 in my wagon, and we went on a long journey together. The 
 man had no sooner climbed into the wagon than the child 
 wanted to come to me, and I took it in my lap and carried 
 it for miles and miles that way. It became an everyday 
 business. The child never seemed satisfied with the other 
 man, but was continually crying to come to me. One night 
 we camped near the Alabama line. It was pretty cold, and 
 we made a rousing fire. I had gone to sleep with the child 
 in my arms," but I awoke about day the next morning and 
 found the child gone. Pretty soon I heard a cry, and I 
 just raised the wagon cover a little, and what do you think 
 I saw?" 
 
 No one answered, and there was such silence in the court 
 room that a pin might have been heard to drop. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," continued Vanderlyn, raising his right 
 hand above his head as if about to deliver a blow some- 
 where, "I saw the man I was telling you about heating one 
 of the iron rods of my feed trough, and I heard him say to 
 the child in his lap: 'You hate the sight of me, do you? 
 Well, d — n you, after this you won't have a sight of me.' 
 27 
 
418 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Gentlemen, what do you think this infernal wretch was 
 going to do?" Vanderlyn was trembling all over. "He 
 was going to burn this baby's eyes out. He said so, and he 
 intended to do it. He grabbed the child by the back of the 
 neck and seized the red-hot iron, but by the time he got it 
 out of the fire I had clutched him." 
 
 "What did you do ?" asked Padgett, smiling a little. 
 
 "I choked him down," replied Vanderlyn, his voice trem- 
 bling with suppressed passion, "and rubbed that red-hot 
 iron across his forehead until I could hear the flesh fry, and 
 then I drove off and left him." 
 
 During this recital Jim Ashfield had turned to look at the 
 witness, who was thrilling the courthouse with his recital; 
 and judge, jury, and spectators noticed the flaming red scar 
 that seemed burned into his forehead. There was consider- 
 able excitement in the room, but it failed to reach Padgett. 
 To all appearances he was as calm and serene as ever. He 
 seemed to the older lawyers, who were used to such things, 
 to be calculating the effect this dramatic testimony would 
 have upon the jury. He resumed the examination. 
 
 "So far, so good, Mr. Vanderlyn. But what became of 
 the child?" 
 
 XXVII 
 
 "What became of the child?" pursued Padgett, as Van- 
 derlyn paused and looked around on the audience as if in 
 search of sympathy. Padgett still regarded the passing 
 clouds curiously, and the crowd in the court room waited 
 breathlessly for the culmination. 
 
 "It was a very little child," said Vanderlyn, smiling a 
 little, as though ashamed to confess how tenderly he treas- 
 ured the memory of the baby he had rescued. "Why, gen- 
 tlemen," turning to the jury in a deprecating way, "it was 
 the smallest baby you most ever saw, and then — well, I 
 declare to you, gentlemen, it was so thin that its eyes looked 
 to be twice their natural size. It appeared to be always 
 expecting somebody. When the wind blew through the 
 trees, the child would come closer to me; and if one of the 
 horses whickered, it would cry and hold out its hands for 
 me to take it. It was a wonderful baby, gentlemen," paus- 
 ing and smiling as if somewhat embarrassed. "He was a 
 
Early Literary Efforts 419 
 
 good deal of trouble at first; but after awhile he wasn't 
 any trouble at all, and it wasn't many weeks before he got 
 to be the cutest young one you ever saw. He got fat by 
 inches, and then he kept getting fatter and fatter, until he 
 came to be the rosiest baby that ever traveled. His eyes 
 got bright, and his hair got curly, and the women folks along 
 the road used to snatch him up and kiss him until he'd be 
 mad, and then they'd snatch him up and kiss him until 
 they'd get him in a good humor. And it didn't take much," 
 the great giant of a man continued, laughing to himself, "to 
 get him in a good humor. You'd have to go a day's journey, 
 gentlemen, before you'd find as lively a chap as that baby 
 was." 
 
 "Mr. Vanderlyn," said Padgett, his cool, unsympathetic 
 voice jarring upon everybody except the Judge and lawyers, 
 "you are not exactly answering my question. What be- 
 came of this wonderful baby?" 
 
 "That child, gentlemen," continued Vanderlyn, ignoring 
 Padgett altogether and addressing himself to the jury, "that 
 child traveled with me in that wagon for months and 
 months. He was the only company I had, and by and by he 
 got to be so much company that I couldn't get on well with- 
 out him. When I made a trade with a man, Jack always put 
 his lip in, and he had the last word in spite of all I could 
 do." 
 
 "What did you say his name was ?" asked Padgett, brush- 
 ing an imaginary speck of dust from the lapel of his coat. 
 
 "Jack." 
 
 "An excellent name, Mr. Vanderlyn. I will try to remem- 
 ber it. Go on with your story." 
 
 "When it got cold," continued Vanderlyn in an argumen- 
 tative way, "that boy would scrouge up to me under the 
 blankets, and when it got hot he would kick like a Kentucky 
 mule. I was always in luck when that boy was in the wag- 
 on. I never made a bad trade, and I never got worsted in a 
 bargain. Somehow the people seemed to say to themselves : 
 'Well, old man, we won't take advantage of a fellow that's 
 got a boy like that.' And they didn't. We made money, 
 Jack and me ; and we traveled up and down the country 
 until everybody knew us, and it was 'Jack and Dan' from 
 North Carolina to the Mississippi River." 
 
420 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Do gunmakers peddle tobacco often and with as much 
 success?" interrupted Padgett. 
 
 "Not that I know of," replied the other. "There were 
 none of them peddling along with me." 
 
 The fair Katherine Underwood wanted to applaud, but 
 propriety restrained her. Padgett still gazed at the curd- 
 like clouds that deployed past the window. 
 
 "Once more, Mr. Vanderlyn," he asked, toying carelessly 
 with the leaves of an open book, "what became of the 
 child?" 
 
 "I kept him," replied the other promptly, his mind divert- 
 ed from the story he was telling. 
 
 "You kept him?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. From that day to this he hasn't been out of 
 my sight long at a time." 
 
 "Does your son know of this?" asked Padgett. 
 
 "What son?" 
 
 "Why, Jack Vanderlyn." 
 
 "I haven't got any son," said Vanderlyn, stammering a 
 little. "Jack is the baby I was telling you about." 
 
 "That will do," said Padgett. Then, turning to Emory 
 Reed : "The witness is with you." 
 
 But Emory Reed had no cross-examination to make. He 
 had consulted frequently with Jim Ashfield, but that worthy 
 was sullen and defiant. 
 
 "May it please the court," said young Reed, rising, "I 
 have no questions to ask the witness." 
 
 "Have you any other witnesses?" asked the Judge, who, 
 having forgotten to fan himself during the examination of 
 Vanderlyn, seemed to be anxious to make up for lost op- 
 portunities. 
 
 "One more, your honor," said Padgett. "Mr. Sheriff, call 
 'Cindy Ashfield." 
 
 Whereupon Colonel Pitts, the sheriff, marched to the door 
 with a consequential air and, calling the name of 'Cindy 
 Ashfield, gave his stentorian voice to the winds. He did 
 not have occasion to repeat the call. Appearing suddenly 
 in the midst of the throng, as though she had dropped from 
 the skies, 'Cindy Ashfield, with her bonnet in her hand, 
 advanced to the witness stand. A more forlorn-looking 
 object it would be impossible to conceive than this tall, pale 
 
Early Literary Efforts 421 
 
 woman, who, looking neither to the right nor to the left, 
 elbowed her way through the crowded corrider and passed 
 slowly down the aisles. There was a little thrill of pity 
 among the men and a feeling of mingled curiosity and shame 
 among the women as she appeared. She stood before that 
 large multitude with the air of simplicity common to those 
 whose self -consciousness either suffering or experience has 
 annihilated. Somehow it seemed that in touching hands 
 with sorrow she had received the inheritance of indifference. 
 It was observed that she did not once glance in the direction 
 of her brother; nor did he, save for one brief moment, turn 
 his eyes upon her. To all appearance, he grew more mo- 
 rose. Some say that he grew a shade paler; but that is 
 mere tradition, the statement of those who, like Miss Vic- 
 toria Sparks, saw a sensation in every sunbeam. My opin- 
 ion, based upon the recollection of some of the members of 
 the Rockville bar who were present, is that Ashfield paid as 
 little attention to his sister on the witness stand as he did 
 when she was in her cabin cooking his scanty meals. 
 Whether he had faith in her devotion or contempt for her 
 testimony or was utterly careless as to the result will never 
 be known, but it is certain that he betrayed no unusual emo- 
 tion when she made her appearance. 
 
 But a great change came over Padgett. He no longer 
 looked at the clouds. His superciliousness disappeared. He 
 turned to the woman with a smile, provided her with a 
 chair, handed her a fan, gave her a glass of water, and said 
 something to her that brought a smile to the sad face. It 
 was observed, moreover, that in conducting the examination 
 every word, tone, and gesture was calculated to subtract 
 something from the embarrassment she might naturally feel 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 The witness was sworn. Meanwhile Padgett appeared to 
 be absorbed in the contents of a little slip of paper which 
 he had found in his vest pocket. Having apparently mas- 
 tered its contents, he rolled it into a little ball, glanced at it 
 vaguely, and began the examination. 
 
 " 'Cindy," said he as friendly and as familiarly as if he 
 had been seated at her own fireside, "do you know a man 
 named Vanderlyn?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." ' 
 
422 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Do you see him now ? Look around." 
 
 "Yes, sir. That's him," pointing in the direction of the 
 witness who had just taken his seat. 
 
 " 'Cindy," said Padgett, somewhat apologetically, "we will 
 have to go over a good deal of ground together, you and me. 
 Do you remember when your brother stole Judge Walthall's 
 baby?" 
 
 The woman brushed a crisp of the gray hair, that had 
 fluttered down into her face, impatiently away. "I do, sir." 
 
 "Do you remember any of the circumstances, 'Cindy? 
 The jury would like to have them. It was a very small 
 child, I am told." 
 
 "Yes, sir ; mighty small." 
 
 "Did you ever have a little child?" 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 The woman looked around the crowded court room as if 
 in search of some avenue of escape. Then her eyes sought 
 the floor, and she began to tie and untie a never-ending knot 
 in her bonnet strings in a nervous and embarrassed way. 
 Padgett did not hurry her. On the contrary, he did not 
 seem at all interested in her reply. While she stood hesitat- 
 ing and confused, he sauntered toward the bench and said 
 something to the Judge which caused that functionary to 
 frown and nod his head in a manner surprisingly emphatic, 
 and it was noted by those who had a knack of observing 
 small things that the fan which dropped from the Judge's 
 hand when the young counselor attracted his attention was 
 not afterwards resumed during the proceedings. Returning 
 where he could face the window and the witness, Padgett 
 repeated his question as though it had occurred to him for 
 the first time. 
 
 " 'Cindy," he asked, "did you ever have a little child?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," cried the woman, weeping as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
 He waited a little until she was calmer and then contin- 
 ued: "If it is not too much trouble to you, 'Cindy, I would 
 be glad to have you tell the court and the jury about your 
 little baby. I want you to tell it in your own way." 
 
 There was a deep hush upon the audience. Judge Wal- 
 thall, who was sitting within the bar, by holding his chair 
 
Early Literary Efforts 423 
 
 sheer above his head moved nearer to the witness, and 
 those who could hitched up their chairs a trifle closer. The 
 witness appeared to be much embarrassed. She picked nerv- 
 ously at her bonnet strings and more than once brushed 
 imaginary hairs from before her eyes. 
 
 "Well, sir," she said finally, "I did have a little baby. It 
 was born mine, and it stayed mine." She paused again as 
 if carefully surveying the ground she was going over. 
 
 "What became of the child, 'Cindy?" asked Padgett gen- 
 tly. 
 
 "It died," she replied gently. 
 
 The young lawyer turned once more toward the window 
 and scanned the clouds and the sky as though they con- 
 tained the solution of the problem that was vexing his soul. 
 "You say you remember when Jim stole Judge Walthall's 
 child ?" he asked presently. 
 
 "Yes, sir, as well as if it was yistiddy." 
 
 "What did your brother do with the stolen child?" 
 
 "I dunno, sir. I never seen it." 
 
 Judge Walthall rose in his place, pale and trembling, and 
 stood there during the remainder of the examination. 
 
 "You say you never saw Judge Walthall's child ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Well, the understanding was that Jim left the child in 
 your charge and that you restored it." 
 
 The woman drew herself up a little, her eyes blazing like 
 coals of fire, and said : "It was a lie." 
 
 "That was my opinion," replied Padgett. "Well, now, 
 'Cindy, you must tell us about it," he continued. "We want 
 to know the truth of this." 
 
 Somehow the woman, remembering the great sacrifice 
 she had made for her vagabond brother, forgot her embar- 
 rassment. The long-subdued passion of her nature flared 
 up and carried everything before it. Upon the stage she 
 would have been regarded by the critics as the very queen 
 of tragedy; but standing where she was, the majority of 
 the multitude that hemmed her in looked upon her as an 
 interesting but very commonplace witness. 
 
 "What must I tell you, Mr. Padgett?" 
 
 "I want you to tell me about your little baby, 'Cindy," the 
 young lawyer said gently. 
 
424 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "I did have a baby," she said fiercely, "an' Jim there 
 knows it. He came to me, gentlemen" — and turning sud- 
 denly to the jury — "an' he took my baby an' give it to Judge 
 Walthall. He said the people would kill him ef he didn't, 
 an' I knowed they would." 
 
 At this point Judge Walthall exclaimed : "May it please 
 the court," he said, "this is most extraordinary. I desire" — 
 
 "Your honor," said Padgett, "it is our desire that the 
 witness not be interrupted. It is not our purpose to have 
 any confusion. The story this witness has to tell may be of 
 peculiar and absorbing interest to Judge Walthall, but the 
 State is searching for a basis for justice. Your honor will 
 perceive at once how injudicious it would be to interrupt the 
 witness." 
 
 "The court," said Judge Vardeman sternly, "will have no 
 interruptions from any source. Mr. Sheriff, you will pre- 
 serve order." 
 
 Whereupon Sheriff Pitts and his chosen bailiffs rapped 
 upon the floor with their staffs ; and Judge Walthall, with an 
 appealing look at the witness, refrained from further ques- 
 tioning. 
 
 " 'Cindy," said Padgett, "the jury are acquainted with the 
 main facts in regard to the kidnaping of Judge Walthall's 
 child. What we desire to know is this : Did your brother 
 place that child in your charge ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Did you ever see the child after it was stolen?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "The child, then, that your brother restored to Judge 
 Walthall was yours?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 There was considerable sensation in the court room as 
 the witness, in her blunt and dramatic manner, made this 
 reply, and Judge Walthall once more made an attempt to 
 say something. It was an ineffectual one, however. Sheriff 
 Pitts and his able coadjutors, by making more noise than 
 the crowd, succeeded in keeping down a disturbance. When 
 everything was quiet, Padgett continued. 
 
 "You say vour child died, 'Cindy ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir."" 
 
 "Where did it die?" 
 
Early Literary Efforts 425 
 
 "At Judge Walthall's house." 
 
 "Then the child he thought was his was yours ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "That will do. The witness is with the other side." 
 
 But in the midst of the confusion that ensued the other 
 side was not heard ; and 'Cindy Ashfield stepped down from 
 the stand and was immediately surrounded by an eager 
 crowd, prominent among whom was Judge Walthall. After 
 this there was a recess of the court, and when it reassembled 
 Vanderlyn was recalled. 
 
 "Mr. Vanderlyn," said Padgett, "do you know Judge 
 Walthall?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where did you know him ?" 
 
 "In Rockville." 
 
 "Where else did you know him ?" 
 
 "In Virginia." 
 
 "Did you know his brother?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was a pause, during which Padgett consulted with 
 the Judge. Finally he said, turning to the witness : "What 
 is your name ?" 
 
 "If the court please," said Vanderlyn, "this is not to the 
 purpose. It has no bearing whatever upon the case under 
 consideration." 
 
 Padgett smiled, but said nothing. 
 
 "The witness must answer the question," said the court 
 emphatically. 
 
 Vanderlyn hesitated, and Padgett repeated the question. 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "Calhoun Walthall." The crowd seemed stunned by the 
 reply and sat breathless. 
 
 "You are Judge Walthall's brother?" the young lawyer 
 inquired. 
 
 ''Yes," replied Vanderlyn, "and Jack is his son." 
 
 With that there was a shout in the court room that the 
 bailiff could not control ; and Judge Walthall, the tears 
 streaming down his face, made his way to the witness stand 
 and placed his trembling hand in the firm grasp of his 
 brother. 
 
426 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 xxix 1 
 
 And this was the romance of Rockville! To most of the 
 people it seemed more like a dream than a romance, and 
 Jack was the only one who seemed to protest against it. 
 When the facts were made known to him, he went into a 
 wild fit of weeping and refused to be comforted. 
 
 "I don't want anybody but Dan," he cried convulsively. 
 "If Dan ain't mine, then I don't want anybody." 
 
 Vanderlyn himself seemed to be unusually cheerful. He 
 was exceedingly loquacious and seemed to drop back into 
 his old eccentricities of speech and manner. 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Jack," he said in reply to the tearful 
 complaints of the boy, "we'll have lots of fun together yet. 
 I'm your uncle, you know." 
 
 "I don't want no uncle," the boy cried. "I don't want 
 anybody but you." 
 
 "Well, you have had me a long time, Jack; you must re- 
 member that. You never had a better uncle than I'll be, old 
 man." 
 
 "I tell you, you ain't my uncle, and I won't have it so. I 
 want you to be what you always was." 
 
 "I was always your uncle, Jack," said the other cheerily. 
 "You can be anything you want to." 
 
 "Then you must go away," said the boy petulantly. "I 
 can be my own uncle." 
 
 "That you can, Jack," said the other cheerily. "You can 
 be anything you want to." 
 
 Thus these two quarreled until the mother put in an ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 "My darling," she said, "you must go with me." 
 
 Still weeping, the boy flung himself in her arms, and the 
 
 ^'Owing to the fact that the compiler of the serial known as The 
 Romance of Rockville' was unavoidably absent during the greater 
 part of last week, engaged in reporting the romance of Barnesville, 
 the concluding ( ! ) installment is postponed to next week. The 
 author fondly hopes that this intermission will prove a pleasant 
 relaxation to the already overstrained minds of the readers of the 
 weekly Constitution."— Weekly Constitution, September 17, 1878, 
 editorial column. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 427 
 
 trouble was over. With one word she had conquered the 
 child. 
 
 Thus it was that Rockville had its romance, though to 
 some of the principal actors it appeared to be a dream. 
 Thus it was with Tiny Padgett. He sat upon the wooden 
 bench opposite Miss Jane Perryman's cottage night after 
 night and, smoking his fragrant cigars, wondered if he had 
 not been asleep. He had cut loose from his old companions 
 and was no longer the central figure of the small carousals 
 that were of nightly occurrence in Rockville. He was not 
 the same. Reserve seemed to have taken possession of him, 
 and quiet claimed him for her own. Not a night passed 
 that he did not sit and smoke upon the old wooden bench 
 in front of Vanderlyn's shop and opposite Miss Perryman's. 
 He seemed to be happier there than anywhere else. He 
 seemed to enjoy the quiet that fell upon that particular por- 
 tion of the little town. He sat there night after night ; and 
 passers-by, early or late, grew familiar with the small, slight 
 figure partially concealed by the deep shadows of night. 
 They came to know him by the bright red spark that shone 
 from his cigar, and nearly all who passed that way flung 
 him some sort of salutation. 
 
 One memorable night, not long after the trial, he sat in 
 his accustomed place smoking and thinking — always think- 
 ing. It was an Indian summer night. The breeze that 
 rustled in and out the chinaberry trees was as balmy as that 
 of spring, and in the far fields of heaven the stars bloomed 
 as fair and as beautiful as if the earth beneath them were 
 not full of misery, trouble, and despair. The dying summer 
 filled the air with the fragrance of a new life, and nature 
 seemed to be upon the verge of renewing her youth. Mark- 
 ing these things in a vague, careless way, Padgett heard the 
 sound of voices, and presently he saw a man and a woman 
 walking down the street toward him. It was Vanderlyn 
 and the schoolmistress. They walked slowly, as if by that 
 means they would prolong the present and enjoy it. 
 
 "It is all so new and strange," the schoolmistress was say- 
 ing when the two came within hearing, "that I cannot under- 
 stand it." 
 
 Vanderlyn laughed. "Everything must be new and 
 
428 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 strange at some time or other," he said, and then added 
 quickly, "except love. It is always old." 
 
 "O no," she replied; "it is new to me, and I think it 
 would be new to Mr. Padgett." 
 
 "New to Padgett ! It is older with him than with any of 
 us. He was cut out for a hero," Vanderlyn continued 
 warmly. 
 
 The twain passed on; and Padgett, catching a glimpse of 
 their happiness even in the dark, smiled and sighed. They 
 were his friends. They passed on and out of sight. Pres- 
 ently the door of Miss Jane's little cottage opened, and out 
 came Nora and the schoolmaster. They said nothing, but 
 went quietly down the street. The young lawyer, gazing 
 after them, knew what the result would be. 
 
 "Happiness is abroad to-night," he said, laughing lightly, 
 "but she goes in another direction. It is better so. She 
 would find in me an entire stranger. I should be restive 
 under the restraints of content." 
 
 Once more the voices broke in upon his meditations. 
 Vanderlyn and the schoolmistress came slowly back. 
 
 "Then you are not going away ?" The voice was the voice 
 of Kate Underwood, and the reply came from Vanderlyn. 
 
 "How can I when I have so much to live for here?" 
 
 They passed on and disappeared, and another couple took 
 their places. Padgett would have known Nora's laugh 
 among a thousand. He knew, too, its import. He knew that 
 the schoolmaster had conquered. They came up the street 
 hand in hand, the one serious and thoughtful and the other 
 intoxicated with happiness. They passed into the yard, and 
 the door of the cottage closed upon them. Tiny, watching 
 the stars, wafted them a blessing. Finally he flung away 
 his cigar. It fell in the sand and shone for a moment a 
 bright and burning spark. Then it began to fade, and its 
 color mingled with the dust by which it was surrounded. 
 Padgett arose, flung a kiss toward Nora's window, and 
 walked slowly down the street. Days afterwards a hunting 
 party, camping upon the banks of the Oconee, found a bun- 
 dle of clothing that they knew belonged to the young lawyer, 
 and pinned to it was a card bearing this inscription : "This 
 
 IS THE END." 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 Books in Which Appear Sketches of Harris 
 
 Avary, Mrs. Myrta (Lockett). "Joel Chandler Harris 
 and His Home : A Sketch." Atlanta, Ga. : Appeal Publish- 
 ing Co. 1913. 38 pages. Authorized by the Uncle Remus 
 Memorial Association. Eleven portraits of Mr. Harris, 
 showing him from boyhood. Thirty illustrations. The most 
 extensive of the various sketches. 
 
 Bardeen, Charles William. "Authors' Birthdays." Sec- 
 ond series. Syracuse, N. Y. : C. W. Bardeen. 1899. 459 
 pages. Standard Teachers' Library. "Joel Chandler Har- 
 ris," pages 427-459- 
 
 Baskervill, William Malone. "Southern Writers : Bio- 
 graphical and Critical Studies." Volume I. Nashville, 
 Tenn. : Publishing House M. E. Church, South. 1897. 404 
 pages. "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 41-88. The best crit- 
 ical appreciation to date. First issued in pamphlet form, 
 July, 1896, by same Publishing House. 
 
 Bradley, Henry Stiles. "Library of Southern Literature." 
 New Orleans, Atlanta, etc. : Martin & Hoyt Co. 1908-1913. 
 "Joel Chandler Harris." Volume V., pages 2111-2151. 
 
 Brainerd, Erastus. "Joel Chandler Harris at Home." 
 (See Gilder, J. L. "Authors at Home." Pages 111-124. 
 Wessels. 1902.) Same article appeared in the Critic, May 
 16, 23, 1885, Volume VI., pages 229-241. 
 
 "Cambridge History of American Literature." (See 
 Smith, C. Alphonso.) 
 
 Davidson, James Wood. "The Living Writers of the 
 South." New York: Carleton. 1869. xvii-f-635 pages. 
 Out of print. (See references in the present volume.) 
 "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 236-239. 
 
 Derby, James Cephas. "Fifty Years among Authors, 
 Books, and Publishers." New York: G. W. Carleton & 
 Co. 1884. vii+739 pages. "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 
 433-440. (Some account of Derby's visit to Mr. Harris, 
 arranging for first volume of Uncle Remus stories.) 
 
 (429) 
 
430 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Fiske, Horace Spencer. "Provincial Types in American 
 Fiction." Chautauqua, N. Y. : Chautauqua Press. 1903. 
 264 pages. Chautauqua Home Reading Series. "Joel 
 Chandler Harris," pages 106-117. 
 
 Halsey, Francis Whiting, editor. "Authors of Our Day 
 in Their Homes," New York: Pott. 1902. "Joel Chan- 
 dler Harris in Atlanta, Ga.," pages 157-171. (These papers 
 were printed originally in the New York Times' s "Saturday 
 Review of Books.") 
 
 Harkins, Edward Francis. "Little Pilgrimages among 
 the Men Who Have Written Famous Books." Boston : L. 
 C. Page & Co. 1902. 332 pages. Booklovers' Series. 
 "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 123-137. 
 
 Holliday, Carl. "History of Southern Literature." New 
 York : Neale. 1906. "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 380-382. 
 
 Kellner, Leon. "Geschichte der Nordamerikanischen 
 Literatur." Berlin and Leipsig. 19 13. Gives the Tar 
 Baby story in German. Translated by Julia Franklin and 
 published by Doubleday in 1915. 
 
 Knight, Lucian Lamar. "Reminiscences of Famous 
 Georgians." Atlanta, Ga. : Franklin-Turner Co. 1907-08. 
 Two volumes. "Joel Chandler Harris," Volume I., pages 
 482-492. 
 
 Lee, Ivy Ledbetter, compiler. "Uncle Remus." Joel 
 Chandler Harris as seen and remembered by a few of his 
 friends, including a memorial sermon by the Rev. James W. 
 Lee, D.D., and a poem by Frank L. Stanton. Privately 
 printed. 1908. xv+120 pages. An excellent sketch by a 
 personal friend, with facsimile pages from The Countryman. 
 
 Lee, James Wideman. (See Lee, Ivy Ledbetter.) 
 
 Orgain, Kate Alma. "Southern Authors in Poetry and 
 Prose." New York and Washington : Neale Publishing Co. 
 1908. 233 pages. "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 110-118. 
 
 Pickett, LaSalle Corbell ("Mrs. G. E. Pickett"). "Lit- 
 erary Hearthstones of Dixie." Philadelphia and London: 
 J. B. Lippincott Co. 1912. 304 pages. "Uncle Remus — 
 Joel Chandler Harris," pages 151-172. 
 
 Reed, Wallace Putnam, editor. "History of Atlanta, 
 Georgia." Syracuse, N. Y. : D. Mason & Co. 1889. v-f- 
 491 pages. "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 413-419. By a 
 personal friend. 
 
Early Literary Efforts 431 
 
 Rutherford, Mildred Lewis. "American Authors." At- 
 lanta, Ga. : Franklin Printing and Publishing Co. 1894. 
 xxix-f-750 pages. "Joel Chandler Harris/' pages 610-614. 
 
 Rutherford, Mildred Lewis. "The South in History and 
 Literature." Atlanta, Ga. : Franklin-Turner Co. 1907. 
 866 pages. "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 505-509. 
 
 Smith, Charles Alphonso. "Die Amerikanische Litera- 
 tur." Berlin : Weidmann. 1912. 388 pages. "Bibliothek 
 der Amerikanischen Kulturgeschichte, hrsg.," von N. M. 
 Butler und W. Paszkowski. 2. Bd. "Joel Chandler Har- 
 ris : Eine Abhandlung iiber den Neger als Literarisches Ob- 
 jekt," pages 288-311. (Mr. Smith was Roosevelt Professor 
 in the University of Berlin, 1910-11.) 
 
 Smith, Charles Alphonso. "Cambridge History of Amer- 
 ican Literature." Published uniformly with the Cambridge 
 English Literature Series. A chapter on Harris by C. Al- 
 phonso Smith. 
 
 "South in the Building of the Nation, The." Richmond, 
 Va. : Southern Historical Publication Society. 1913. "]oq\ 
 Chandler Harris." See Index, Volume XIII., page 89. 
 
 Toulmin, Harry Aubrey. "Social Historians." Boston : 
 R. G. Badger. 191 1. 176 pages. "Bibliography," pages 
 167-171. "Joel Chandler Harris," pages 133-164. 
 
 Trent, William Peterfield. "Southern Writers." New 
 York: Macmillan. 1905. "Joel Chandler Harris," page 
 
 423. 
 
 Watterson, Henry. "Oddities in Southern Life and 
 Character." Boston: Houghton. 1882. "Joel Chandler 
 Harris," page 304. 
 
 Wootten, Katherine Hinton. "Bibliography of the Works 
 of Joel Chandler Harris." In Carnegie Library of Atlanta 
 Bulletin, May-June, 1907. 6 pages. 
 
 Wright, Henrietta Christian. "Children's Stories in 
 American Literature, 1660-1896." New York : C. Scrib- 
 ner's Sons. 1895-96. Two volumes. "Joel Chandler Har- 
 ris," Volume II., pages 153-162. 
 
 Articles in Periodicals 
 
 Adair, Forrest. "Joel Chandler Harris." American Il- 
 lustrated Methodist Magazine, October, 1899 ; Volume XL, 
 page 124. Interesting article by a personal friend. 
 
432 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Arms, Ethel. "Leaves from a Reporter's Notebook." 
 Interview with Joel Chandler Harris. National Magazine 
 (Boston), February, 1905; Volume XXL, pages 515-517. 
 
 "Author of 'Uncle Remus.' " American Review of Re- 
 views, August, 1908; Volume XXXVIII. , pages 214, 215. 
 
 Avary, Mrs. Myrta (Lockett). "The Wren's Nest' 
 Preserved as a Memorial." Book News Monthly, May, 
 1913; Volume XXXL, pages 665-668. 
 
 Baker, Ray Stannard. "Joel Chandler Harris." Outlook, 
 November 5, 1904; Volume LXXVIIL, pages 594-603. A 
 splendid sketch. 
 
 Ball, Sumter Mays. "Joel Chandler Harris." Book 
 News Monthly, January, 1909; Volume XXVIL, pages 311- 
 316. 
 
 Baskervill, William Malone. "Joel Chandler Harris." 
 Chautauquan, October, 1896; Volume XXIV., pages 62- 
 67. 
 
 Brainerd, Erastus. "Joel Chandler Harris (Uncle Re- 
 mus) at Atlanta." Critic, May 16, 23, 1885 ; Volume VI., 
 pages 229, 230, 241. 
 
 "Brer Rabbit and Mr. Fox as Footlight Favorites in 
 London." Current Opinion, July, 1914; Volume LVIL, 
 page 30. 
 
 Brown, Calvin S., Jr. Sketch. Christian Advocate, 
 Nashville, Tenn., October 17, 1891. 
 
 Christian Work, New York. Sketch. September 27, 
 1894. 
 
 Coleman, Charles W. "The Recent Movement in South- 
 ern Literature." Harper's New Monthly Magazine, May, 
 1887; Volume LXXIV., pages 837-855. "Joel Chandler 
 Harris," pages 844-848. 
 
 Crane, T. F. "Plantation Folklore." Popular Science 
 Monthly, April, 1881 ; Volume XVIIL, pages 824-833. "An 
 examination of these [Uncle Remus's] fables in their rela- 
 tions to the similar tales of other countries." 
 
 Ellis, Leonora B. "Harris and the Children." Book 
 News Monthly, January, 1909 ; Volume XXVIL, pages 321- 
 
 323. 
 
 "First Stories of Uncle Remus." Current Literature, 
 December, 1900; Volume XXIX., pages 708, 709. 
 
 Garnsey, John Henderson. "Joel Chandler Harris: A 
 
Bibliography 433 
 
 Character Sketch." Book Buyer, March, 1896; New Series, 
 Volume XIII. , pages 65-68. Mr. Garnsey was a close friend 
 in the Harris home for six months. 
 
 Gerber, A. "Uncle Remus Traced to the Old World." 
 Journal of American Folklore, October-December, 1893; 
 Volume VI., page 245. Sources and variants of twenty or 
 thirty Remus stories. 
 
 Harris, Joel Chandler. "An Accidental Author." Liter- 
 ary autobiography. Lippincott's Monthly Magazine, April, 
 1886; Volume XXXVII., pages 417-420. 
 
 Harris, Mrs. L. H. "The Passing of 'Uncle Remus.' " 
 Independent, July 23, 1908; Volume LXV., pages 190- 
 192. 
 
 Hawthorne, H. "Teller of Folk and Fairy Tales." St. 
 Nicholas, March, 1915; Volume XLIL, pages 453-455. 
 
 Horton, Mrs. Thaddeus. "The Most Modest Author in 
 America." Ladies' Home Journal, May, 1907; Volume 
 XXIV., page 17. This article also appeared in the Atlanta 
 Constitution, May 5, 1907. 
 
 "How Joel Chandler Harris Came to Write the Uncle 
 Remus Stories." Current Literature, August, 1908; Vol- 
 ume V., page 164. Inadequate account. 
 
 "Joel Chandler Harris." Nation, July 9, 1908; Volume 
 LXXXVIL, pages 30, 31. 
 
 Knight, Lucian Lamar. "Uncle Remus." (See "Men 
 and Women of the Craft." Bohemian Magazine, Easter, 
 1901. Fort Worth, Tex.) 
 
 Lee, J. W. "Joel Chandler Harris." Century Magazine, 
 April, 1909; Volume LXXVIL, pages 891-897. 
 
 "Letter to President Roosevelt and His Response." Un- 
 cle Remus's, the Home Magazine, September, 1908; Volume 
 XXIV., pages 5, 6. 
 
 McClurg, Alexander C. "Old-Time Plantation Life: 
 On the Plantation." Review. Dial (Chicago), June, 1892; 
 Volume XIIL, pages 46-49. 
 
 McQueen, A. "Teller of Tales." Poem. Lippincott's 
 Monthly Magazine, October, 191 1; Volume LXXXVIIL, 
 page 543- 
 
 Marquis, Don. "The Farmer of Snap Bean Farm." Un- 
 cle Remus's, the Home Magazine, September, 1908; Volume 
 XXIV., page 7. 
 28 
 
434 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Merriam, Mrs. M. F. "At Snap Bean Farm." Southern 
 Ruralist, October 15, 1913; Volume XIX., page 22 (214). 
 With portrait. 
 
 Pickett, L. C. "Uncle Remus." Lippincott's Monthly 
 Magazine, April, 1912; Volume LXXXIX., pages 572-578. 
 
 Reed, Wallace Putnam. "Joel Chandler Harris, Humor- 
 ist and Novelist." With portrait. Literature (a weekly 
 illustrated magazine published by Alden), October 27, 1888. 
 Splendid sketch by a personal friend ; gives some details of 
 Mr. Harris's early life. 
 
 Rice, Grantland; Thomas E. Watson; Frank L. Stanton. 
 Tributes to Joel Chandler Harris. Uncle Remus' s, the Home 
 Magazine, September, 1908 ; Volume XXIV., page 8. 
 
 Rogers, Joseph M. Sketch; follows that by Leonora B. 
 Ellis in same issue of Book News Monthly. 
 
 Stanton, Frank L. ; Grantland Rice ; Thomas E. Watson. 
 Tributes to Joel Chandler Harris. Uncle Remus' s, the Home 
 Magazine, September, 1908 ; Volume XXIV., page 8. 
 
 Stovall, Genie O. Sketch quoting Mr. Harris in regard 
 to his early life. Children's Visitor, November 23, 1902. 
 
 Ticknor, Caroline. "Glimpses of the Author of 'Uncle 
 Remus.' " Bookman, August, 1908 ; Volume XXVII., pages 
 551-557. 
 
 Ticknor, Caroline. "The Man Harris : A Study in Per- 
 sonality." Book News Monthly, January, 1909; Volume 
 XXVII., pages 317-320. 
 
 "Uncle Remus." Review of book. Nation, December 2, 
 1880; Volume XXXI., page 398. 
 
 "Uncle Remus." Review of book. Public Opinion, 
 March 26, 1881 ; Volume XXXIX., page 391. 
 
 "Uncle Remus," Review of book. Spectator, April 2, 
 1881 ; Volume LIV., pages 445, 446. 
 
 "Uncle Remus." On the death of Mr. Harris. Nation, 
 July 9, 1908 ; Volume LXXXVIL, pages 26, 27. 
 
 "Uncle Remus." Harper's Weekly, July 11, 1908; Vol- 
 ume LIT, page 29. 
 
 "Uncle Remus." South Atlantic Quarterly, October, 
 1908. 
 
 Watson, Thomas E. ; Frank L. Stanton; Grantland Rice. 
 Tributes to Joel Chandler Harris. Uncle Remus' s, the Home 
 Magazine, September, 1908 ; Volume XXIV., page 8. 
 
Bibliography 435 
 
 "Young Minstrels." Collier's Weekly, September 19, 
 1914; Volume LIV., page 10. 
 
 Articles in Newspapers 
 
 Atlanta Constitution. "The Constitutional Staff." "S. 
 S.," in the Philadelphia Evening Telegram. "Old Si" and 
 "Uncle Remus" contrasted in personal appearance, etc. 
 March 22, 1879. 
 
 Atlanta Constitution. "Uncle Remus in Brief." April 
 20, 1879. Supplement. Copied from New Haven Register 
 as taken from "advance sheets" of H. Clay Lukens's "Don't 
 Give It Away." Never published ( ? ) . Especially interest- 
 ing because written by Sam Small ("Old Si"). Harris is 
 praised especially for his dialect poetry. 
 
 Atlanta Constitution. Mrs. Thaddeus Horton. "The 
 Most Modest Author in America." May 5, 1907. This ar- 
 ticle also appeared in the Ladies' Home Journal, May, 1907. 
 
 Atlanta Constitution. Fred Lewis. "Some Incidents and 
 Characteristics of Uncle Remus." October 7, 1906, page 3. 
 
 Atlanta Constitution. "Joel Chandler Harris Summoned 
 by the Master of All Good Workmen." July 4, 1908; Vol- 
 ume XLL, pages, 1, 6. 
 
 Atlanta Constitution. "Letter to Miss Katharine Woot- 
 ten," Carnegie Library, Atlanta, to thank her for the prepa- 
 ration of a bibliography of the works of Uncle Remus. 
 Dated September 17, 1907. Signed Joel Chandler Harris. 
 July 4, 1908; Volume XLL, page 6. Letter is in Carnegie 
 Library of Atlanta Bulletin, May-June, 1907. 
 
 Atlanta Georgian and News. July 4, 1892. "Chronolog- 
 ical Account of Mr. Harris's Literary Progress." Refer- 
 ence to F. L. Stanton. 
 
 Atlanta Georgian and News. July 4, 1908. Sketch. 
 
 Boston Globe. November 3, 1907. James B. Morrow. 
 "Mr. Harris Talks of His Life." 
 
 Boston Post. Correspondence from "Atlanta, Georgia, 
 September 28, 1881." Walter H. Page. Splendid personal 
 sketch written after Mr. Page had made a visit to Mr. 
 Harris. 
 
 Memphis Commercial- Appeal. Mrs. Robert L. Spain. 
 "Uncle Remus and Snap Bean Farm." Detailed descrip- 
 tion of the Harris home. November 15, 1908. 
 
436 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 New York Times. "New Edition of 'Uncle Remus.' " 
 October 16, 1895. 
 
 New York World. Description of home and family. 
 December 4, 1892. 
 
 London Times. "Joel Chandler Harris." July 6, 1908, 
 page 8. 
 
 Portraits 
 
 Alkahest, Volume III., page 29. Drawing by Ernest Wil- 
 kinson. 
 
 American Illustrated Methodist Magazine, October, 1899; 
 Volume XL, page 124. 
 
 Avery, I. W. "History of the State of Georgia," page 
 624. Photograph. 
 
 Bookbuyer, Volume III., pages 531, 540; February, 1896- 
 January, 1897; Volume XIIL, page 67. Drawing by J. H. 
 Garnsey. 
 
 Bookman, September, 1896-February, 1897; Volume IV., 
 page 290. Photograph. 
 
 Book News, Volume X., page 429. 
 
 Century, November, 1901-April, 1902; New Series, Vol- 
 ume XLL, page 61. Photograph. 
 
 Chautauquan, Volume XXIV., page 62. 
 
 Critic, January-June, 1899; Volume XXXIV., page 7. 
 Photograph of Paul Okerberg's bust of Mr. Harris. This 
 bust is now in the Harris home. 
 
 Harper's Monthly, December, 1886-May, 1887; Volume 
 LXXIV., page 843. Photograph. 
 
 Ladies' Home Journal, December, 1906-November, 1907 ; 
 Volume XXIV., page 17. Photograph with Andrew Carne- 
 gie. This photograph is in the Carnegie Library of At- 
 lanta. 
 
 Outlook, September-December, 1904; Volume LXXVIIL, 
 page 594. Drawing by Kate Rogers No well. 
 
 Outlook, Volume LXIIL, page yy2\ Volume LXVL, page 
 806. Photographs. 
 
 Reader Magazine, Volume VIII., page 207. 
 
 World's Work, November, 1900- April, 1901 ; Volume L, 
 page 11. Photograph. 
 
 Among the best portraits of Mr. Harris are an oil paint- 
 ing by Theresa Knudson and a photograph taken with James 
 
Bibliography 437 
 
 Whitcomb Riley by Stevenson, of Atlanta, both of which 
 may be seen in the Atlanta Carnegie Library, and a portrait 
 made by Frances Benjamin Johnston in 1906, of which Mr. 
 Harris wrote to Miss Johnston : "I have now found out for 
 the first time what you meant by the twinkle. The twinkle 
 seems to be me myself, after all, and I have been going on 
 all these years not knowing what was missing from the pho- 
 tographs I had taken by people who knew nothing about the 
 twinkle." This last portrait, along with a series of others, 
 is reproduced in the souvenir pamphlet issued by the Uncle 
 Remus Memorial Association. 
 
 At "The Sign of the Wren's Nest" there are a number of 
 portraits, a bust by Paul Okerberg, and a bronze bas-relief. 
 
 Books by Harris 
 
 (Writings previous to 1880, as given in the present volume.) 
 
 "Aaron in the Wildwoods." Illustrated by Oliver Her- 
 ford. Boston : Houghton. October 4, 1897. 
 
 "Balaam and His Master, and Other Sketches." Boston : 
 Houghton. May 8, 1891. Appeared first in Century Maga- 
 zine, November, 1890-April, 1891 ; New Series, Volume 
 XIX., page 557. 
 
 "Bishop and the Boogerman." New York: Doubleday. 
 January 23, 1909. Appeared first in Uncle Remus' s, the 
 Home Magazine, June-October, 1907. 
 
 "Chronicles of Aunt Minerva Ann." Illustrated by A. B. 
 Frost. New York : Scribner's. October 7, 1899. Repub- 
 lished in England. 
 
 "Daddy Jake, the Runaway, and Other Short Stories Told 
 after Dark." Illustrated by E. W. Kemble. New York: 
 Century Co. 1889, 1896, 1901. 
 
 "Evening Tales." Translated into English from the 
 French of Frederic Ortoli. New York: Scribner's. No- 
 vember 11, 1893. Joint work of Mr. and Mrs. Harris. 
 
 "Free Joe, and Other Georgia Sketches." New York: 
 Scribner's. December 1, 1887. Appeared first in Century 
 Magazine, November, 1884-April, 1885; New Series, Vol- 
 ume VII., page 117. Republished in England. 
 
 "Gabriel Tolliver: A Story of Reconstruction." New 
 York: McClure, Phillips & Co. July 11, 1902. Partly au- 
 
43S The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 tobiographical. Appeared in the Era, January-November, 
 1902. 
 
 "Georgia from the Invasion of De Soto to Recent Times." 
 New York: Appleton. 1896. American Book Co. 1896. 
 Stories from American History Series. Also published un- 
 der the title "Stories of Georgia," by American Book Co., 
 October 20, 1896. Now known as "History of Georgia." 
 
 "History of Georgia." (See "Georgia from the Invasion 
 of De Soto to Recent Times.") 
 
 "Kidnaping of President Lincoln, and Other War Detec- 
 tive Stories." Collection of stories published in 1900 under 
 the title "On the Wing of Occasions." Republished in 1909 
 as "Kidnaping of President Lincoln," by Doubleday. Cur- 
 tis Publishing Co. 1899, 1900. 
 
 "Little Mr. Thimblefinger and His Queen Country, and 
 What the Children Saw and Heard There." Illustrated by 
 Oliver Herford. Boston : Houghton. November 21, 1894. 
 
 (For sequel see "Mr. Rabbit at Home.") 
 
 "Little Union Scout : A Tale of Tennessee during the 
 War." Illustrated by George Gibbs. New York : McClure, 
 Phillips & Co. April 15, 1904. Appeared serially in the 
 Saturday Evening Post, February 6-March 17, 1904. 
 
 "Making of a Statesman, and Other Stories." New 
 York : McClure, Phillips & Co. March 25, 1902. 
 . "Mingo, and Other Sketches in Black and White." Bos- 
 ton: Ticknor & Co. June 15, 1887. 
 
 "Mr. Rabbit at Home." Sequel to "Little Mr. Thimble- 
 finger." Illustrated by Oliver Herford. Boston: Hough- 
 ton. October 18, 1895. 
 
 "Nights with Uncle Remus : Myths and Legends of the 
 Old Plantation." Illustrated by F. S. Church. Boston: 
 Ticknor & Co. 1883, 1887. Boston: Houghton. 1883, 
 1898, 1902, 1904. First published in Scribner's Monthly, 
 beginning June, 1881, and in the Atlanta Constitution, be- 
 ginning May 22, 1881. 
 
 "On the Plantation : A Story of a Georgia Boy's Adven- 
 tures during the War." Illustrated by E. W. Kemble. New 
 York : Appleton. April 9, 1892. Largely autobiographical. 
 (An English edition of this book appeared under the title 
 "Plantation Printer." London: James R. Osgood. Mcll- 
 vaine & Co. 1892.) 
 
Bibliography 439 
 
 "On the Wing of Occasions." Being the authorized ver- 
 sion of certain curious episodes of the late Civil War, in- 
 cluding the hitherto suppressed narrative of the kidnaping 
 of President Lincoln. New York: Doubleday. September 
 24, 1900. (This book also appeared under the title "On the 
 Wings of Circumstance," published in 1900. Republished 
 in 1909 as "Kidnaping of President Lincoln.") All of the 
 stories in this book appeared in the Saturday Evening Post 
 before being collected in book form. 
 
 "Plantation Pageants." Illustrated by E. Boyd Smith. 
 Boston : Houghton. October 4, 1899. 
 
 "Plantation Printer." (Same as American edition of "On 
 the Plantation.") 
 
 "Shadow between His Shoulder Blades." Illustrated by 
 George Harding. Boston : Small, Maynard & Co. 1909. 
 
 "Sister Jane : Her Friends and Acquaintances." A narra- 
 tive of certain events and episodes transcribed from the 
 papers of the late William Wornum. Boston: Houghton. 
 November 19, 1896. (The central incident in this book had 
 been previously used in "The Romance of Rockville.") 
 
 "Stories of Georgia." Illustrated by A. I. Keller, Guy 
 Rose, B. W. Clinedinst, and others. New York : American 
 Book Co. October 20, 1896. (Also published under the 
 title "Georgia from the Invasion of De Soto to Recent 
 Times." New York : Appleton. November 7, 1896.) 
 
 "Stories of the South." By Joel Chandler Harris and 
 others. New York : Scribner's. 1899. 
 
 "Story of Aaron (So Named), the Son of Ben Ali, Told 
 by His Friends and Acquaintances." Illustrated by Oliver 
 Herford. Boston : Houghton. October 7, 1896. 
 
 "Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War." Boston : 
 Houghton. March 29, 1898. 
 
 "Tar Baby, and Other Rhymes of Uncle Remus." Illus- 
 trated by A. B. Frost and E. W. Kemble. New York: 
 Appleton. September 30, 1904. 
 
 "Told by Uncle Remus." New stories of the old plan- 
 tation. Illustrated by A. B. Frost, J. M. Conde, and Frank 
 Verbeck. New York : McClure, Phillips & Co. October 28, 
 1905. 
 
 "Uncle Remus and Brer Rabbit." New York: Stokes. 
 September 26, 1907. 
 
440 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "Uncle Remus and His Friends." Old plantation stories, 
 songs, and ballads, with sketches of negro character. Illus- 
 trated by A. B. Frost. Boston : Houghton. 1892, 1899, 
 1900, 1902, 1914. (Visitors' edition, 1913, with introduc- 
 tion by Mrs. M. L. Avary. Copyright by Uncle Remus 
 Memorial Association. Same as Houghton edition, 1914.) 
 
 "Uncle Remus and the Little Boy." Illustrated by J. M. 
 Conde. Boston : Small, Maynard & Co. Copyright, 1910. 
 
 "Uncle Remus : His Songs and His Sayings." Illustrated 
 by F. S. Church and J. H. Moses. New York: Appleton. 
 November, 1880. (Numerous American and English edi- 
 tions. See Introduction.) 
 
 "Wally Wanderoon and His Story-Telling Machine." 
 Illustrated by Karl Moseley. New York: McClure, Phil- 
 lips & Co. September 15, 1903. 
 
 Harris as Editor 
 
 "Library of Southern Literature." Compiled under the 
 direct supervision of Southern men of letters. Edwin An- 
 derson Alderman, Joel Chandler Harris, editors in chief; 
 Charles William Kent, literary editor. Edition de luxe. 
 New Orleans, Atlanta, etc. : Martin & Hoyt Co. 1908-1913. 
 
 "Life of Henry W. Grady." Including his writings and 
 speeches. A memorial volume compiled by Mr. Grady's 
 coworkers on the Atlanta Constitution. Edited by J. C. 
 Harris. New York : Cassell. 1890. 
 
 "Merrymaker." Edited by J. C. Harris. Boston : Hall, 
 Locke & Co. Copyright, 1902. (Young Folks' Library, 
 Volume II., third edition.) Issued in 1901 under the title 
 "The Book of Fun and Frolic." 
 
 Introductions 
 
 Field, Eugene. Complete works. New York : Scribner's. 
 1907. ("The House," Volume VIII. of the works.) 
 
 Frost, A. B. Drawings, with verses by Wallace Irwin. 
 New York : Fox. 1905. 
 
 Goulding, F. R. "Young Marooners." New York : Dodd, 
 Mead. New edition. 
 
 Knight, Lucian Lamar. "Reminiscences of Famous 
 Georgians." Atlanta : Franklin Co. 1907. 
 
Bibliography 441 
 
 Russell, Irwin. "Poems." New York: Century Co. 
 (Copyright, 1888.) 
 
 Stanton, Frank L. "Songs of a Day." Atlanta : Foote & 
 Davies. 1893. 
 
 Stanton, Frank L. "Songs of the Soil." New York: 
 Appleton. 1894. 
 
 Wheeden, Howard. "Bandanna Ballads." New York: 
 Doubleday. 1899, 1904. 
 
 "World's Wit and Humor, The." New York : Doubleday. 
 
 Short Stories, Editorials, Etc., in Periodicals 
 
 A complete index to all of Mr. Harris's stories may be 
 found in the Reference Department of the Carnegie Library 
 of Atlanta. 
 
 "Abolition of the Soul." Saturday Evening Post, Decem- 
 ber 29, 1900. (Editorial.) 
 
 "American Type, The." The Current, December 13, 
 1884. (Published in Chicago.) 
 
 "At Teague Poteet's." Century Magazine, May-June, 
 1883. 
 
 "Bill Boring and His Drum." Saturday Evening Post, 
 October 7, 1905. 
 
 "Brer B'ar's Big House." Uncle Remus's, the Home 
 Magazine, July, 1910, page 7. 
 
 "Brer Fox Loses a Bet." Uncle Remus's, the Home 
 Magazine, June, 1908, page 22. 
 
 "Brer Rabbit Causes Brer Fox to Lose His Hide." Uncle 
 Remus's, the Home Magazine, January, 1908, page 9. 
 
 "Brer Rabbit Has Trouble with the Moon." Uncle Re- 
 mus's, the Home Magazine, November, 1907, page 19. 
 
 "Brother Rabbit, Brother Fox, and the Two Fat Pullets." 
 Metropolitan Magazine, March, 1906. 
 
 "Brother Rabbit Goes on a Bear Hunt." Metropolitan 
 Magazine, May, 1906. 
 
 "Cheap Criticisms of Dear Beliefs." (Editorial.) Sat- 
 urday Evening Post, July 21, 1900. 
 /-'"Cousin Anne Crofton." Ainslee's Magazine, April, 1903. 
 
 "Haeckel's Unguessed Riddle." (Editorial.) Saturday 
 Evening Post, May 18, 1901. 
 
 "Hornet with Stimulating Sting." (Editorial.) Saturday 
 Evening Post, October 13, 1900. 
 
442 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "How Brer Rabbit Saved Brer B'ar's Life." Uncle Re- 
 mus's, the Home Magazine, September, 1907, page 4. 
 
 "How Brother Rabbit Brought Family Trouble on Broth- 
 er Fox." Metropolitan Magazine, June, 1906. 
 
 "Impty Umpty and the Blacksmith." Metropolitan Mag- 
 azine, December, 1905. 
 
 "Little Miss Johns." Saturday Evening Post, December 
 8-15, 1900. 
 
 "Miss Irene." Scribner's Monthly, 1900; Volume 
 XXVII., page 216. 
 
 "Miss Little Sally." Uncle Remus's, the Home Maga- 
 zine, December, 1907, page 18. 
 
 "Most Beautiful Bird in the World." Metropolitan Mag- 
 azine, September, 1906. 
 
 "Mr. Sanders on the Democrats." (Editorial.) World's 
 Work, 1900; Volume I., page 431. 
 
 "Mr. Sanders to a Boston Capitalist." (Editorial.) 
 World's Work, 1900; Volume I., page 196. 
 
 "Mystery of the Red Fox." Scribner's Monthly, Septem- 
 ber, 1893. 
 
 "Negro as the South Sees Him." (Editorial.) Saturday 
 Evening Post, January 2, 1904. 
 
 "Negro Customs." Youth's Companion, June it, 1885. 
 
 "Negro of To-Day." (Editorial.) Saturday Evening 
 Post, January 30, 1904. 1 
 
 "Negro Problems." (Editorial.) Saturday Evening 
 Post, February 27, 1904. 
 
 "On the Newspaper Habit." (Editorial.) Saturday 
 Evening Post, August 4, 1900. 
 
 "Poor Man's Chance." (Editorial.) Saturday Evening 
 Post, July 7, 1900. 
 
 "Progress and the Performing Bear." Saturday Evening 
 Post, March 11, 1905. 
 
 "Prophets of Ruin and the People." (Editorial.) Satur- 
 day Evening Post, December 15, 1900. 
 
 "Rainy Day with Uncle Remus." Scribner's Monthly, 
 1897; Volume XXII., pages 241, 243, 608. 
 
 1 Booker T. Washington wrote to Mr. Harris an immediate letter 
 of thanks for this editorial. The letter was among Mr. Harris's 
 papers. 
 
Bibliography 443 
 
 "Romantic Tragedy." Uncle Remus's, the Home Maga- 
 zine, November, 1912, page 8. 
 
 "Rosalie." Century Magazine, 1901 ; Volume LXIL, 
 page 916. 
 
 "Safeguard of Our Business Interests." (Editorial.) 
 Saturday Evening Post, December 13, 1900. 
 
 "Sea Island Hurricanes : The Devastation." Scribner's 
 Magazine, 1894; Volume XV., pages 229-247. 
 
 "Sea Island Hurricanes : The Relief." Scribner's Maga- 
 zine, 1894; Volume XV., pages 267-284. (Account of 
 storms on islands between Savannah and Charleston.) 
 
 "Story of the Doodang." Uncle Remus's, the Home 
 Magazine, August, 1907, page 18. 
 
 "Taily Po." Metropolitan Magazine, January, 1906. 
 
 "Teaching a Turtle to Fly." Youth's Companion, Octo- 
 ber 1, 1885. 
 
 "Tyranny of Tender-Hearted Men." (Editorial.) Satur- 
 day Evening Post, October 13, 1900. 
 
 "Uncle Remus on the Language of Birds." Youth's 
 Companion, September 3, 1885. 
 
 "Uncle Remus's Wonder Story." Youth's Companion, 
 September 10, 1885. 
 
 "Uncle Remus's Ha'nt." Youth's Companion, December 
 17, 1885. 
 
 "Views of Mr. Billy Sanders." (Editorial.) World's 
 Work, November, 1900; Volume I., pages 82-84. 
 
 Verses in Periodicals 
 
 "Brer Rabbit and Tar Baby." Saturday Evening Post, 
 September 24, 1904. 
 
 "Brer Rabbit and the Pimmerly Plum." Uncle Remus's, 
 the Home Magazine, February, 1908, page 14. 
 
 "De 'Gater and Rabbit." Saturday Evening Post, No- 
 vember 7, 1903. 
 
 "Fashion of the Swamp." Saturday Evening Post, Janu- 
 ary 7, l 9°5- , „ 
 
 "Hello, House!" An Uncle Remus Song. Uncle Re- 
 mus's, the Home Magazine, October, 1907, page 4. 
 
 "Hog-Killin' Time." Saturday Evening Post, January 6, 
 1906. 
 
444 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 "How Brer Rabbit Raised the Dust." Uncle Remus's, 
 the Home Magazine, September, 1907, page 4. 
 
 "Juliette." Saturday Evening Post, April 21, 1900. 
 Written in 1870-76 and previously published in the Savan- 
 nah News and in the Atlanta Constitution, as noted and 
 reproduced in the present volume, Part I., page 109. 
 
 "Mr. Rabbit, Run." Saturday Evening Post, September 
 19, 1903. 
 
 "Mr. Sun Takes a Holiday." Saturday Evening Post, 
 April 22, 1905. 
 
 "Ol' Joshway an' de Sun." Uncle Remus's, the Home 
 Magazine, July, 1908, page 22. 
 
 "Remembrance, A." (First printed in 1871.) Uncle 
 Remus's, the Home Magazine, August, 1907, page 6. (Ear- 
 lier composition and publication noted in the present vol- 
 ume, Part I., page 99.) 
 
 "Sea Wind." Uncle Remus's, the Home Magazine, No- 
 vember, 1908, page 5. (Earlier composition and publica- 
 tion noted in the present volume, Part I., page 73.) 
 
 "Song in the Night." (Composed when the author was 
 twenty-two years of age.) Uncle Remus's, the Home Mag- 
 azine, June, 19 1 2, page 11. 
 
 "The Old Year and the New." Uncle Remus's, the Home 
 Magazine, January, 1912, page 22. Atlanta Constitution, 
 January 1, 1878. (See references and reproductions in the 
 present volume, Part I., pages 72, 107, and 164.) 
 
 "Uncle Remus Addresses Brother Wind." Uncle Re- 
 mus's, the Home Magazine, December, 1907, page 10. 
 
 "Uncle Remus Sings a Song." Uncle Remus's, the Home 
 Magazine, July, 1907, page 31. 
 
 "Wull-er-the-Wutts." Uncle Remus's, the Home Maga- 
 zine, September, 191 1, page 5. 
 
 "You Can Hear Me Callin'." Saturday Evening Post, 
 
 September 3, 1904. T 
 
 r ° y Letters 
 
 Many letters which were written by Mr. Harris to his 
 daughters while they were attending boarding school (1897- 
 98) appeared in Uncle Remus's, the Home Magazine from 
 September, 1908, to December, 191 1, and October, 1912. 
 Mrs. Julian Harris is collecting the letters for publication 
 by Houghton. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Part I. Biographical 
 
 "A Christmas Regret," 84. 
 
 "A Georgia Fox Hunt," 36, 79. 
 
 "Agnes," 74- 
 
 "All Quiet on the Potomac," 80. 
 
 "A Remembrance," 99. 
 
 Andrew, James O., 9. 
 
 Atlanta Constitution, 12, 13, 72, 
 73, 79, 81, 87, 99, 105, 109, 
 116, 118, 121, 122, 123, 125, 132, 
 138, 145, 147, 150, 151. 
 
 Augusta Chronicle, 91, 97. 
 
 Avary, Mrs. Murta Lockett, 46. 
 
 Baskervill, Dr. W. M., 6. 
 
 Beers, Mrs. Ethel, 80. 
 
 Bill Arp, 120. 
 
 "Brer Rabbit and Mr. Fox," 2, 
 
 3, 137. 
 Bret Harte, 122. 
 
 Cabaniss, H. A., 76, 89, 106. 
 Cable, George W., 6. 
 Carnegie, Andrew, 4. 
 "Christmas," 58. 
 Cooke, John Esten, 71. 
 
 Davidson, J. W., 80, 81, 82. 
 Derby, J. C, 150. 
 
 Eatonton, Georgia, 9, 75. 
 Emory College, 14, 15, 20, 43. 
 Evans, Augusta, 71. 
 
 Feast, H. L., 71. 
 Fontaine, Lamar, 80. 
 Forsyth, Ga., 36, 75, 85, 89, 114, 
 US- 
 
 Gordon, John B., 9. 
 
 Grady, Henry W., 9, 30, 103, 104, 
 
 114, 121. 
 Guernsey, Dr. A. H., 80. 
 
 Harden, William, 107. 
 
 Harris, Joel Chandler: Birth, 
 Eatonton, Ga., 9; Turnwold, 
 19-36; early literary influ- 
 ences, 37-68; at Macon, Ga., 
 70; at New Orleans, La., 71- 
 75; at Forsyth, Ga., 75-91; at 
 Savannah, Ga., 91-114; married 
 Esther LaRose, 101 ; at Atlanta, 
 Ga., 1 15-152; death, 152; grave 
 in Westview Cemetery, 152; 
 epitaph, 152. 
 
 Harris, Julian, 22. 
 
 Harris, Mrs Joel Chandler, 100, 
 101. 
 
 Harrison, James P., 42, 75, 85, 
 
 89, "4, US- 
 Hayne, Paul Hamilton, 71, 83. 
 Hill, Ben, 9. 
 Howell, Clark, 116, 124. 
 Howell, Evan P., 114-118. 
 Howells, W. D., 122. 
 Hubner, Mrs. Charles W., 130. 
 Hunt, B. W., 14. 
 
 "In Memoriam," no. 
 
 "January 1, 1874," 107. 
 "Jeems Robinson," 124. 
 Johnston, Richard Malcolm, 9. 
 "Juliette," 109. 
 
 (445) 
 
446 
 
 The Life of Joel Chandler Harris 
 
 Kimball House, 86, 115. 
 Kipling, Rudyard, 2. 
 
 Lamar, L. Q. G, 9, 71. 
 
 Lanier, Sidney, 9, 70, 80, 127. 
 LaRose, Captain Peter, 100-102. 
 Lee, Ivy, 34. 
 Lee, Rev. J. W., 25. 
 "Literature of the South," 147- 
 "Lost," 41. 
 
 "Macaria," 58, 60. 
 
 Manry, J. T., 85, 88. 
 
 Mark Twain, 5. 
 
 "Mary," 57. 
 
 "Maxwell, Joe," 17, 29. 
 
 Mercer University, 15. 
 
 Monroe Advertiser, 75, 76, no, 
 
 145. 
 "Moselle," 53- 
 
 "Nature," 56. 
 
 "Negro Folklore," 1 39-144- 
 
 "Nora Belle," 83. 
 
 "On the Plantation," 16, 33, 67, 79. 
 "Our Minnie Grey," 56. 
 Owens, William, 132, 133. 
 
 Page, Thomas Nelson, 5. 
 Pierce, George F., 9, 14. 
 Poe, Edgar Allan, 41. 
 "Provincialism in Literature : A 
 Defense of Boston," 148. 
 
 Reid, Captain John S., 14. 
 Riley, James Whitcomb, 5. 
 Roosevelt, Theodore, 4. 
 Russell, Irwin, 127. 
 
 "Sabbath Evening in the Coun- 
 try," 40, 41. 
 
 Sam Small ("Old Si"), 7*, 123, 
 126, 128, 129. 
 
 Saturday Evening Post, 109. 
 Savannah News, 11, 73, 87, 91, 
 
 102, 107, 109, 118, 145. 
 "Sister Jane," 15, 16, 71. 
 Smith, Dr. Alphonso C, 2, 81. 
 "Snap Bean Farm," 10. 
 Stanton, Frank L., 23, 102. 
 Starke, Mrs. Georgia, 83, 89, 92, 
 
 95- 
 Stephens, Alexander H., 9, 138. 
 
 "Tar Baby Story," 3, 150. 
 
 The Countryman, 17, 18, 21, 24, 
 
 27, 28, 29, 35, 37, 38, 39, 40, 
 41, 42, 44, 45, 47, 48, 49, 50, 
 53, 58, 66, 69, 73, 145. 
 
 "The Old and the New," 72. 
 "The Plough Hand's Song," 131. 
 "The Romance of Rockville," 
 
 121, 122, 131, 146. 
 "The Sea Wind," 73- 
 "The Sign of the Wren's Nest," 
 
 4, 6, 152. 
 Thompson, Col. W. T., 87, 91, 
 
 106, 107, 112, 113, 123, 140, 150. 
 Toombs, Robert, 9. 
 Turner, J. A., 13, 19, 23, 24, 25, 
 
 28, 30, 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 43, 45, 
 46, 48, 49, 53, 63, 66, 68, 69, 113. 
 
 (1) "Independent Press," 44; 
 
 (2) "The Plantation, A Quar- 
 terly Review," 44; (3) "The 
 Tomahawk," 44; (4) "Tur- 
 ner's Monthly," 44. 
 
 Turnwold, Ga., 19, 20, 31, 32, 
 
 51, 88, 133. 
 "Uncle Remus," 1, 2, 3, 4, 113, 
 
 124, 137, 138, 145, 149, I5U 
 
 "Camp Meeting Song," 130; 
 
 "Corn-Shucking Song," 131 ; 
 
 "U. R. and the Savannah 
 
Index 
 
 447 
 
 Darky," 132; "Revival 
 
 Hymn," 122, 128, 130; "Poli- 
 tics," 125; Magazine, 109; Me- 
 morial Association, 6. 
 
 Westview Cemetery, 152. 
 Williams, W. R, 19. 
 Wilson, Woodrow, 15. 
 Woodrow, James, 15. 
 
 Part II. Early Literary Efforts 
 
 "Accursed," 165. 
 "A Vision," 165. 
 "Moonlight," 162. 
 "Murder," 163. 
 "Nelly White," 159. 
 "Obituary," 164. 
 "Partyism," 157. 
 "Poe and Griswold," 167. 
 "Sensual Pleasures," 157. 
 "The Battle Bird," 159. 
 "The Old Year and the New," 
 164. 
 
 Contributions to the Atlanta Con- 
 stitution 
 
 "A Country Church," 176. 
 
 "A Country Newspaper," 195. 
 
 "A Georgia Fox Hunt," 270. 
 
 "A Guzzled Guest," 202. 
 
 "A Romantic Rascal," 236. 
 
 "A Summer Mood," 173. 
 
 "A Tale of Two Tramps," 213. 
 
 "An Atlanta Poet," 188. 
 
 "As to Southern Literature," 
 
 192. 
 "Christmas Time," 185. 
 "Cornfield Peas," 174. 
 "Georgia Crackers," 179. 
 "Love in Idleness," 190. 
 
 "Notes of New Magazines," 191. 
 "On Wings of Wind," 207. 
 "One Man's History," 228. 
 "Proemial to Putnam," 221. 
 "Sassafras Season," 172. 
 "Seward's Georgia Sweetheart," 
 
 201. 
 "The Georgians," 195. 
 "The Old Plantation," 268. 
 "The Romance of Rockville," 
 
 282. 
 "The Puritan and the Cracker," 
 
 187. 
 "Tom Bussey," 208. 
 "Uncle Remus as a Rebel," 263. 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 Articles in newspapers, 435. 
 Books concerning J. C. Harris, 
 
 429-431. 
 Books by J. C. Harris, 437. 
 Books edited by J. C. Harris, 
 
 440. 
 Introductions by J. C. Harris, 
 
 440. 
 Letters of J. C. Harris, 444. 
 Periodicals, 431, 434. 
 Portraits of J. C Harris, 436. 
 Verses in periodicals, 443. 
 
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