Joel Chandler Harris Uncle Remus Plantation Storyteller

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JOEL CHANOTEE
HARRIS

(Uncle

\ (TRADE MARK

(TRADE MARK REG. u. s. PAT. OFF.)

PLANTATION STORYTELLER

By ALVIN F. HARLOW

ILLUSTRATED BY W. C. NIMS

JULIAN MESSNER, INC

NEW YORK

OOPYRXCHT 1941 BY
AI-VIN F. HABJUOW

PUBLISHED BY JUJLIANT MES5NER, INC.
8 WEST FORTIETH STREET, HEW YORK.

AdCANtTFACTXJREB IN THE XJNTTED STATBS OF

BY MONTATJKL BOOKBINDIKG CX)RFORATIOK, NEW YORK

Contents

PAGE

FOREWORD BY THOMAS H. ENGLISH vii

CHAPTER

I. OLD Sis GOOSE 3

II. LITTLE RED-HEAD 13

III. THE OLD SCRAPBOOK 26

IV. JOEL ANSWERS A "WANT AD" 41
V. THE NEW EMPLOYER 55

VI. THE YOUNG PRINTER 64

VIL THE FIRST TIME IN PRINT 77

VIIL WOODLAND MELODRAMA 89

IX. A RACE OF SONG AND STORY MAKERS 105

X. YOUNG OLIVER GOLDSMITH 115

XL WARTIMES 126

XII. STORM CLOUDS 137

XIII. THE END OF A WORLD 149

XIV. ONE FOOT ON THE LADDER 163
XV. JOEL BUILDS A REPUTATION 173

XVI. SAVANNAH HUMORIST 184

XVII. ROMANCE 195

vi CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XVIIL THE BIRTH OF UNCLE REMUS 210

XIX* RISING FAME 220

XX. BY THE LIVING-ROOM FIRE 233

XXL THE WREN'S NEST 244

XXII. A PATH TO His DOOR 255

XXIII. UNCLE REMUS TELLS His LAST STORY 264

AFTERWORD 277

Foreword

"Lives of great men all remind us
We can ma\e our lives "

W

perhaps we can't just count on making
our lives "sublime/ 5 but certainly, since we are
not poets looking for rimes, we can make our
lives useful, or happy. Joel Chandler Harris was a great
man, and his life was both a happy and a useful one. His
life's work did not cease with his death, for he wrote books
in which we may find the secret of his happiness and use-
fulness and make it our own. When we read the books he
wrote and the books that have been written about him, we
find that there was nothing much out of the ordinary in
the circumstances of his life except the uses he made of
them.

Eatonton, in middle Georgia, where Joel was born, was
a small town, and dull, if you stopped to think about it.
Joel didn't find Eatonton dull, for he was a boy who liked
fun; so he sharpened his wits to find occasions for fun,
and he did well enough by himself without doing anyone
else any harm. It is true that he lacked what are called
"advantages," but the real advantages of boyhood are

viii FOREWORD

health, a cheerful disposition, and kind friends. He had
these in abundance.

His boyhood was not all play. His mother had to make
a living for them both when he was little. As he grew older
he realized that he must take care of his mother. When a
chance for employment came, it seemed to him not only
a duty but an opportunity.

Turnwold, where he went to learn the printer's trade,
was a big place in the country nine miles from Eatonton.
It might have seemed duller than Eatonton if Joel had
stopped to think about it. But he was too busy learning
the ways of the print shop, reading books which Mr.
Turner, his employer, lent him from his own library, and
finding out what was going on in every corner of the
plantation.

Particularly he was interested in the Negroes. Mr. Turner
owned many slaves, and since he treated them well, they
dwelt contentedly in the "quarters." They had their work
and their play; they lived their own lives, and kept up
customs of their own. Some of the Negroes were great
story tellers, and the stories they told were of animals who
talked and acted like human beings. These tales were older
than the black folks who related them, and had gathered
the wisdom and humor of many generations of narrators.
Joel didn't know it, but as he listened happily to this
ancient African folklore, he was laying up stores of pleasure
which some day he would pass on to other listeners far
from the old plantation.

This is the way Joel Chandler Harris's life began, and
it went on in much the same way. He never found the
common things of life dull. He discovered a lively interest
in the doings and sayings of ordinary people. On the plan-

FOREWORD ix

tation he had learned the printer's trade; he had learned
to write verse and prose which Mr. Turner was glad to
print in his little newspaper, The Countryman. When Joel
left the plantation he became a newspaper man, winning
a fine reputation because of his willingness to make the
most of whatever opportunity came his way.

This book will tell you how it happened, entirely by
accident as Mr. Harris thought, that he finally came to be
a writer of books known and loved all over the world. But
it was no accident. There would have been no "Uncle
Remus" stories if the boy Joel Harris hadn't discovered the
fulness of life in the world that lay about him.

When I take visitors to the memorial room in the Emory
University Library, and show them the yellowed sheets
on which Joel Chandler Harris wrote the stories of Uncle
Remus and of life in Middle Georgia, I like to begin by tell-
ing about his boyhood at Turnwold, for it all began there.
Wordsworth said that "The child is father of the man."
It was so in Joel Chandler Harris's case. His was a useful
life, and a happy life, because he never stopped to think
that any part of it might be dull.

THOMAS H. ENGLISH
Curator, Joel Chandler Harris Collection
Emory University
February 1941

JOEL CHAJSTDLER HARRIS

PLANTATION STORYTELLER.

O 1

CHAPTER ONE

Old Sis Goose

NE balmy late April afternoon, many years ago,
Mrs. Leverette and her out-of-town guest were
sitting on the former's front porch in the little
town of Eatonton, in middle Georgia. Suddenly a pebble
crashed through the young foliage of a maple tree just
outside the front fence, sending birds flying in all direc-
tions.

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed the nervous guest, with a
start. Another pebble, with deadly aim, hit a knothole in
the tree. A yellow-brown dog of marvelously mixed an-
cestry thrust his nose between the bars of the gate, beaming
and wagging his tail at the ladies on the porch. A small, red-
headed, barefoot boy followed close behind him, whistling.

"Hello, Joel!" greeted Mrs. Leverette, her face, which
had been rather stern, relaxing somewhat.

"Howdy, Miz Leverette!" he returned, grinning infec-
tiously.

"It's Joel Harris," explained Mrs. Leverette to her guest,
"and his dog, Brutus or Brute, as Joel calls him. The
youngster is so mischievous, he's rather a trial sometimes,
but you can't be angry with him long.

4 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"He and his mother live in that little cottage there next
to us. His father ran off and deserted them here, and we
only know that he is supposed to have gone to California
with the Gold Rush. Joel's mother had a hard time at
first, and if the folks here hadn't all pitched in and helped
her, I don't know what would have become of her* But we
just couldn't sit around and see the poor young thing suffer.

"Well, she was as brave as could be. She began taking
in sewing, and she has supported herself and Joel that
way ever since; doesn't ask any odds of anybody. Mr.
Andrew Reid he's the man who built this house we live
in, you know and his family took such a liking to her
that he handed over to her that little cottage next door,
for her home. She didn't want to take it, for she's awfully
independent."

"Did he actually give it to her?"

"No, just loaned it to her for as long as she wants it.
After Mr. Reid moved across town and we came here, we
grew very fond of her. My husband loves to get into an
argument with her on politics or something else, and she's
often a match for him, too. He says her mind is so keen
that contact with it sharpens his own."

"How long has she been here?" asked the friend.

"Well, I remember it was campaign year when she came;
the year they elected old General Taylor president-"

"That was 1848 "

"Yes, and Joel was born in December after the election.
That makes him let's see eight and a half years old.
He's a funny little fellow; small for his years, and full of
mischief, but bright as a new dollar, and you can't help
liking him."

Meanwhile, Joel's mother had returned from the post

OLD SIS GOOSE 5

office and found her mother who had come from the old
home to visit her for a few days alone.

"Joel went over to see his old Negro friend, Uncle Bob
Capers/ 5 explained his grandmother. "He said Uncle Bob
had hurt his hand and isn't working today."

Mrs. Harris smiled. "And Uncle Bob/' she said, "will
spin some more of those endless yarns of his about the
animals Brother Fox and Brother Rabbit and Brother
Bear and the rest of them, as if they were all members of
his Baptist church." Then a look of concern came over
her face. "I wonder if Uncle Bob is badly hurt."

"Oh, I guess not, from what Joel said. Just an excuse to
take a day's layoff," said the older woman. She paused to
count stitches in her knitting, and then went on, "Some
of the old Negroes over in Newton County tell those ani-
mal stories, too. I wonder where they get them?"

"I haven't any idea, I'm sure," replied her daughter,
sitting down at a table. "Now excuse me for a moment,
Mother. I must make out a bill for Mr. Turner. He's that
rich planter and lawyer I've told you about; lives north-
east of here. I've just finished making a suit of clothes for
him."

"Does he do his lawing out on his farm?" asked the
mother.

"No, he and his brother, Mr. William Turner, have an
office here in town, and they take turns coming in to it.
Mr. William is in the office some days in the week, and
Mr. Joseph the other days. Mr. Joseph is my customer. He
gives me some good orders now and then. He supplies the
cloth, and I make the things.

"People seem to think," she added as an afterthought,

6 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"that neither one of the brothers cares nuch about law.
They are both literary*"

She dipped her pen in the ink, which she herself had
made from powdered oak galls and iron rust, mixed with
water in which there was a little vinegar, and made out

the bill:

Eatonton, Ga.,
April 23, 1857.
Mr. J. A. Turner

to Mrs. Mary Harris, Dr.

1 coat .......$2-50

1 pr. pants . * L5Q

1 vest LOO

4 shirts . 4.00

19.00

"So you think you'll never come back to Newton
County to live," said the older woman after awhile,

"No, Mother," replied her daughter. *Tve made a place
for Joel and myself here, the people have been very kind
and understanding, and I don't want to go back there,
where I made the worst mistake of my life. But here's
what I've been thinking. The family at home are all gone
now, and someday soon, instead of my coming to live with
you, I want you to come and live with me*** And that was
what came to pass a few years later.

Meanwhile, over at Uncle Bob Capers* little cabin, a
short distance away, the old Negro and Joel sat talking on
the tiny front porch. Uncle Bob was a teamster and drove
a wagon for the cotton mill, Eatonton's only factory, and
that not a very large one. He often let Joel ride on the
wagon seat with him. He now sat with his braised hand

OLD SIS GOOSE 7

tied up in a rag, and smoked his cob pipe with great enjoy-
ment.

"I been usin' coon grease on it," said he, referring to his
hand, "and I reckon by tomorrer or nex' day, hitll be so
I kin go to work again."

Joel, a slender little boy with red hair, rather large
mouth, merry blue eyes, and a face covered with freckles,
sat beside him. He was already barefoot most boys in the
country went barefoot all summer then for the weather
is mild in middle Georgia in late April, and it was neces-
sary to save shoes whenever possible. His clothes were
homemade, his shirt of calico and his trousers of blue cot-
tonade, both faded and carefully mended. He was much
interested in telling of a goose which he had seen down by
the pond.

"It was standing on one foot with the other held up
against its body so I couldn't see it," he said, "and it stood
there and stood there and stood there, as long as I was
watching it. I guess it must've been a half an hour. I don't
see how it could stand that long on one foot. Why do they
do that, Uncle Bob?"

"Well, suh," said Uncle Bob slowly, trying to think of
an answer so that his reputation for wisdom would not
suffer, "when dey does dat, it's giner'ly because dey want
to rest de odder foot des like I restin' dis right hand
today." He held it up.

"Sometimes that goose had its eyes shut, while I was
watching it," said Joel. "Do they ever sleep all night on one

leg?"

"As to dat," said Uncle Bob, "dey might stan' on one
foot and forgit deyself and drap off in a doze. But at night
dey sets down on de ground, honey; sets down de same as

8 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

you doin' right now. Co'se dey don't cross deV legs," he
added, with another glance at the little boy, "ca'se dey
sets down right flat-footed.

"Dese hyer gooses is mighty cu'ious fowls," he contin-
ued, crumpling some leaf tobacco and cramming it into
his pipe. "Dey sho is cu'ious."

Joel knew that a story was coming. He leaned forward
in his chair and waited eagerly,

"In old times de gooses was 'mongst de big bugs," Uncle
Bob went on, "and when ole Miss Goose went a-dinin", de
quality was dere. Likewise, needer was dey stuck up, ca'se
wid all de'r carryin' on, Miss Goose weren't too proud fur
to take in washin' fur de neighborhoods, an* she made
money an' got fat an' slick.

"Dis de way matters stan' when one day Br'er Fox and
Br'er Rabbit, dey was settin' up at de cotton patch, one on
one side de fence, an' t'er one on fer side, gwine on wid
one anodder, when fust news dey know, dey hear somep'n
bliml bliml bliml

"Br'er Fox, he ax what dat fuss is, an' Br'er Rabbit, he
up an' 'spon' dat it's ole Sis Goose down at de spring. Br'er
Fox, he up'n' ax what she doin*, an' Br'er Rabbit, he say,
says he, dat she battlin' clo'es."

The old man did not need to tell Joel the meaning of
"battling clothes." In those days there were no washing
machines nor even corrugated washboards. The common
way of laundering was to wet and soap the clothes, then
lay them on a block of wood or a heavy plank and pound
them with a paddle called a "battling stick," which drove
the suds all tfirough the cloth. Unless the washerwoman
was careful, the process might be pretty hard on buttons,

"When Br'er Fox hear dat," continued Uncle Bob, "he

-^"" '- v ' '- v .. .:..''." '..' ".ini/'-t -t'; ' /

10 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

sorter lick his chops, an' 'low dat some o' dese odd-come-
shorts he gwine to call an 3 pay his 'spects. De minute he say
dat, Br'er Rabbit, he know dat somep'n was up, an he
'low hisself dat he 'spect he better whirl in an' have some
fun whiles it gwine on. By'm'by Br'er Fox up'n' say to
Br'er Rabbit dat he bleedged to be movin' long tow'ds
home, an' wid dat dey bofe say good-by.

"Br'er Fox, he put out to whar his fambly was, but Br'er
Rabbit, he slip 'round, he did, an' call on ole Miss Goose
ole Miss Goose, down at de spring, washin' an' b'ilin'
an' battlin' clo'es. Br'er Rabbit he march up an' ax her
howdy, an' den she tuck'n' ax Br'er Rabbit howdy.

" Td shake hands long wid you, Br'er Rabbit/ says she,
'but dey 're all full o' suds,' says she.

" 'No matter 'bout dat, Sis Goose,' says Br'er Rabbit,
says he, 'so long as yo' will's good,' says he."

"Miss Goose with hands?" exclaimed Joel, startled,
despite the fact that he had heard many curious things
about animals from Uncle Bob before.

"How you know goose ain't got hands?" Uncle Bob de-
manded, with a frown. "Is you been sleepin' longer'n old
man Know- All? Little mo', an' youll up an* stan* me down
dat snakes ain't got no foots, an' yit you take an* lay a snake
down in front o' de fire, an' his footsll come out right befo'
yo' eyes."

After a slightly offended pause, he continued:

"Atter old Miss Goose an' Br'er Rabbit done pass de time
o' day wid one anodder, Br'er Rabbit, he ax her, he did, how
she come on dese days, an' Miss Goose say, mighty poly.

" Ts gittin' stiff an' Fs gittin' clumsy,' says she, 'an' mo'n
dat, I's gittin' blind,' says she. *Des 'fo' you happen along,
Br'er Rabbit, I drap my specks in de tub hyer, an* if you'd

OLD SIS GOOSE 11

'a' come along 'bout dat time/ says ole Miss Goose, says she,
'I lay Fd 'a' tuck you for dat nasty, owdacious Br'er Fox, an'
it'd 'a' been a born blessin' if I hadn't 'a' scald you wid a
pan o' b'ilin suds,' says she. I'm dat glad I found my specks,
I dunno w'at to do,' says ole Miss Goose, says she.

"Den Br'er Rabbit, he up'n say dat bein's how Sis Goose
done fotch up Br'er Fox's name, he got somep'n for to tell
her, an' den he let out 'bout Br'er Fox gwine to call on her.

" 'He comin', says Br'er Rabbit, says he; 'he comin', sho'
an' when he come, hit'll be des 'fo' day,' says he.

"Wid dat, ole Miss Goose wipe her ban's on her apern,
an' put her specks up .on her for'ead, an' look like she done
got trouble on 'er mind.

" 'Laws-a-massy ! ' says she. * 'Sposen he come, Br'er Rab-
bit! W'at I gwine do? An' dey ain't a man 'bout de house,
needer,' says she.

"Br'er Rabbit, he shut one eye, an' he say, says he:

" 'Sis Goose, de time done come when you 'bleedged to
roost high. You look like you got de dropsy/ says he, 'but
don't mind dat, ca'se if you don't roost high, you're a goner/
says he.

"Den ole Miss Goose ax Br'er Rabbit w'at she gwine do,
an' Br'er Rabbit he up'n tell her dat she must go home an'
tie up a bundle o' de white folks' clo'es an' put 'em on de
bed, an' den she must fly up on a rafter an' let Br'er Fox
grab de clo'es and run off wid 'em.

"Ole Miss Goose say she much 'bliged, an' she tuck'n tuck
her things an' waddle off home; an' dat night she do like
Br'er Rabbit say wid de bundle o' clo'es, an' den she sent
word to Mr. Dog, an' Mr. Dog he come down an' say he'd
sorter set up wid her.

"Des 'fo' day, hyer come Br'er Fox creepin' up, an' he

12 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

went an' push on de do' easy, an' de do' open, an' he see
somep'n white on de bed which he tuck for Miss Goose, an'
he grab it an' run. 'Bout dat time, Mr. Dog sail out f 'm un-
der de house, he did, an if Br'er Fox hadn't drapt de clo'es,
he'd 'a' got cotched. F'm dat, word went 'roun* dat Br'er
Fox been tryin' to steal Miss Goose's clo'es, an' he come
mighty nigh losin' his standin' at Miss Meadows's. Down to
dis day," Uncle Bob concluded, knocking the ashes out of
his pipe, "Br'er Fox b'lieve dat Br'er Rabbit was de 'casion
o' Mr. Dog bein' in de neighborhoods at dat time o' night,
an' Br'er Rabbit ain't 'spute it. De bad feelin' 'twixt Br'er
Fox an' Mr. Dog start right den an' dar, an' hit's been
gwine on, till now dey ain't git in smellin' distance o' one.
anodder widout dey's a row."

CHAPTER TWO

Little TLed-Head

>{ ^ "^"HEN Joel was about six years old, his mother

Wsent him to a little "subscription" school in the
village which means that the parent paid the
teacher a dollar a month for the child's tuition. There were
no public schools then, such as we have now. But there
was a somewhat better school in Eatonton, called an acad-
emy, and after a year or two, Mr. Andrew Reid who
had loaned Mrs. Harris her cottage home suggested that
Joel be sent there. The tuition was higher, but Mr. Reid
asked that he be permitted to pay it. Mrs. Harris was very
reluctant to accept this favor, but she yearned so greatly
for an education for her boy that she finally overcame her
scruples for his sake.

Joel's teacher and schoolmates remembered in after years
that he never seemed to study very hard, and yet he nearly
always had his lessons learned as well as anybody, or better.
His teachers all agreed that he had a very quick mind.

When he was nine years old, he and his fellow pupils
were asked by the teacher to write a composition on a sub-
ject which they themselves might choose. This was Joel's:

13

14 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

;/-

&&c<f &^& *t**~-&

sS #stv>% *<^r4Lfo<>t wtJUs GsT**' s&2C*~~fr tt^ec

/ . </ S ' , ,r- * s , * ~& t

'

In the next two or three years, the teachers began saying
that Joel was the best composition writer in his grade.

Joel was not strong enough to hold his own in the rough-
and-tumble scuffling which the other boys indulged In,
and he didn't care for that sort of play, anyhow. But play-
ing with tops and marbles or with animals, playing jokes,
hunting, roving in the woods and fields he found much
fun in these. He would have had more dogs than Brutus
if his mother had permitted it.

"And cats!" she exclaimed in despair to a neighbor,
"You don't know anyone who needs a cat, do you? I don't
know what I am to do with the stray kittens that Joel
brings in. I've just had to put my foot down and tell him
flatly that he mustn't bring any more/*

Brutus was a loyal playfellow, but like all country dogs,
the nights were full of excitement for him. A parson who
visits in the country often wonders when the dogs get any
sleep at all. Some of them bark most of the night, others
have a habit of howling at times, especially if the moon is

LITTLE RED-HEAD 15

shining. We can only surmise that they think they are
singing. Brutus's favorite spot for doing this was squarely
under Mrs. Harris's bedroom window.

"I can't imagine why he insists upon serenading me/'
she said. "I certainly don't appreciate it."

Shouting at him did no good. He would cease for the
time being, but a few nights later, he would forget himself
and be at it again. Finally, in desperation, Mrs. Harris
filled a pan with stones and pieces of brick, and that night,
while Brutus was in the midst of his solo, she leaned from
the window and emptied it on his back. He fled yelping
around the house, but he took the hint, and never warbled
under her window again.

Joel had a playmate, Charlie Leonard, with whom he
contrived to get into no little mischief. There was a younger
brother, Jim Leonard, but Charlie was more nearly of
Joel's age and was his favorite pal. Together they ranged
all over town and into the surrounding country; fishing
and swimming as they grew older, hunting rabbits, hunt-
ing wild plums, wild strawberries, nuts, persimmons, wild
grapes.

A much-loved play-place was the White Mud Gullies,
deep ditches, almost like small canyons, cut in the soil dur-
ing rainy weather. Their name indicated that their color
was a peculiarity; most of the soil in that part of Georgia
was dark red. In the curves of these little chasms, which
seemed immense to small boys, one could fancy almost
any great adventure happening. Indians, bandits, giants,
gnomes, knights in armor, Robin Hood the reading
which Joel was doing at an early age supplied him with all
sorts of wonderful beings to imagine stealing or charging
through those depths.

16 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Also, quite near the White Mud Gullies lived Aunt
Betsy Cuthbert, an old colored woman who was a famous
cook. She was a cherished friend of the two boys, of whom
she was equally fond. Joel and Charlie, when they were
small, often played with her grandchildren. When they
heard Aunt Betsy call them, they came scrambling out of
the ditches like mad, for they knew that she was apt to have
a treat ready for them.

"I des got thoo bakin' some ginger cakes," she would say,
"an' I thought you might like a little to sorter stay yo'
stommicks until de next meal." Or it might be some of
her remarkable potato biscuits and butter, or a flat chicken
pie, another of her specialities. Everything she made was
good.

On Saturday mornings, when they were eleven -and
twelve years old, Joel would come over to the Leonard
home, where Charlie and Jim had a certain number of
chores to do hoeing in the garden, sweeping the bare
places in the backyard, and so on before they could get
away for their Saturday play. Joel would sit on the fence
and tease them while they toiled, until in exasperation they
would throw clods at him. No doubt there was much less
work done because of his presence. But in a little while the
job would be over, and then Joel or Charlie would say,
"Le's go rabbit hunting," and away they would dash.

' Jim, though much younger, always wanted to tag along.
But his legs were so much shorter that he could not keep
up with the other two, and at such times they considered
him a nuisance. If he insisted on going, they had a method
of getting rid of him. Joel would grab him and hold him,
while Charlie ran across fields at top speed- Then when
Charlie had got a good start, Joel would throw Jim's hat

LITTLE RED-HEAD 17

into a big rose bush or over a fence and run, too. A boy of
those days didn't feel that he could go anywhere outdoors
without a hat. As Joel could run like a deer, by the time
Jim had recovered his hat, the other two would be too far
away for him to catch.

There were many well-to-do planters in Putnam County
then. One of them was Mr. Harvey Dennis, whose big
farm lay on the outskirts of Eatonton. He was very fond
of Joel, though the youngster was sometimes rather a trial
to him. He always kept eight or ten hounds for fox hunt-
ing, his favorite sport. But a fox hound will follow a rabbit
trail, too, if taken out in daylight and encouraged to do so.
So the boys would go down along a brook in a little glen
near Mr. Dennis's home, where they would call in a
guarded tone and clap their hands to attract the attention
of his dogs. The sounds were seldom heard by the human
beings around the house, but the keen-eared dogs heard
them, and knew that the boys were waiting for them.
Always eager for the chase, away they went, and the boys
would quickly hear the musical "Ouf! ouf! ouf!" of their
baying as they galloped down the hill with wildly flapping
ears.

Then with the dogs always including Brutus, of course
bouncing happily around them, the boys would hurry
away over the rolling country, past the little hut of Aunt
Betsy Cole, a noted fortune teller, who lived alone and was
very fascinating to the boys. With her bent figure, wrinkled
face, hooked nose and sunken lips, it was easy for them to
fancy her a witch, and the fact that she lived very close to
the town cemetery made this seem more probable. The
boys often lingered a little at her place, to catch a glimpse
of her if they could.

18 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Once when she was puttering about her little yard, they
stood staring, round-eyed, over the fence at her until she
became angry.

"What are you young-uns gawpin' at?" she shrilled.
"Don't your folks teach you no manners? Go on about
your business ! "

"Old witch!" shouted Charlie daringly.

At that she was furious. She came hobbling, as fast as
she could, through the gate, brandishing her stick, calling
them "owdacious little varmints" and other names, while
they ran for dear life.

There was a rabbit the boys believed it was always the
same one which they saw and chased several times near
the cemetery. Twice, when they first caught sight of it, it
was sitting on its haunches, putting its forepaws up to
its nose.

"Look, it's spitting on its hands," Joel would say, "Now
we'll never catch it."

And they never did.

"That's because it's a graveyard rabbit," said Charlie.
"They're smarter than any other kind,"

(Those superstitious folk, even to this day, who carry a
rabbit's foot, think that to be effective in bringing luck, it
must be the left hind foot of a graveyard rabbit.)

"Do you know what, Charlie?" said Joel one day. "That
rabbit is Aunt Betsy Cole. You know witches can change
themselves into animals whenever they want to."

Small boys often like to make themselves believe such
things, and this was particularly apt to be true in a rustic
community in Georgia eighty or ninety years ago*

They finally ceased to spend much time in trying to catch
the graveyard rabbit, and would hurry on to Colonel

"You Boys have got my dogs again," he said reproachfully.

20 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Nicholson's plantation, which was their favorite hunting
ground.

Sometime during the forenoon, Mr. Dennis was apt to
notice the absence of the hounds and say, "Those boys have
toled off my dogs again." It annoyed him, for if the dogs
hunted rabbits with the boys, they might get into the habit
of following rabbit scent when he took them fox hunting.
Now and then, if he had time, he would saddle his horse
and follow them, for he could be pretty sure that they had
gone to Colonel Nicholson's farm. If he caught up with
them, he was never rough or angry in his manner. He
would just sit on his horse, looking at them reproachfully,
and say, "You boys have got my dogs again."

"But Mr. Dennis," Joel would say in his usual respect-
ful manner toward older people, "we'll give you the rabbits
we catch."

"That's very kind of you," Mr. Dennis would retort with
gentle sarcasm, "but I don't want my dogs spoiled for fox
hunting."

They did give him many rabbits, and Mr. Dennis could
never be greatly out of humor with them.

"Boys will be boys," he would say resignedly. He liked
Joel and saw that he was an unusual boy. "That Harris
youngster is going to surprise the world one of these days,"
was his opinion.

Joel and Charlie gladly trailed along when he went
gunning, and carried his game; and when he wanted to
train his young dogs for fox hunting, or keep the older
ones in good trim, he would let the boys take a fox skin
and drag it through woods and fields for two miles or
more over fences and other obstacles and across brooks.
The boys enjoyed this sport greatly.

LITTLE RED-HEAD 21

"Don't it sound funny/' Charlie would say, as they
stopped to listen, "to hear them old dogs carryin 5 on just
like they were after a real fox?"

"As smart as those dogs are/' said Joel, "you'd think
they would learn to tell the difference between the scent
of a live fox and a dead hide, but they never do."

Finally, when, the hounds got too close upon their heels,
the boys would scramble up a tree. This was to keep the
dogs from tearing the fox skin to pieces and perhaps injur-
ing the boys themselves in their excitement at making the
catch. There the youngsters would roost, with the dogs
baying around the foot of the tree until Mr. Dennis came
and called them off.

In peach season Mr. Dennis sometimes called the two
boys into his orchard and gave them all the peaches they
could carry. Naturally, they thought him one of the finest
of men, and eventually, as they grew older, they became
ashamed to take his dogs out on frolics against his wishes.

One of the pupils in the academy was a boy known as
"Hut" Adams, who was about four years older than either
Joel or Charlie, but who seemed to prefer associating with
them instead of with boys of his own age, and he frequently
led them into pranks which they might not have thought
of otherwise. The academy was on the farther side of town
from where these three lived. They might go to and from
it either through the main street or by a slight detour
across some vacant lots called the Commons. Early in
September, when they came out of schqol in the afternoon,
Hut would sometimes say to the younger boys, "Let's go
home by the Commons."

They usually knew what that meant. Going that way,

22 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

they passed near Mr. Edmund Reid's peach orchard and
watermelon patch. Hut would slip through the fence and
get a watermelon, perhaps some peaches, too, and pass
them out to the smaller boys. Two or three times Mr. Reid
saw them and gave chase. He was a wealthy and good-
natured man and had more fruit than he could use, and
the townsfolk used to say that he chased the boys just for
fun of seeing them run for dear life, their short legs taking
four steps to his one, dropping the melon and often some
of the peaches, too, in their efforts to lighten ballast. That
Mr. Reid never complained to their parents seems to prove
that he didn't take these affairs very seriously.

On summer Sunday afternoons, Charlie and Joel liked
to go to the brook they called it the "branch" near
Joel's house, and Hut Adams often stole away and joined
them, though his father was a prominent church member
and insisted that his family and his servants must observe
Sunday by refraining from all amusements. Hut was the
only one of the three boys who carried a handkerchief,
and he let the others use it as a seine in their efforts to
catch minnows in the deeper pools.

Joel dearly loved to play jokes, and one of his favorite
victims was Hut, though he always had to run like mad
afterward, for Hut was so much bigger than he was that
he could whip Joel without half trying.

Hut liked to be a showman, too, and would promote
what he called the "Gully Minstrels,". their theater being a
certain place in the White Mud Gullies. Hut was the man-
ager, Joel the principal comedian, and Charlie the treasurer.
The price of admission was ten pins the favorite child-
hood currency of those days, when few children had any
real money. The minstrels were well patronized; some-

LITTLE RED-HEAD 23

times they had audiences of six or eight, mostly little girls.
But as it always happened, they presently found them-
selves with a quantity of pins on hand and nothing they
could do with them, so the Gully Minstrels would disband
for several weeks or months, until Hut felt the urge to start
them going again.

Joel's dearest loafing place of all was Mr. McDade's
livery stable. There are so few livery stables nowadays that
it may be well to explain that it was in part a sort of horse
hotel, where you could leave your horse and vehicle, to be
boarded and cared for as long as you liked. The livery
stable also had horses and vehicles of its own, which might
be rented by the hour or day.

More than once Joel and Charlie played hooky from
school for days on end and hung around the livery stable
the whole time. It was not on the main street, and there-
fore their parents were not apt to come by though they
kept a sharp lookout lest one of the familiar figures should
appear. They sometimes played in the hayloft, but the
principal attraction to them was the association with horses.

Mr. McDade liked them, and he would let them ride
the horses to a brook near by for a drink of water, or to the
blacksmith's shop.

"Boys," he would say, "take these two horses over to the
shop and tell Henry I want 'em shod with kinder light
shoes all around. They're buggy hosses, and I want 'em so
they can pick up their feet and go. Tell him to remember
that that sorrel interferes with her hind feet a little, and
make his shoes accordinly."

The boys always remembered these instructions to the
letter. Leading the horses alongside the railing of the stalls,
they would climb up the planks and onto their backs.

24 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"Why, the blacksmith's shop Is just across the street,"
perhaps a stranger would say. "Why don't they just lead
them over?"

"Mister/ 5 the liveryman would reply, with a laugh, "if
them boys was goin' to carry them bosses no mo' than
twenty feet, they'd git on their backs and ride."

The drovers and plantation owners in the vicinity had
some very fine animals, and it was a great honor for the
boys to ride these horses when they were left in the stable
overnight or perhaps for several days while their owners
were in town attending court sessions. Another great treat
was a trip on a wagon with their old pal, Uncle Ben
Sadler, Negro hostler at the stable, when he went to the
country at intervals to bring in corn and fodder.

With all this experience, Joel very early became some-
thing of an expert in handling horses. His mother was
appalled one day, when he was no more than ten years
old, to see him tooling along the streets of Eatonton beside
the driver of the mail stage, holding the reins of the
spirited team with the skill and nonchalance of a veteran
coachman.

There were moments when some folk in Eatonton
doubted that Joel would ever come to any good end, and
even predicted that he would wind up in the penitentiary.
There was the affair of the hogs, for example. Men who
rode into town from the country usually tied their horses
to the hitching rack, a long pole set horizontally across the
tops of some posts on one side of the courthouse square.
The stamping of the horses' forefeet in wet weather
churned the earth near the rack into mudholes. In these
the hogs which ran at large in both small town and city
in those days loved to lie and wallow.

LITTLE RED-HEAD 25

One day, just after a heavy rain, when the mud was
particularly nice, several horses were hitched to the rack,
and some hogs were lying in the mud, almost under them.
Joel, passing by, saw opportunity for some fun. He picked
up two or three stones, and in rapid succession hurled them
at the fat sides of the porkers. As they reached their targets,
the hogs sprang up with loud ff Oinf(! oin^l oinl(s!" of
pained terror and ran, bumping into the horses' legs and
throwing them into a panic. They jerked backward, break-
ing the hitch reins, and fled, galloping in all directions
through the streets. Some even ran out into the country,
leaving their riders marooned, while Joel, appalled at the
havoc he had created, ran down a side street, but not before
he had been noticed and his doom on the gallows predicted
by some of the elders of the town.

B

CHAPTER THREE

The Old Scrapbook

UT there was another side to Joel, a curious con-
trast to his love of play and nonsense. We find
these two contrasting phases in many persons of
talent. Joel believed in after years that his desire to write,
to give expression on paper to his thoughts, grew out of
hearing his mother read Oliver Goldsmith's novel, The
Vicar of Wa^efield. He was very young at the time he
couldn't remember afterward how young. His grand-
mother sat on the other side of the fire while Mrs. Harris
read she had come to visit them at the time and Joel
sat between them, listening attentively. He was too young
to grasp the full meaning of what was going on in the
story, though he followed it pretty well But literary ap-
preciation had begun to appear in him even at that early
age, for, as he later wrote:

There was something in the style or something in the
humor of that remarkable little book that struck my fancy,
and I straightway fell to composing little tales in which the
principal character, whether hero or heroine, silenced the
other characters by crying "Fudge!" at every possible oppor-

26

THE OLD, SCRAPBOOK 27

tunity. None of these little tales have been preserved, but I
am convinced that since their keynote was "Fudge!" they
must have been very close to human nature.

Style and humor! Those were the two things which
marked the work of Joel Chandler Harris in his writing
career. The Vicar of Wa\e field doesn't waste words; it
tells its story tersely, and that came to be Joel's way of
writing, too. He had a little later, as we shall see, a critic
who impressed this idea still more forcibly upon him. And
as for the "Fudge ! " Joel found that in The Vicar of Wa\e-
field, too. There is one grumpy character in the book, a Mr.
Burchell, who sits through a whole chapter sneeringly cry-
ing "Fudge!" at everything said by anybody else. That
struck Joel as enormously funny.

The first book that Joel owned was a small Life of Gen-
eral Zachary Taylor, who, by the way, was elected Presi-
dent of the United States just a month before Joel was
born. This little volume was given him by his teacher when
he was not yet six years old (he had begun going to school
at five), and he kept it all his life.

Mary Harris continued her reading aloud as Joel grew
older, often choosing books which were a little beyond his
understanding, though he never failed to get something
out of them. It wasn't long before he began to do the read-
ing himself, and he read more and more as the years passed.
His mother had little or no money with which to buy
books, magazines, and newspapers, but many of these were
loaned to her by friends, and Joel began to devour them
long before he could pronounce many of the words.

It came to be hard for him to decide which he liked
best reading or the out of doors, with its dogs and horses,

28 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

and well, there were other things, too. Those hours of
listening, for example, to Uncle Bob and Aunt Betsy tell
their quaint stories of the animals, and why guinea fowls
are "speckledy," and how the ocean was made, not to men-
tion fearsome tales about witches and ghosts.

"Where did you hear all these things about the animals.
Uncle Bob?" Joel asked once.

"Well, my granddaddy, he toP most of 'em to me," said
Uncle Bob, " 'cept'n some I hear f'm odder ole men. An 5
dey hear 'em f m men older dan dey is an' dat's de way it
goes, plumb back to ole man Know- All; he de fust man to
tell 'em, I speck, ca'se he knowed all de animals, an' could
talk to 'em in dey own languidge."

Joel could never learn anything more from him about this
old man Know- All; he was a very mysterious character.

There was another person in town who interested Joel
greatly, and who, in turn, was interested in him. This was
a lawyer with the strange name of Demetrios, He had an
office in one of the rooms of the old tavern; a large room
whose windows looked out on the porch, with its long row
of wooden columns. His bedroom was immediately adjoin-
ing it. His name was so long that nearly everybody in
Eatonton, Joel among them, just called him Mr. Deo. He
was short and inclined to be fat, and wore side-whiskers,
which gave him quite a different appearance from the other
men in town, for the fashion then was to wear either a full
beard or a mustache with what was called a goatee, though
young men often got along for several years with the
mustache alone.

Mr. Deo spoke with a very slight foreign pronunciation.
Many people did not notice it, but Joel did, because he

THE OLD SCRAPBOOK 29

listened so much to the plump little man's conversation, and
because, even in boyhood, he became a close observer of
speech. That was what later made him a wonderful writer
of dialect.

Mr. Deo was a native of Greece, and though he said
little about his past, it was rumored in town that he had
had to leave his homeland on account of politics, for Greece
was f requently in turmoil in the first half of the nineteenth
century. As Joel wrote of himself in later years, "Joe didn't
know until long afterward that politics could be a crime.
He thought that politics consisted largely in newspaper
articles signed 'Old Subscriber/ or 'Many Citizens/ or 'Vox
Populi/ or 'Scrutator/ and partly in arguments between
the men who sat in fine weather on the drygoods boxes
under the china trees."

One of JoePs first memories of Mr. Deo was that of
hearing Mr. Leverette telling his mother one evening of
an exciting event on the Courthouse Square that day. An
important trial was in progress, and Mr. Demetrios was
one of the attorneys.

"He put Bill Ashurst on the stand, and just turned him
inside out/' said Mr. Leverette. "Made Bill contradict him-
self and try to lie out of it until he was a laughingstock.
Got Bill so mad that the judge threatened to fine him for
contempt. When the session was over, Mr. Deo came down
the steps of the courthouse, and Bill met him on the side-
walk and spat in his face."

"My conscience!" exclaimed Mrs. Harris. "What did
Mr. Deo do?"

"He just stood a moment, smiling at Bill while he took
out his handkerchief, and wiped his face. Then he walked

30 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

across to his office, wrote out a challenge to a duel, and sent
it to Bill by a messenger. The last I heard, about half an
hour ago. Bill hadn't answered it yet."

He never did answer it, and to flunk a challenge in the
South in those days was apt to be deadly to a man's repu-
tation. Mr. Deo had many friends in Eatonton who thought
he was in the right, and he gained more friends by not
publicly denouncing Ashurst as a coward, as was often
done in such a case, but just by keeping silent about the
matter. Ashurst, however, heard so many sneers at his
cowardice in the next few months that he left Putnam
County for good and settled somewhere in the West.

By the time he was eleven years old, Joel had made Mr.
Deo's acquaintance and became a frequent visitor at his
office. Mr. Deo was a good attorney and a fine public
speaker, and the men of the town, especially the other
lawyers, liked him and thought him so interesting that it
was only occasionally that Joel could find him in his office
alone. But the boy never seemed to be considered an in-
truder. "Come in, Joe," was the hearty greeting he always
received, even though there were others present Because of
the mystery of his past, it pleased Joel to imagine all sorts
of romantic things about him. How in the world did a
man from far-off Greece happen to stray into a litde coun-
try town in Georgia? That is a question which never
was answered.

i Once when the two were alone in the office, Mr. Deo
went into his bedroom, took from a closet a military uni-
form, and put it on. Joel though it was the most beautiful
costume he had ever seen. Gold braid ran down the side
of the trousers, there were gold cords draped in curves
across the front of the coat, and a pair of big gold-fringed

Joa

*

the most beautiftd costume he had ever 'seen.

32 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

epaulets crowned each shoulder. The hat was somewhat
like those Joel had seen pictured in books. It was gold-
edged, the brim at the sides was turned up and fastened
with little gold buttons, and a shining black feather trailed
over the top of it. Short and fat though he was, Mr. Deo
looked very handsome to Joel in this gorgeous outfit. He
would not tell when or where he wore it, which gave Joel
opportunity for some more romantic imaginings.

"It was in Europe a long time ago," was all he would
say. "Yes, I have seen war; too much war, Joe."

Mr. Deo had some boxes in his room, and when Joel
discovered that they were full of books, he was so plainly
eager to see them that Mr. Deo said, "You may look
through them if you like. But be sure to put them all back
before you go. Don't leave any strewn around,"

Joel promised, and dug into the boxes day after day,
ransacking them to the very bottom sometimes scarcely
aware that Mr. Deo and other men were sitting in the
room talking. Many of the books were printed in a strange
sort of type; he had never seen anything like it before.

"It is Greek my own language," Mr. Deo smiled. He
picked up a volume. "You have heard about the siege of
Troy and Hector and Achilles and all the other heroes,
have you not?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"Well, here is the story, just as it was originally written
by a Greek poet named Homer twenty-five hundred years
or more ago; we don't know just how long." He let the
volume fall open at random, and pointing at the words
with his pencil, he translated the narrative of the combat
between Pandarus, Diomedes and Aeneas. Joel sat spell-
bound. It scarcely seemed possible that that thrilling story

THEOLDSCRAPBOOK 33

could be contained in these outlandish-looking "chicken
tracks."

"There are many other books here that you will not be
able to read/' said Mr. Deo. "Books in Latin, French, and
Italian."

Joel looked at him, awe-stricken. "Can you read them
all?" he asked.

"Yes, fairly well," Mr. Deo smiled again at him. "After
you have learned two or three languages, the rest are
easier, for they are all related."

Joel also found many books in English, all printed long,
long ago. A history of Europe, and one of England, Poems
by Mr. Gray, a queer little story called Rasselas "by Dr.
Johnson" Joel supposed that he was a doctor of medicine
until Mr. Deo set him aright. Mr. Deo let him take some
of them home.

Then there were the evenings at the Leverettes 5 home,
next door, which were highly entertaining. The two fami-
lies were such close friends that Mr. Leverette had made a
gate in the fence between, so that they could pass back and
forth more easily. Joel and his mother were frequently
invited over by their kindly neighbors to eat supper or
spend the evening, and at such times Mr. Leverette de-
lighted in stirring up Mary Harris by starting a controversy
on politics or religion or any other subject that came handy.
Finding on which side she stood, he would pretend to lean
toward the other side, to draw her out. She was usually a
match for him in argument, which did not annoy him at
all. Instead, he enjoyed her quick retorts, her fund of infor-
mation and intelligent opinion.

"And so you think this book, The Impending Crisis, is
a true picture of slavery?" he might say.

34 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"Not entirely," she would reply, "but I think it has more
truth in it than we Southerners are willing to admit. I be-
lieve the crisis is more serious than we realize." And away
they would go, hammer and tongs.

But life was not all play and reading for Joel. He had
chores to do at home hoeing vegetables and chasing
potato bugs and helping his mother with her flower garden,
which was the most genial task of all.

It is hard to say when he first began trying to write;
perhaps when he was not more than ten years old. He was
not yet twelve when he began scribbling crude poems and
stories, and then little boyish essays in an old blank book
which he found lying about the house. Most of them were
unfinished. "Tiger, or the Passo de Real," "Allie Graham,
or the Broken Heart," "The Indian's Revenge" they all
show the influence of the brightly colored popular fiction
of the day, which always had adorable heroines and heroes
with the courage of lions. Some of them are signed "Harris"
or "Marlowe," a pen name which he thought of adopting.
In "The Comanche's Daughter; a Tale of North Mexico,
by Marlowe," the hero, upon hearing his mother pro-
nounce the name of Rose Norton, who had been kidnaped
by the Indians, "started, turned pale and clenched his fists,
while his eyes fairly shot fire" all of which was in the
best popular style.

"The Bandit King" was probably first of all to be put
down on paper. It starts off with a dreadful error in gram-
mar, and the spelling is at times below par:

The Bandit King

And this then was the famous & daring bandit of tie
Appennines. Yes, it was him. He had the appearance of

THE OLD SCRAPBOOK 35

being about thirty five years of age. He was of giant stature,
somewhat thin and symetrycaL . . . His dress consisted of a
wolf-skin cap, the tail of which hung over his right shoul-
der; a dress coat of blue cashmere with gold buttons across
the breast; pants of the same material with gold braid down
the seam. A buck-skin belt was around his waist, and the
butts of two revolvers could be seen protruding from be-
hind the belt; also the silver handle of the far-famed Italian
stilletto. A carbine hung to his back by a leather strap. Every
time he would move his left hand, I could see the flashing of
a jewelled ring on his little finger. His face was almost
girlish in its expression . . . elegant, not dark like the rest of
his daring band. His nose was neither of Roman structure
or of Aquiline just enough of both to be beautifull. His
cheeks were of a rosy hue with pouting lips of a cherry red.
His eyes were black and glittering & if it were not for his
eyes I should have said he was an American. . . . His man-
ners were dignified and gracefull to all, even to the lowest

menial in his band He was neither Haghty nor indolent.

This then was the celebrated bandit robber Guilermo of the
Mountains & I was the captive of this man. It was said he
was extremely benevolent to the poor giving to them half
of what he took from the rich.

But though the writer was the captive of Guilermo, the
bandit treated him hospitably in his mountain lair, and
finally revealed to him that he, Guilermo, was really an
American. As Joel rushed on to the end of the story, he
completely forgot all about punctuation:

"You see this ring," said he & his tone became fierce.
"You see this ring It has been the cause of all my unutter-

36 }OEL CHANDLER HARRIS

able woe. You!" he continued must never know my history.
I would not wring the heart of 1 of my countrymen for all
the riches in Italy Take this ring said he & keep it in re-
membrance of me & should any outlaws of the mountains
ever attempt to rob you, show him this ring & he will
trouble you no farther for I am their king as he said this
he gave me the flashing Jewell from off his finger take it
said he & when you look upon it remember Guilermore the
Bandit King Since then I have traveled many times through
Italy & this ring was law wherever I went

Harris

Among the essays which he wrote or began to write in
the old book were "Sermons to Boys without a text, by
Marlowe," "Stability of Character" and "The Ruins of
Time/' which gave him so much trouble that though he
sat down to it at least six times, he could never get more
than twenty-three lines written. Then there was an imagi-
nary debate on the comparative mental capacity of man
and woman, wherein his admiration o his mother is seen
in his eloquent defense of woman's intellectual ability.
Apart of it read:

Mr. Chairman: The question which is under the con-
sideration of this able and distinguished body is whether or
not man is an intellectual superior of woman. I contend that
he is not, by any means, or else why does he unbosom his
trials and troubles to his wife and mother? . . . Look at the
mother of Washington would he ever have been the great
scholar and noble General that he was if she had had no
intellect? Never! He would maybe have ended his life on
the gallows or in the penitentiary if his mother had never
had any intellect. What would become of man if it were

THE OLD SCRAPBOOK 37

not for woman? How many rash acts has she kept him
from doing? . . .

And in conclusion, the debater says, "I now bid you all
\dieu and retire from public life."

Joel became an eager reader of newspapers, too. Eaton-
:on was such a slow, sleepy little town that it hadn't a paper
}f its own, but Joel was always at the post office on the day
when weekly papers came in from Milledgeville, which
was then still the capital of Georgia, although Atlanta had
now grown to be the larger city.

That post office at Eatonton was one of the queerest ever
seen. It was in the basement of a little grocery store, with
a part of the grocery stock all around it. The grocer and
the postmaster were one and the same man a Mr. Sidney
Prudden, who had come down from Connecticut to
Georgia so many years before that he had become almost as
Southern as the Georgians though most folk still thought
of him as a "Yankee." His daughter Louise and Joel, when
they were little children, had often studied from the same
book in school.

The post office, just a desk and a few pigeonhole boxes,
was in a corner of the room with a wooden and wire screen
in front of it. Opposite it was an old sofa, upholstered in
green. One of the back legs was broken, so that it tilted,
leaning back against the wall for support. It was a very
tired old sofa. Its springs groaned and creaked in protest
when you sat down on it, and some of them were begin-
ning to punch their way through the green upholstery.
All around it were boxes and barrels on which patrons sat
to read their mail and newspapers when there wasn't room
enough on the sofa.

'War has begunl Our batteries are firing on the Yan%e& in
Fort Sumter!'

f '&ar&^&^!^:' '2$$:

pit^-iV" : -?^S^^^iS|'"r- J ^-'^

"*VC.>\'v;x-v_, ' > * rl *^lJ>*^..v.'. r '* j '

All other affairs were for the moment forgotten. Crowds gathered
to discuss the event excitedly.

40 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

By the time he was twelve, Joel was sure to be there when
the big mail bag brought by the stagecoach was opened.
It brought, among other things, the Recorder and the
Federal Union, the two weekly papers published in Mil-
ledgeville. These papers had many subscribers in Putnam
County, so many in and around Eatonton that the post-
master would just stack them on a long shelf outside the
post-office window, and while he was busy weighing sugar
or selling an ax, each subscriber would pick out his own
paper by the address.

One day when he was barely twelve, Joel said to Mr.
Prudden, "May I read one of these papers, sir?"

"Certainly, Joel," replied the kindly postmaster. He had
already noticed how longingly the boy looked at the papers.
"Now, let's see " He thumbed over them, "Here's one
directed to Mr. Will Spivey. He lives out in the country
and almost never comes in for it until Saturday. But be
careful not to tear it or get it dirty."

"I will, sir," promised Joel. Thereafter, sitting on the
old sofa or on a box, he read those papers so absorbedly
that he often forgot where he was. The Civil War was just
going into its second year, and the papers were full of
war and political news and bitter editorials against the
"Yankees." There would be bits of European news, jokes
and poems, all of which Joel read with deep interest. The
air around him was thick with the smells of cheese and
camphine and salt fish and many other odorous things, but
he said in after years that it had seemed to him the pleas-
antest place in the world. How he longed to be sitting at a
desk in an editorial office he noticed that the editors called
it a "sanctum" writing stuff like this!

CHAPTER FOUR

Joel Answers a "Want Ad*

"OEL never forgot that April day when the stage came
dashing in from Milledgeville, at higher speed than
usual, and the driver shouted, even before he reined
up in front of the post office:

"War has begun ! Our batteries in Charleston harbor are
firing on the Yankees in Fort Sumter."

Those words were echoing in every town and hamlet
in the nation, and in Eatonton as elsewhere, all other affairs
were, for the moment, almost forgotten. Crowds gathered
to discuss the event excitedly. Some breathed defiance to
other Americans who had now become "the Enemy."
Many in the South were stricken with sadness at the
thought of separation from the Union, which had long
held their love and loyalty. Most of the young men, how-
ever, took fire in behalf of the South and began to ask
where they could join the fighting forces.

Mr. Leverette and Mrs. Harris were agreed upon the
doctrine that the Southern states had a right to secede from
the Union if they wished.

"But they won't be allowed to do it so easily," Mrs.
Harris insisted.

41

42 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"Oh, there may be some little trouble/' admitted Mr.
Leverette, "but the Yankees in general won't fight. They're
a lot of shopkeepers."

"I wish I could believe that," said Mrs. Harris slowly,
"but I'm afraid you'll find we're in for a long spell of
trouble." Her glance wandered to Joel, listening, open-
mouthed, in a corner. He could not know at the moment
what she was thinking, though the others guessed it from
her next words.

"I wish the politicians who stir up these wars had to
go into the armies ! " she exclaimed bitterly. "I'm like the
girl in the song, 'Jeannette and Jeannot':

" Xet those who make the quarrels
Be the only ones to fight.' "

Rapidly the news came "Vkginia has left the Union
and joined the Southern Confederacy." "Arkansas has
joined!" "Tennessee!" "North Carolina." A company of
volunteers, mostly young men, was raised at Eatonton and
marched away amid tears and cheers and flag waving. Mr.
Demetrios offered his service to the South, was accepted
because of his previous military experience, and bade his
friends in the little town farewell.

At first the fighting was hundreds of miles away from
Putnam County, and as reports came back that the South-
ern troops were always victorious, the folks around Eaton-
ton took things rather easily. Joel, however, began to be
restless on his own account. When he reached his thirteenth
birthday, he said to his mother, "I wish I could get a job."
He had had little chance to earn any money. He found a
chore to do now and then, such as running an errand, hoe-

"I don't UJ(e to see you wording so hard, Mother'/ Joel said,
"while I am doing so little!'

44 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

ing a neighbor's garden, or cutting or pulling weeds, but
truth to tell, there were plenty of Negroes to do most of
this work, and a small white boy had not much oppor-
tunity. He often wished that Eatonton had a newspaper,
for he thought it would be fun to work in a newspaper
office. When he read a paper, he did it over and over again,
unconsciously studying the writing, imagining himself as
having written it.

"I want you to go to school whenever you can, son,"
said his mother, as her needle flew into and out of a seam.
"If you have an education, you can get a much better
position."

"But I don't like to see you working so hard. Mother,"
said Joel, "while I'm doing so little."

She thrust her needle into the shirt she was making,
drew him to her, and gave him a kiss. "Don't worry about
that, honey," she said. "You help me a lot around the
house, and you're doing most of the garden work now.
Something will come up soon, I am sure."

But no opening appeared for him that winter. And now
the war was beginning its second year, and both sides, each
of which had thought it would be over in three months,
were beginning to realize that the thing was more serious
than they had expected. Calls for more men were sent out
by both governments.

"You were right, Mrs. Harris," sighed Mr. Leverette,
when a second volunteer company was being organized
in Eatonton. "I'm afraid we are in for a long and terrible
ordeal."

This second company was sent away to join the South-
ern armies in Virginia. Meanwhile, other men had gone
from Eatonton to Augusta or Milledgeville and had joined
other new groups of volunteers. The young man in good

JOEL ANSWERS A "WANT AD" 45

health and not crippled who was still at home was apt to
hear someone in his vicinity crooning a line from the popu-
lar song,, "Captain Jinks":

" 'Mamma/ she cried,
'He ain't cut out for the ar-tny.' "

Joel noticed that the grown-up people who came to the
store and post office were now mostly women and old men.
The war was taking heavy toll from Putnam County, as
from everywhere else. There were no young men left in
Eatonton, and even many of the middle-aged ones who
used to smile at him and say "Howdy, Joel! 55 or "Hello,
Tinktum ! " were gone. He noticed, too, that after news of
a battle had arrived, the women and girls came every day
and lingered wistfully about the post office, hoping yet
dreading to hear something about someone they loved.

One cold February day, just after the mail coach had
passed, Joel heard the postmaster say to Mr. Anderson, an
elderly lawyer of the town, "Here's a copy of a telegram
that came to Madison this morning. The stage driver just
brought it over. Not very pleasant news."

There were quite a number of people in the store, and
two or three who overheard this said at once, "What is it?"
"What's the news?" Mr. Anderson looked the paper over
slowly and finally said, "I'll read it aloud." He mounted
a small box and read:

"Fort Donelson surrendered by General Buckner to
Northern General Grant. Two thousand lost in battle and
probably ten thousand taken prisoners. Generals Floyd and
Pillow escaped before the surrender with probably four
thousand men."

46 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Mr. Anderson's voice shook a little as he read. There
was a dead silence for a moment after he had concluded;
then another elderly man sighed and said, "That* s a serious
blow to us. That Yankee general is liable to come right on
up the Tennessee River now, into Alabama and Georgia."

"Never!" exclaimed another. "Albert Sidney Johnston
will stop him."

"General Johnston has been begging all winter for more
soldiers," said Mr. Anderson. "There must be more re-
cruiting if we are to stop them. They have us out-
numbered."

JoePs blood chilled at the thought that Georgia might
be invaded. It was sad, too, to see, shortly after this, boys
only three or four years older than himself enlisting and
being sent northward to the battlefields. He saw his mother
looking at him sometimes with frightened eyes, and now
he guessed what she was thinking. He had been thinking
of it, too: That perhaps the time would come when he
would be old enough and big enough to shoulder a gun
like the rest of them and march away to war and maybe
never come back. Then his mother would be one of those
women who went daily to the post office, hoping and
dreading, until the awful news came.

But only a few days after the reading of that telegram
which brought such ill tidings, Joel's eye fell upon a
paragraph in a Milledgeville paper, which sent his thoughts
into an exciting new channel. It was an advertisement
signed by Mr. Turner, the planter for whose family his
mother had done some sewing. It announced that on the
following Tuesday, March 4th, the undersigned would
publish the first number of The Countryman, a weekly
paper, at his home, Turnwold, northeast of Eatonton.

JOEL ANSWERS A "WANT AD" 47

Turner announced that the new publication would be
modeled after Mr. Addison's little paper, The Spectator,
Mr. Goldsmith's little paper, The Bee, and Dr. Johnson's
little paper, The Rambler all eighteenth-century leaflets
consisting entirely of essays. Joel had never read any of
these things, though he had frequently seen quotations
from them and references to them in the papers and
magazines.

He could scarcely wait until the following Tuesday to
see what The Countryman would be like. It had just as
many pages as the Milledgeville papers four but its
pages were smaller. Joel devoured every word of it, from
beginning to end, and thought it the most interesting paper
he had ever seen. Perhaps his judgment was influenced by
one column which was headed "Advertisements." The first
paragraph in this column read:

The Countryman is published every Tuesday morning
upon the plantation of the editor, away off in the country,
9 miles from any town or village.

A little way below this was another paragraph which
brought Joel's heart into his mouth:

An active, intelligent white boy, 14 or 15 years of age,
is wanted at this office, to learn the printing business.
March 4th, 1862.

Joel read it a second and a third time. Was this the
answer to all his hopes? He ran all the way home and
burst into the house excitedly.

"Oh, Mother, Mr. J. A. Turner has started a newspaper,

48 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

and he wants a boy to learn the printing trade. May I write
to him and see if he will take me?"

His mother felt herself grow cold all over. She laid down
her sewing and looked at him, trying to keep her sorrow
from appearing in her face. The moment that she had so
long dreaded had come when her only child would leave
home to begin his life work, and perhaps never live with
her again.

"Would he want you to go out to Turnwold to stay?"
she asked.

"Why, yes, I guess so. The newspaper's printed there."

"You want to go very much, don't you, honey?" she
asked, struggling with her feelings.

"Why, yes, Mother, the newspaper business is just what
I want to get into. I want to write things myself. I'll be
awfully sorry to leave you, but you'll have Grandma here
with you, and I'll come back and see you as often as I can,
and when I begin earning enough money, I'm going to
have you come and live with me."

She gave him a hug and wiped away some tears. "Yes,
dear, you may write to Mr. Turner. You seem awfully
young to go into business. Didn't he say in his advertise-
ment how old the boy must be?"

Joel looked a bit uneasy. "Well, the notice said fourteen
or fifteen," he admitted, "but it won't be long until I'm
fourteen."

"Only eight months." She smiled at him. "I'm afraid he
will think you are too young. But write to him and see
what he says."

"Is there a nice, clean sheet of writing paper in the cup-
board?" he asked.

"Yes, but I think you'd better write your letter first on

JOEL ANSWERS A "WANT AD" 49

brown paper, and then you can make changes in it, if you
like, before you copy it. Be careful with your spelling. 5 '

He wrote out his letter on the brown paper with the lit-
tle piece of lead pencil which they owned and even that
must be preserved very carefully, for pencils cost ten or
fifteen cents apiece then. He crossed out parts of the letter
and rewrote, and crossed out again. Finally he said, "Do
you think this will do?" and read it aloud.

"Yes, I think that will be all right," his mother replied.
She wanted it to be all his own composition, so she made
no suggestion. But she thought it best to look it over. "You
have left the Y out of respectfully," she pointed out.

"Oh yes," exclaimed Joel, correcting it hastily.

"If you're going to be a printer, you mustn't make mis-
takes in spelling," she reminded him.

"Yes ma'am, I know that," he admitted. "I left that out
because I was in such a hurry." He was becoming a much
better speller in the past year or so.

Now he carefully cleaned the point of their only pen,
dipped it into the home-made ink, and wrote:

Mr. j. A. Turner,
Turnwold Plantation,
Putnam County, Ga.

My Dear Sir:

I saw your notice in the Countryman which 'said that you
wanted a boy to learn the printing trade. I should like to
have the place, for I have always wanted to work in a news-
paper office. I am not fourteen yet, but I will be in December.
My mother is poor, and I must earn some money very soon.
I have gone to school and to the academy, and have studied

50 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

grammar, spelling, geography, reading and arithmetic, I
would promise to work very hard and do what is right.
Yours very respectfully,

JOEL C. HARRIS

He hurried to the post office, mailed the letter, and
thought about little else for days afterward. A week passed
and he heard nothing.

"Now that Mr. William Turner has gone with the
army/' said Mrs. Harris, "I wonder if their law office here
in town is still kept open.' 5

"Mr. J. A. is supposed to be in the office for a while on
Tuesdays and Saturdays," replied Joel, "but sometimes
when the weather is very bad, he doesn't come in, I haven't
seen him this week."

Then came the next number of The Countryman to the
post office, and Joel scanned it eagerly. There was the ad-
vertisement for the boy again, exactly as it had been the
week before. His heart sank, and he went home more dole-
ful than he had ever been in his life.

"I suppose he thinks Fm not old enough," he told his
mother.

"I was afraid of that, dear," she replied.

But they had guessed wrongly. On Saturday forenoon
there came a businesslike rap upon their door, and when
Joel's mother opened it, there stood a stalwart, efficient-
looking man with a fine, intelligent face Mr. Turner
himself.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Turner!" exclaimed Mrs.
Harris, her nerves in a flutter, for she guessed his errand.
"Come in and sit down."

"Your boy wrote me a letter," Mr. Turner said when

JOEL ANSWERS A "WANT AD" 51

they were seated, "asking for a place as apprentice to the
printing trade." He took the letter from his pocket.

"Yes sir, I know about it," said Mrs. Harris.

"And you are willing for him to go into the business?"

"I suppose I must be willing," she replied. "He's all I
have, but we are poor, and he is so eager to go to work,
especially in the printing business I think he prefers that
above anything else that I must let him go."

"I suppose you understand, Mrs. Harris," said Mr. Tur-
ner, "that an apprentice receives no wages. I can give him
only board and clothing, but I shall see to it that both are
of good quality."

"Perhaps better than he gets at home." His mother
smiled a bit sadly.

"As soon as he learns his trade, I can begin to pay him a
small wage," Mr. Turner went on.

"There is one thing I must say," Mrs. Harris interposed,
looking bravely into Mr. Turner's eyes, for she was a
woman of spirit. "Joel is my only child, and I must know
that he is not living with anyone who will be a bad influ-
ence on him. I would want him to live in your own house."

This was a rather startling demand to be made in behalf
of a poor boy seeking a place as apprentice. Mr. Turner
pulled his mustache thoughtfully, and after a moment's
hesitation, said:

"Well, that can probably be arranged, Mrs. Harris. I
don't mind telling you that I want your boy. I have asked
his teachers about him, and I hear that he is one of the
brightest lads in school. Perhaps it can be arranged."

"It must be so," she said firmly. "It is the only condition
upon which I can let him go."

"All right, I will make it a promise," he agreed, "For

52 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

the first few nights, I may have to put him to sleep at the
home of my printer, Mr. Wilson. But Wilson's a good
fellow, and as soon as we can get a room ready, I'll take
Joel into my house. Is he at home? I'd like to speak to him."

"Yes sir, he is in the garden. We are just planting our
Irish potatoes. I'll call him."

She did not tell Joel what was wanted, and he came in,
all unsuspecting. When he saw Mr. Turner, his breath al-
most left him for a moment, and his face flushed rosy red,
all the way around to the back of his neck. Even when he
became an old man, it did that when he was asked to meet
admiring strangers or when he was praised in public. He
never got over his boyhood shyness.

But Mr. Turner tried to put him at his ease. With a
friendly smile, he courteously arose to shake hands with
the boy, just as if he had been a man, a piece of kindliness
and a lesson in politeness which Joel never forgot.

"Did you write all this letter yourself, Joel?" asked Mr.
Turner, tapping it with his finger.

"Y-yes s-sir," replied Joel. To ,save his life, he couldn't
help stuttering a little in moments of excitement.

"And so you'd like to be a printer?"

"Y-yes sir," said Joel. "A printer at first, and then a
writer or editor."

Mr. Turner smiled at him, but kindly. "Pm glad to see
that you have ambition," he said. "You're smaller and
younger than I had expected my apprentice to be, but
I hear that you do very well at school, and if my business is
what you would like to go into, why, you're apt to do pretty
well with that, too. How soon could you come out to
Turnwold?"

"Any time," answered JoeL

JOEL ANSWERS A "WANT AD" 53

"Today?"

"Yes sir." Joel looked at his mother, and when he saw
how her hands were trembling, how she was striving to
hold back the tears, he began to realize fully for the first
time what this step meant, and feared that his readiness to
go must seem rather cruel to her.

"He will be only nine miles away from you," said Mr.
Turner, understanding her emotion. "I'll bring him or send
him in to see you every now and then. It isn't as if I were
taking him away off somewhere, into another state. Could
you be ready in two hours?" he said, turning to Joel.

"Yes sir." Joel knew that he could be ready much sooner
than that. He had so little to pack.

"My man Harbert will be coming in with a wagon in a
day or two," said Mr. Turner. "He will bring your trunk
out"

When Mr. Turner was gone, Joel's mother told him to
bring out from a closet a tiny trunk, only slightly larger
than a modern suitcase, and in it she put his extra shirts,
some socks, and his working clothes, for he was now dress-
ing himself in his Sunday suit, already growing shiny at
the seams, for the drive to the country.

"Where are your marbles and ball?" asked his grand-
mother.

"I'm not going to take them," replied Joel stoutly. "I
won't have time to play with them now, Grandma. I'll
have to work." He had the feeling that he was putting his
boyhood behind him. He could not foresee that he would
have much time for play at Turnwold.

He still had fears that his luck was too good to last.
"Mother," said he, "suppose Mr. Turner is drafted into
the army?"

54 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"He won't be," she replied confidently. "He is slightly
lame, because of a childhood illness, and he is too valuable
where he is. He is really worth a whole company of soldiers
to our government. He is producing large quantities of
food on his plantation, and he has some other industries
there, too, you know a tannery, a hat factory, a distillery,
not to mention the printing office. Think how much
leather the armies need for shoes, saddles, harness, and
other things. Without men like Mr. Turner here at home,
our soldiers could not fight."

Grandmother went over and told the Leverettes of Joel's
good fortune. Another neighbor, curious to know what was
going on, came in to learn the reason for Mr. Turner's call
and went out again to spread the news. Very soon it was
all over town Joel Harris was going to the big plantation
to learn to be a printer.

All too soon Mr. Turner's buggy, drawn by a big hand-
some gray horse, came dashing up to the gate. Joel's
mother clutched him tightly and kissed him again and
again.

"G-good-by, Grandma. G-good-by, Mother," Joel said,
trying to keep his own voice steady. "Ill come back for you
someday."

CHAPTER FIVE

The New Employer

AS HE rode away, his mother stood at the gate, wav-

/^\ ing at him and trying to smile through her tears.
-^- -^ Grandma waved one arm and kept the other
comfortingly around her daughter. Joel was sorry that he
had not time to say good-by to the postmaster and Uncle
Bob Capers and other friends. But as they went down the
street, they passed a group of his playmates, busy at a
marble game.

"Good-by!" called Joel to them.

"Good-by! Good-by!" they cried, waving their hands.
They had heard where he was going. Wistfully, Joel looked
back at them and saw that their heads were again bent over
their marble game. It hurt his feelings a little. He thought
they should have grieved more at his departure. He had
yet to learn that people's own affairs are most important
of all to them. He now discovered, too, how sad a thing it
is to leave home. All his life he was a lover of home and his
family, and he was never quite happy when he was away
from them.

Mr. Turner, who was a sympathetic and observant man,
saw how depressed the boy was, and tried to enliven him by

55

56 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

talking about the things they saw along the way, about
trees and birds, which were favorite subjects with him.
Presently he pointed out a log cabin by the roadside.

"That is where the high sheriff of our county lives," said
he. "Do you know him Colonel John B. Stith?"

"Yes sir," replied Joel, "but I thought he lived in a big,
fine house. I don't see how he can get in at that door
yonder."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Turner in surprise.

"The way he goes on," replied Joel "I thought he'd be
too big for that door. He is always in town talking politics,
and he talks bigger than anybody."

Mr. Turner shouted with laughter. "Well, that is his
house," said he. "When you're a little older, you will find
many people more disappointing than the high sheriff.
I've heard of boys being too big for their breeches, but this
is the first time I've ever heard that a man could be too
big for his house. That's a good one on the colonel."

He laughed again, and out of the corner of his eye he
scanned Joel with a new interest. Evidently there was more
to this homely, red-haired, bashful kid than one saw on the
surface. He was a keen observer, and he had a sense of
humor. "He'll make a fine reporter, perhaps a great editor
someday," thought Mr. Turner.

But after that, Joel seemed to relapse into his loneliness
again, and Mr. Turner said, "Can you drive a horse?"

"Yes sir," replied Joel quickly.

"Would you like to drive Ben Bolt a while?"

"Yes indeed," said Joel. He took the reins, glad to handle
such a handsome, spirited animal, finer than any he had
seen at the livery stable. But the big gray, immediately

spirited animal

hm

58 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

feeling a new and unfamiliar hand on the reins, tried to
live up to his name by bolting. At high speed he galloped
along the road, and had it not been almost straight and not
very rough, there would have been danger of an accident.
But Joel's slender arms were wiry, and he had had enough
experience to know what to do in such a situation. Further-
more, he was one of those rare persons who seem to have a
close understanding of animals and an unusual knack of
controlling them. Mr. Turner, who was familiar with Ben
Bolt's tricks, saw that the boy knew what he was about, so
he said nothing and did nothing to interfere. After about a
quarter of a mile of this wild dash, Joel got the horse
slowed down to a trot again.

"You did that very well," said Mr. Turner. "I didn't
know that little boys in town could drive horses."

"Oh, some of them can," replied Joel. "Fve driven the
livery stable horses and some others. If Ben Bolt had been
really scared, I think I would have been scared myself, but
he was only playing. He has been tied to the hitch rack
a long time, and he must be getting hungry."

"Yes, he is," said Mr. Turner, and he went on talking
about Ben Bolt and Rob Roy, his teammate, speaking of
them almost as if they were human. Joel often thought of
animals in that way himself, especially since hearing Uncle
Bob Caper's stories, and it pleased him to think that he had
ideas in common with a grown man, especially such a man
as Mr. Turner.

"But you think you'd rather go into the publishing
business than work with horses?" asked Mr* Turner after
a while.

"Oh, I'd much rather!" exclaimed Joel- '

"You like to read?"

THE NEW EMPLOYER 59

"Yes sir, but I can never get hold of enough things to
read."

"Ill see that you are supplied." Joel found himself liking
this big, thoughtful man more and more every minute.

"We Turners are a reading family/ 5 the publisher re-
marked. "You might guess that from my name. My father
christened me Joseph Addison, in honor of one of the
greatest essayists in English literature. Addison wrote
poems and plays, too, but he and a man named Steele wrote
a series of essays in a little paper they called The Spectator
and another called The Taller, which Well, that was a
hundred and fifty years ago, and nobody has ever been
able to equal them since. Have you read any of them?"

"No sir, but I've heard of them."

"You must read them sometime. I have them and many
other books. My father had a library of four thousand
volumes."

"My goodness ! " exclaimed Joel. His brain was staggered
by the thought of so many books in a private home. What
happy hours he could spend in such a place !

"It was in the old family mansion, not far from where
I live," Mr. Turner went on. "You shall see it someday
soon. My older brother William lives there now. When my
father died and the estate was divided, William and I took
most of the books. I've bought many since, so I now have
about two thousand volumes. William is even more lit-
erary than I am; that is, he doesn't pay as much attention
to farming as I do, and he has written a novel; got it pub-
lished, too first in a magazine, and then in book form."

"Is it a good story?" asked Joel.

Mr. Turnef pursed his mouth in a funny little way.
"Well, it's in good taste and the English is excellent," he

60 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

said, "but I don't think Dickens and Thackeray will need
to worry about their laurels. But don't you tell Mr. William
that I said that/' he added, turning on Joel suddenly. "I'll
skin you alive if you do."

Joel laughed heartily at the mock threat.

"I've written everything imaginable myself/' Mr. Turner
continued, "even short stories. A young fellow sometimes
tries several things before he finds out what he wants. I've
always wanted to do something with books. I taught school
for a year when I was a very young man. Then I studied
law and I've practiced at it, off and on, ever since. But to
be honest with you, Joe, I think lawyers are a nuisance."

Joel saw that he was going to enjoy his friendship with
this humorous, original man.

"I mean it!" affirmed Mr. Turner. "One trouble with
the South is that too many of our brightest men have gone
into politics, instead of producing something. That is one
thing that helped me to decide that I ought to settle down
here on the land. When my father died, I could not endure
the thought of seeing this big, fertile plantation passing
out of the family or being allowed to go to rack and ruin.
So here I am but still tinkering with literature. You
probably don't know that this is the fifth time I have tried
to be a publisher."

"No sir."

"It's a fact. Fourteen years ago I was much younger
then, you see, and hadn't the experience that I have now
I started a magazine which I called Turner's Monthly,
and issued just three numbers of it."

"Why didn't you print any more?" Joel wondered.

"Because people just wouldn't read the thing," replied
Mr. Turner, so solemnly that Joel smiled in spite of him-

THE NEW EMPLOYER 61

self, "and it seemed to me that a publisher must sell a few
copies of a magazine if he wanted to keep going. The sec-
ond one I tried turned out still worse. I issued just one
number! Then I tried a weekly, the Independent Press,
while I was practicing law regularly in Eatonton, but I was
too busy with the law to keep it going.

"Two years ago, I launched another magazine, a quar-
terly called The Plantation, just to defend our slavery sys-
tem against Northern attack upon it. Then the war came on
and made this unnecessary, so I dropped it. Now I believe I
have started a sheet which has a better chance to survive
than any of the others. Don't you think so?"

"Oh yes, I do!" exclaimed Joel. "I think it's the most
interesting paper I have ever seen." His enthusiasm was so
genuine that Mr. Turner could not but be gratified.

The sun had set, a ball of fire among dark, red-edged
clouds, and darkness fell quickly, as it does in the South.
The heavy clouds rolled up and covered the stars, so that
Joel could no longer see the road.

"I can't see where I am going," he said, "and if the road
forks, I wouldn't know it."

"Don't worry about that," advised Mr. Turner. "Just let
Ben have his way. He can see in the darkness when we
can't, and he knows the road home even better than I do."

It grew much colder, and Joel hoped they would reach
Turnwold soon. Ben Bolt trotted on confidently. Presently
he slowed up to a walk, and they went down a steep slope.
Joel could see that there were forests on each side, and the
darkness was blacker than ever. Suddenly Ben was splash-
ing through water, and the buggy was bouncing over large
pebbles on th bed of a stream.

"This is Crooked Creek," said Mr. Turner. "When you

62 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

see it by daylight, you will know how it got its name."

Ben climbed another grade on the other side of the
creek, reached level ground, and broke into a trot again,
this time faster than before.

"Level road now, and on the home stretch," said Mr.
Turner. "He is thinking of that comfortable stall and his
supper.

"For three or four days," he said, after a pause, "I am
going to let you sleep and board with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.
Mr. Wilson is my printer; has charge of the shop where
you will work, and lives near it. He is an Irishman and a
quaint character; an amateur actor or thinks he is. He'll
spout Shakespeare at you by the hour, if you'll let him.
Pretty good singer, too. Mrs. Wilson is a fine housekeeper,
and I think you will be comfortable there, and have a good
time, too."

Ben again slowed his pace to a walk, turned aside and
stopped. Joel could just dimly see a gap in the trees in front
of him. Someone was evidently awaiting their arrival, for
he heard the clank of a chain, and then the creak of a big
gate being opened.

"Is that you, Harbert?" called Mr. Turner.

"Yas, Marster," answered a Negro's voice.

"As soon as we get to the house," said Mr. Turner, as
Ben started walking through the gate without waiting for
instructions, "I want you to take Mr. Harris here over to
Mr. Wilson's place."

"Yassir."

"Welcome to Turnwold, Joel," said the planter as he
climbed out of the buggy. "I hope the Wilsons will make
things comfortable for you, and I think they will. Good
night."

THE NEW EMPLOYER 63

"Good night, sir."

The old Negro climbed into the buggy in Mr. Turner's
place and took the reins. Joel could not imagine how they
found their way in the darkness, but they went through
another gate and apparently along a lane and among some
trees until they saw a light gleaming from a window. As
they drew up in front of the house, Harbert, in the musical
voice which seems to be a peculiar gift of the colored race,
called out, "Hello ! " (This is the old-time way of announc-
ing your arrival by vehicle in the country.)

Instantly there was a muffled reply from inside the
cottage, the door was flung open, and a man came strid-
ing out.

"Ah, and it's the young man," said Mr. Wilson, for this
was he. "Jump right down, Mr. Harris, and come in to the
warmth of the fire. Have you any baggage?"

'Ts gittin' it, Mr. Wilson," said Harbert. "I'll bring

it in."

The bulky figure of a woman was now framed in the
light of the doorway. "Come on in, lad," said her motherly
voice. "I've got your supper ready and kept hot on the
hearth for ye."

Joel, though warmed by the kindliness of their welcome,
yet stumbled into the house, blushing and ill at ease, as he
always was in the presence of strangers. And thus he en-
tered into what was for him a new world.

CHAPTER SIX

The Young Printer

NOW, when a man goes into the printing busi-
ness," said Mr. Wilson next morning, as they
entered the little wooden building where The
Countryman was published, "he usually starts as the divil.
D'ye know what that means?"

"I don't believe I do," said Joel

"Well, the divil is the feller who washes the type after
it's been used, and does chores around the shop. But don't
feel bad about that. We'll have you setting type before long.
I had old Aunt Dilsey make ye an apron yesterday, for
printer's ink is sticky stuff, ye see, and ye can't afford to
get it on yer clothes. Let's put it on."

He hung the loop over Joel's head, tied the waist strings
behind him, and stepped back with his hand at his chin to
survey the result. The apron came down almost to Joel's
toes.

"We didn't think ye would be quite so so young," said
Mr. Wilson, apologetically, "and so she made it a wee bit
long. But no matter, it isn't quite long enough for ye to
step on, anyhow. I'll have it shortened tonight.

"Now, here on this stone table," he continued, leading

64

THE YOUNG PRINTER 65

the way to it, "lies the type from which this week's Coun-
tryman was printed. Ye see, it's in what we call a form.
The first thing for ye to do is to wash the ink off it with
this solution of lye and water. I'll show ye how to mix the
stuff later. Then we'll be ready to distribute the type back
in the cases."

It must be remembered that in those days there were no
typesetting machines as there are now. All type for print-
ing must be set by hand; each tiny letter picked out of a
series of little boxes and set in line.

Joel looked at the black, dingy mass of metal and was
thrilled to think that this had created the interesting paper
which he had read only two or three days ago. Even the
pungent odor of the ink was fascinating. Slowly he read
two or three of the remembered sentences; slowly, because
he must read upside down, from left to right, instead of
in the usual way. From that moment to the end of his life,
the smell of printer's ink was always a homelike and pleas-
ant fragrance to him, as it is to all real newspapermen.

He began to wash the type, while Mr. Wilson, busy at
something else, sang in a powerful baritone voice:

"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms
Like fairy gifts fading away. . . ."

He made his voice quiver mournfully in the pathetic
passages.

"Ah, Tom Moore's the gr-rand poet," he exclaimed,
when he 4iad completed the song. "Have ye ever read his
writings, Joel?"

66 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"No sir," said Joel. "Is he the one who wrote that song,
'Come Ye Disconsolate/ that they sing in church some-
times? I notice the hymn book says it's by Thomas Moore."

"The very one!" affirmed Mr. Wilson.

"I think that's a beautiful song/ 'said Joel.

"No finer ever written," agreed Mr. Wilson. "Ye must
read all his poems, me boy. Your education isn't complete
wit'out them. Now you'd better bring in an armful of
wood and chunk that fire a bit."

"A part of your job," he went on, when Joel had brought
the wood and put two sticks of it into the sheet-iron stove,
"will be to bring wood, keep up the fire, clean the ashes
out of the stove ivery day or two and sweep the floor
well, say, two or three times a week. Of course, sweeping
the floor is jist putting on airs, for nobody but women iver
ixpects a print shop to be clean. But me wife or Mrs. Turner
is liable to drop in once in a while, and the mere con-
timptuous way they look about the place is enough to
make a man's flesh creep. So we'll have to sweep out now
and thin, jist for the sake of our peace of mind.

"Now, I'll show ye how to distribute," he said, when
the type was fairly dry. "Here's a box for ye to stand on.
See this big tray we call it a case all partitioned off in
little square boxes? Well, each one of those little squares
contains a letter or figure. This one has all the tfs in it, this
one all the b's . . ." And so he went on, all through the
alphabet. "And here are the figures i y 2, 3 . . " he went
on, touching the compartments with his fingertip. "And
this case up above the other contains the capital letters
A, B, C, D, and so on. You see why we printers always call
the small letters 'lower case.' My, my! It's a long reach

"A part of^your job" he

be to *& ** f" *>***

68 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

for ye up to that upper case. I'll have to get ye a bigger
box to stand on."

He searched for one and dropped it before the cases.
"Now, look at ivery letter carefully/' he directed, "before
you throw it into the case. Miny of the errors in print are
made because the type is badly distributed, and whin the
printer goes to set type again and reaches into the a box, he
gets a q instid. Ye know what the immortal Shakespeare
said of errors: *O, hateful Error, Melancholy's child!' And
there niver was a truer word spoken."

Joel soon became deeply interested in the task of dis-
tribution, and did very well with it. In an hour or so, Mr.
Turner dropped in, asking genially, "How is our young
printer getting along?" and bringing several sheets of
manuscript which he handed to Mr. Wilson. "For next
week's paper," he said. He stayed a few minutes, talking
to the two, then mounted his horse and rode out into the
fields. Spring planting of crops was going on, and every-
body was busy.

"There are a hundred and twenty slaves on the planta-
tion," Mr. Wilson told Joel, "and those of thim who are
not farmers or experts wit' cattle, horses, or hogs, know
some other trade. There are tanners, carpenters, cobblers,
blacksmiths, and masons. Many of the women can spin
cotton and wool into thread and dye it, knit stockings,
weave cloth and carpet, make clothes for the Negro men,
women, and children, make butter and do a lot of other
things."

They closed the shop at six o'clock and went home for
supper. At the table, Mr. Wilson, who loved to talk, enter-
tained Joel with a sketch of his own life, telling of his birth
and boyhood in Belfast, a big manufacturing city in

THE YOUNG PRINTER 69

northern Ireland, how he was brought to America when
he was a boy, and had been nearly all over the United
States since then, sometimes actually as a tramp. He had
learned the printer's trade in early youth, but a longing to
go on the stage and a love of wandering kept him from
working at his trade as he should have.

"I wint to California eleven years ago," he said. "That
was jist after the first big wave of the Gold Rush, ye know.
I rode part of the way on a wagon and walked part of the
way over the Rocky Mountains. I worked in newspaper
offices in San Francisco and the mining camps, and now
and thin I acted in the theaters. I'd have ye know, young sir,
that I acted out there wit' the great Junius Brutus Booth."

"As the Second Grave Digger in Hamlet," said Mrs.
Wilson, winking at Joel.

"Woman, do not deceive the lad," exclaimed Mr.
Wilson, "I played more important parts than that. I was
Earl Rivers to his Richard the Third. Ye see," he explained
to Joel, "whin a great actor like Booth travels around, espe-
cially to a far place like California, he takes no troupe of
his own wit' him. There's a company of actors in the
theaters in every big city to play all the lesser parts. At
least, that used to be the case. They're beginning to take
more actors with thim now whin they travel.

"Well, whin Booth left California, I was dissatisfied, and
I followed him back to New Orleans. Worked me way on
a ship down to Panama. They had jist got the railroad
finished across the Isthmus then; before that time, ye had
to ride across it on muleback or walk. Well, I got up to
New Orleans on a tramp schooner, and Mr. Booth remim-
bered me. 4 Yes sir, he renumbered me well." Mr. Wilson
was pathetically proud of that. "But they had a good com-

70 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

pany of actors in New Orleans, and I could only get the
part of Seyton in Macbeth. But ah!" He shook his finger
in air at Joel. "As Seyton I gave him the cue for one of
the grandest speeches in all the immortal bard's works.
It's in the last act, d'ye mind, when the inemy troops are
approaching, and Macbeth is very near his end."

Mr. Wilson sprang up from the table, ran to a closet
and got his wife's mantilla, a sort of long cloak or cape,
tossed it over his back, brought one corner of it up across
his chest and threw it over his shoulder in the old tragic
style. Mrs. Wilson was protesting: "Pack of nonsense!"
But he paid no attention to her.

"Macbeth," Mr. Wilson said to Joel, "is alone in a room
of his palace when Seyton (that was me) comes in and
says, The queen, me lord, is dead.' At that, Booth, as Mac-
beth, seemed to turn to stone; you could jist feel him'
growing cold. As if he hardly knew what he was saying,
he muttered but that wonderful voice of his carried to
the very back seats;

" 'She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.' "

Mr. Wilson's own voice deepened as he imitated the great
tragedian, and Joel listened with a growing fascination.

"Macbeth was beginning to see," Mr. Wilson went on,
"that his own doom was at hand; and wit' his eyes fixed
on distance he then utters that matchless soliloquy, one of
the greatest passages in all literature:

** 'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow^
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

THE YOUNG PRINTER 71

To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing/ "

Joel felt his skin prickle, his nerves tingle to his finger-
tips as he listened to these lines which the world has ad-
mired for three hundred years. He forgot Mr. Turner's
joking remarks about Wilson's acting. The beauty and
grandeur of the language, spoken not at all badly by this
humble would-be actor, gave the boy for the first time an
inkling of how wonderful a thing great drama may be
when well presented on the stage.

"I felt as if I had a hand in that speech," said Mr. Wilson,
putting the mantilla away and sitting down to eat his pie,
"for he couldn't have spoken it if I hadn't told him the
news about the queen. I hoped that I could act wit' Booth
again, but he died on a Mississippi River steamboat, jist
after leaving New Orleans. That was nine year ago last
Novimber. Tom Moore had died only a few months before.
It was a sad year for the arts."

He continued talking after supper, telling of his travels,
while Joel eagerly drank in every word. The memories of
this tramp printer and cheap actor, who nevertheless had
an understanding of great thought and a love of beauty,
opened for the boy the gates of another new world that
world outside his own little county, of which he had read
much, but which these stories seemed to make ten times

72 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

more real. But the evening was not all talk. Mr. Wilson
sang "The Last Rose o Summer" and other ballads, the
majority of them Irish, though among them was one
beginning, "Who is Sylvia?"

"That is from The Two Gintlemen of Verona'' he told
Joel. "I was once one of the serenaders who sang it in the
Chatham Theatre in New York."

Finally, he took two books from a shelf. "These are some
of Tom Moore's poems," said he, "but ye won't have time
to read thim tonight, if we are to be up at half -past five in
the morning. Another evening I won't talk ye to death; I'll
let ye read a bit."

For the first few days, Joel was so busy with the task of
learning the printer's trade that he had few idle moments.
After he had distributed the type from this week's edition,
Mr. Wilson said, "Now suppose ye learn composition
that's what we call typesetting, ye know. Let's see you set
up this line, The Confederate States of America.' Here's
what we call a stick " And he handed Joel a metal holder
which was just the width of a newspaper column and
showed him how to place the type in it and how to put
spaces between the words.

"Now, don't ask me any quistions," said he. "Jist pick
out the type for yerself." And he went across the room and
busied himself with something else.

Joel worked for twenty minutes, and finally said, "Here
it is, Mr. Wilson."

The printer looked at the line of type, put it between

two pieces of metal on the stone table, and tied a string

around it all to hold it together. Then he lightly ran a

roller covered with ink over the type, laid a pi?ce of paper

, over it and took a proof of it. He showed the paper to

THE YOUNG PRINTER 73

Joel, who blushed as red as a poppy when he saw it. This
is the way it appeared:

The Conjedrate Stale sof america.

"Not bad for a first attimpt," said Mr. Wilson. "Ye need
another e in Confederate, and letters ought to be right
side up "

"I know," said Joel, "but those tall letters fool me some-
times, and I clean forgot about that capital A in America.
I'll do better next time."

He continued practicing until in a few days he could
compose fairly well. Mr. Turner brought in more copy for
the next week's issue, and by Friday morning they had the
type all set for it. When the last letter was in place, the
type locked up in the forms, Mr. Wilson began inking his
roller to take proofs, and burst into song:

"The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled. . . .

"Ah, there's nothing like a nice, sad song to sing when
ye're happy!" he said, grinning at Joel. "Tom Moore, true
Irishman that he was, the happiest of men, yet wrote a
thousand sweetly sad poems. There's one that comes to me
mind many a time, and means much to a rover like me.
You'll begin to understand it, too, Joel, now that ye've left
home. It starts like this." He paused, his right hand leaning
on the roller handle, while he gestured with his left:

/'As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving.

74 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Her trimbling pinnant still looked back

To that dear Isle 'twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us,
So turn our hearts as on we rove,

To those we've left behind us."

True enough, the recitation brought a lump into Joel's
throat as he thought of his mother back there in Eatonton.
The warm-hearted Irishman, seeing how near the tears
were to his eyes, was seized with remorse.

"I didn't mane to make ye unhappy, me lad," he said.
"Come, let's be gay!" He whistled a jig and did a little
shuffle with his feet, bringing back a smile to his young
helper's countenance.

Presently, Joel was sent over to the Turner residence
with the proofs. It was the first time he had seen the place
by daylight. It was just a big, plain, weatherboarded farm-
house, but it had an attractive setting. A row of tall, pointed
cedars screened it from the main road, and in them mock-
ing birds and other songsters nested. At some distance
back of the house was a great, scattering grove of trees,
among which were the Negro cabins quite a village of
them.

A pack of five rather small hounds, something like
beagles, came galloping toward him, barking and woofing
as he neared the house, but Joel, who understood dogs
pretty well, soon saw that they were not vicious; in fact
they were very good-natured too much so, Mrs. Turner
declared, to be worth their salt, though Mr. Turner strenu-
ously denied this.

"They are harriers," Mr. Turner said to Joel. "We have

THE YOUNG PRINTER 75

rabbit chases here sometimes, and you shall join in the fun
with us when we do." He introduced Mrs. Turner and the
children, some of whom had already come out to the print-
ing shop and made friends with Joel.

"Tomorrow you move in here with us," said Mrs.
Turner. "I'll show you your room."

It was a pleasant room on the second floor, so comfort-
ably furnished that it seemed magnificent to poor Joel,
who was not accustomed to such luxury.

On Monday the printing of The Countryman began.

"Our equipment is not of the best," complained Mr.
Wilson to Joel. "The boss bought the whole outfit type,
press, cases and all from a busted newspaper down the
state somewhere. We are short of leads, and all the type
foundries are in the North, so where are we to buy any?
The boss is beggin' other publishers for some now."

He showed Joel a notice in the paper:

Will not some good brother printer sell me, as a special
favor, a few pounds of leads, 18 em, long primer, 6 to pica?
You can't tell how grateful such a favor would make me.

There was only a hand press, and this made the printing
a laborious task. Most newspapers, however, were printed
on hand-operated presses in those days. The form of type
was laid on what was called the bed of the press, and the
ink roller was passed across it until the type was well
inked. Then a sheet of damp paper was laid over it, and it
was slid under the platen, a large, flat metal plate which
came down and pressed the paper against the type. To
make it do this, the printer jbad to pull hard on a big

76 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

wooden handle which stuck out from the press. This task
required too much strength for JoePs small body, and Mr.
Wilson had to do it putting one foot against the wall
when he pulled the lever, to get more pressure.

"Our subscription list is increasin* so fast/' he told Joel,
"that I must have help on this job before long."

Indeed, the people in Putnam County liked The Coun-
tryman so much that new subscriptions were coming in
from them every week, and many from outside the county
followed them. Presently Mr. Turner ordered a stalwart
Negro named Cupid to come in each week and help work
the press. Joel enjoyed having Cupid in the shop because
of his funny remarks and because he rolled his eyes and
grunted loudly every time he pulled the lever, pretending
that the work was so much harder than it really was
for him.

The paper eventually had a circulation of 2,000 copies,
and was being read all over Georgia and even in the neigh-
boring states. Before that point was reached, Mr. Turner
had taken on a young man of the neighborhood named
Jim Harrison who played a large part in JoePs later life
and everybody, including the boss, had to work two days,
far into the night, to get all the papers printed and
addressed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The First Time in Print

"X ESPITE the friendliness of those around him, Joel,
jj far from his mother and from the friends who
were all he had ever known, had his lonely hours

for a while after going to Turnwold, and would have had
more of them had there not been so much of interest to
see and do on the great plantation, especially among its
many kinds of wild life. As he worked, he heard squirrels
scampering on the roof of the shop and blue jays cracking
their acorns there. Once he looked up from his type case
just in time to see a red fox cross the path leading into the
woods, pause a moment with one forepaw in air to look
toward the shop, and sniff the breeze, then vanish. As Joel
remembered it in after years:

It was a great and saving experience. It was just lonely
enough to bring me face to face with myself, and yet not
lonely enough to breed melancholy. I used to sit in the dusk
and see the shadows of all the great problems of life flitting
about, restless and uneasy, and I had time to think about
them. What some people call loneliness was to me a great
blessing, and the printer's trade, so far as I learned it, was
in the nature of a liberal education.

77

78 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

One of the most absorbing spectacles of that first spring
was the building of a nest by a pair of partridges in last
year's tall feed grass quite near the shop. Joel could not
continue work for watching them until the job was
complete.

First, they bent long grass over from each side until
they made a tunnel three or four feet long. Then Mrs.
Partridge went through it to the closed end and began to
scratch and flutter, hollowing out a nest for herself. This
disarranged the archway of grass, and Mr. Partridge re-
built it carefully over her until she was completely con-
cealed. Now and then he would walk away a few steps and
look back at the nest. If his sharp eyes could see anything
suspicious, he would return and weave the grass more
closely together. Finally Mrs. Partridge came outside, they
consulted over it with queer little duckings, and decided
that the job was well done. As Joel wrote of himself years
later:

Joe found it very difficult to discover the nest when he
went out of the office, so deftly was it concealed; and he
would have been compelled to hunt for it very carefully
but for the fact that when Mrs. Partridge found herself
disturbed, she rushed from the little grass tunnel and threw
herself at Joe's feet, fluttering around as if desperately
wounded, and uttering strange little cries of distress. Once
she actually touched his feet with her wings; but when he
stooped to pick her up, she managed to flutter off, just out
of reach of his hand. Joe followed her for some distance,
and he discovered that the farther she led him away from
the nest, the more her condition improved, until fiijally, she
ran off into the sedge and disappeared.

THE FIRST TIME IN PRINT 79

Joe was never able to find anyone to tell him how Mrs.
Partridge knew what kind of antics a badly wounded bird
would cut up.

Those first few evenings at Wilson's were lively, for
the vivacious Irishman was either telling stories of his
wanderings and his theatrical experiences, or throwing his
wife's mantilla about him to recite Hamlet's soliloquy, or
drawing his head down between his shoulders to snarl
out Richard Ill's last rantings, or stuffing a pillow under
his clothes to play Falstaff, or roaring out some ballad or
other, so that Joel found it hard to steal an hour of quiet
to read or to write to his mother. After he moved into the
Turner home, his evenings were his own if he wanted them
to be, and he was still so bashful in the presence of the
family that he spent nearly all of them in his own room.

As he mastered his work at the shop, he found that
except for the days when the paper went to press, he had
many leisure hours when he might do just what he pleased,
and those, when the weather was fine, he occupied in out-
door activities which became more and more varied
rambling through woods and fields, getting better ac-
quainted with the wild things which lived among them,
and later hunting, fishing, and trapping. He went over
to look at the old Turner mansion, the former home of his
employer's father, and lately the place where his bachelor
brother William lived with his mother and widowed sister,
Mrs. Hubert. The latter saw Joel walking in the grounds,
and was very cordial.

"So this is young Mr. Harris," she exclaimed, shaking
hands with the blushing boy. "I've been hearing of how
fast you are learning the printing business. That's a fine

80 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

little paper you are getting out over there, and I'm sure it
will be a success. 5 '

She continued talking hospitably, showing Joel through
the grounds. The handsome frame mansion, built in
Colonial style, had a curving hedge of boxwood in front
of it which scented the air. At one side was the family
burying ground, enclosed by an iron fence. There were
forests of splendid trees here, as at Turnwold, but Joel saw
that Mr. William's farm was not as well kept as his
brother's.

"My father was a great lover of trees," explained Mrs.
Hubert. "He planted more trees than he cut down, and my
brother Joseph is doing the same thing. That big grove of
oaks and hickories between our two homes is the nesting
place of many hawks, and the Negroes complain that they
catch too many of our chickens. But as my brother says,
you can grow a chicken in a few weeks, but it takes at least
half a century to make a real tree, and of course he is right."

Joel found that Mr. Joseph Turner knew a great deal
about forestry and botany; in fact, he loaned Joel books on
those subjects and taught him much about them. Each
spring he kept in a notebook the dates when he saw or
heard the first migratory birds that came up from the
South, and he would publish lists of these in The Country-
man, as, for example:

Tues. 8th April. Heard the first Martin (hirundo fur-
purea), also the first swallow (hirundo pelasgia).

Thurs. 10th. Saw the first bee martin (musicapa
tyrannus).

Wed. 16th. Heard the first whippoorwill (caprimulgus
vodjerus).

THE FIRST TIME IN PRINT 81

And so on. Mrs. Turner was also a nature lover, and had
a wonderful flower garden. She showed Joel through it,
calling his attention especially to a large section which was
devoted entirely to wild flowers. It is no wonder that he
knew so much about nature through the rest of his life.
He had a natural love for it, and he had teachers who made
him love it the more.

When Joel brought the proofs of the paper to Mr. Turner
each week, he was usually received in the library, which to
him was the most wonderful thing on the plantation. The
books almost covered three sides of a big room. It was easy
to see how happy Mr. Turner was among them. During
Joel's second or third visit, the editor took him on a tour of
the shelves, pointing out the various authors.

"Here are The Spectator and The Tatler, which I told
you about. Here are other eighteenth-century writers

Fielding, Swift, Smollett, Goldsmith Here are Gibbon's

Roman Empire, histories of England by Macaulay and
Hume . . . Irving, Fenimore Cooper's novels, Scott, Hugo
. . . Dickens and Thackeray but I haven't been able to
get their very latest books, because of the war. Here are
the poets Shakespeare, Byron, Burns, Shelley, Keats,
Wordsworth, Milton, Tasso; some American ones, too
Mr. Bryant, that New York editor; Professor Longfellow
up at Harvard, who writes some very good things; a young
Massachusetts Quaker named Whittier; our Southern
poets, Paul Hamilton Hayne and Henry Timrod . . ."

Joel's eyes glistened at the sight of such a treasure house
of reading, such an array of handsome volumes, for many
of them were finely bound in leather, and some of them
real book .collectors' treasures.

"And here is our Southern novelist, William Gilmore

82 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Simms, whom you ought to read," continued Mr. Turner.

"I've read most of his books/' said Joel

Mr. Turner, somewhat surprised, turned to the shelves
again. "I'll lend you some books from time to time, if
youll take good care of them," said he.

"Oh, I certainly won't do that, sir," exclaimed Joel.

"Now, let's see " Mr. Turner looked along the shelves.
"Here are Grimm's Tales'

"I've read those," Joel told him.

"Sandjord and Merton "

"I've read that, too," said Joel. "Please, Mr. Turner, I'd
like to have a volume of The Spectator or Macbeth; I've
never read either of them."

His employer stared at him in surprise, then took two
volumes from the shelves and handed them to him. "You
may not understand it all," said he, "but I think you will
get far more of it than most boys of your age."

After that, Joel was a frequent borrower from the library,
with Mr. Turner either suggesting books for him to read
or trying to give him what he wanted. He never ventured
to go into the library alone. He was still too much in awe
of the great collection and of Mr. Turner to go in and
make himself at home there.

The fine mind concealed behind that freckle-faced,
awkward, bashful exterior was evidently a source of won-
der and interest to Mr. Turner, and he did everything he
could to help Joel develop his talent. The young apprentice
stole a march on him and secretly began displaying his
ability before the employer realized it. This is how it
happened:

The prospectus of The Countryman, as Mr. Turner
wrote it, declared that

THE FIRST TIME IN PRINT 83

This paper is a complete cyclopedia of the History of the
Times The War News Agriculture, stock-raising
Field-Sports Wit Humor Anecdote Tales
Philosophy Morals Poetry Politics Art Science

Useful recipes Money and Market Matters Literature

Genl. Miscellany. . . .

This was a tremendous program for a small, four-page
sheet, and Mr. Turner was being rather whimsical when
he wrote it. He gave Joel a somewhat different picture.

"Of course, I can't pretend that this is a newspaper,"
he said. "On the other hand, we mustn't publish some-
thing that's dull and prosy. I just want it to be a pleasant
and instructive companion for the leisure hour, a paper
that will talk a little about something besides the war.

"But of course I can't ignore the war. I touch upon the
political situation every week. My brother William writes
a weekly letter from the front, and sometimes there are
others. But I also try to write something of a literary sort
every week, or publish a good poem.

"Much of our philosophy and wit must be handed out
in very small packages what we call fillers. You have
noticed that the leading articles in newspapers cannot al-
ways be made to fit the space. There are little blank nooks
at the bottom of the columns, which must be filled with
short items or squibs of some sort or other. Most editors
clip stuff from one another's papers to fill these crannies,
but I like to give The Countryman a bit of a classical tone,
so I have three books from which to lift short items. Here
they are Lacon, The Percy Anecdotes, and Rochefou-
cauld's Maxims.

"Now, I am going to give you the task of selecting next

84 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

week's fillers, and see how you get along with it. Count
words and pick out something strong, brilliant, or inter-
esting that will fill the space. You may have to prune it a
little, but don't spoil a good sentence."

Joel enjoyed this new task greatly, finding much of in-
terest in the three books through which he browsed. Mr.
Turner sometimes criticized his selections, but for the most
part was well satisfied. There might be only one or two
or three small fillers needed in a week's paper, but some-
times there was a space of a hundred words or so to be
covered.

It wasn't long before Joel's mind began to itch with a
desire to write something of his own for those spaces. He
thought of so many things that he could say ! Finally he
jotted down several short items comments upon events in
history and literature and one week when there was a
space into which one of them would fit, he ventured to put
it into type.

He watched Mr. Turner's face anxiously as he glanced
over the proofs now suddenly ridden by a fear that if he
were found out, he might be discharged and sent back
home. But the editor seemed to notice nothing wrong.
Not until the paper was on the press did Joel breathe freely.
How exciting it was to have fooled this wise man so com-
pletely! And next there came the supreme joy of seeing
his own words in type for the first time even though the
readers of the paper did not know that they were his. In
fact, Joel liked it better that way. For a long time after he
began writing, he was so timid that he begged editors not
to attach his name to anything they published.

More and more frequently he filled a space in The Coun-
tryman with a paragraph of his own, until at length he was

THE FIRST TIME IN PRINT 85

drawing very little from the three books. He never wrote
these items with pen or pencil just composed them in
type as he stood at the case. Thus no incriminating evi-
dence was left lying around. He thought he was being very
sly, and that Mr. Turner suspected nothing, but afterward
he remembered a certain wise look which began to come
to his employer's face, the hint of a smile about the corners
of his mouth as he looked over the proofs omens which
should have signaled to the young scribe that he might have
fooled the boss for a little while at the start, but he couldn't
fool him long.

Only now and then was one of the fillers rejected. And
what an honor it was to have one's writing in a paper
which was admired by the best minds all over the South,
and which was quoted from almost every week by other
newspapers !

Joel had brought the old scrapbook with him to Turn-
wold, and continued to scribble in it poems, stories, essays.
He had now begun really to look forward to a literary
career. "Just wait, Mother," he had said more than once
before leaving home. "I'll write stories myself someday."
What he meant was, "Write and get them published."
Now at last, when he had been working on the paper for
nearly six months, his success with the anonymous para-
graphs emboldened him. He copied what he thought was
one of his best essays on sheets of paper, intending to hand
it to Mr. Turner for his approval at their next meeting.

But when the editor came to the shop the very next day,
Joel could not screw up his courage to the point of show-
ing the piece to him. He went to the house a day or two
after that^ with the manuscript in his pocket, sat there
tongue-tied, and came away without ever having mentioned

86 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

it. Finally he signed his favorite pseudonym, "Marlowe,"
to it, set it up in type, and handed the proof and the manu-
script to Mr. Turner with fingers that shook a little.

Editors in those days almost never wrote letters to
would-be contributors. They simply answered them
through the columns of the paper or magazine: "W.B.K.'s
poem shows traces of talent, but needs more polishing be-
fore we can use it"; "Arabella C. your manuscript is too
absurd for words to describe" things like that.

Mr. Turner pursued the same plan. Within an hour he
came out to the shop, handed Joel the proofs and manu-
script, and went away without a word. Joel found that his
own article had been approved, but there was a new piece
of copy for him to set up. It read:

Marlowe

The article over the signature of Marlowe is published,
not because it is entirely up to the standard of The Country-
man, but because, being the production of a young man not
high in his teens, it evinces promise of what he may do if
he will. If he will be laborious and careful in the composi-
tion and elaboration of his articles, and do his best every
time, I will continue to publish for him. But should he
become careless in his composition, I will close the columns
of this journal against him. In after life he will thank me
for being very rigid with his productions.

Joel read the item through rather dizzily, then put it in
the next week's paper. In after years he laughed over the
absurdity of all this; he pretending to Mr. Turner that
"Marlowe" was an anonymous, unknown persop, and Mr.

THE FIRST TIME IN PRINT 87

Turner taking the cue and pretending that he did not
know that "Marlowe" was working in his own shop and
eating at his table.

But Joe took the stern warnings of Mr. Turner very
seriously, and labored hard to improve his writing. The
odd thing is that the first item in the paper to which he
signed his own name was a recipe for making black ink.
This happened just a few weeks after the Marlowe episode.
The item was written as if from a correspondent. It ad-
dressed the editor as "Mr. Countryman" and said that the
ink recipe "might be valuable to your readers owing to the
scarcity of the fluid/' and the signature was "J. C. Harris."

What a marvelous thing it was to see his own name in
print! It made him happy, yet made him shiver with the
responsibility of it. But it gave him a little more courage.
Within a few days he wrote out another essay, this one
entitled "Grumblers," and pretending to be taken from an
ancient Arabic book entitled Tdlmenow Isitsoornot. He
signed his name to it "J. C. Harris," sought Mr. Turner in
the library, and blushing from top to toe, he brought it
forth with a trembling hand.

"M-M-Mr. T-Turner," he quavered, "h-h-here's a p-piece
I've written a I I thought it m-might be g-good
enough m-maybe you'd read it a I mean for the
p-paper. . . ."

Mr. Turner, true gentleman that he was, did not even
smile. "Thank you, Joel," he said gravely, accepting the
paper. "I'll read it as soon as possible." No sooner had he
left the house than Joel became convinced that the essay
was probably the most terrible thing ever written, and that
he was the most stupid and presumptuous fellow living, to

88 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

think that he could get such stuff into print. Mr. Turner
would laugh at it, he would come back and hurl it at the
idiotic author's head.

But not so ! At his very next call at the shop, Mr. Turner
said, as soon as he entered, "That's a very good piece, Joel.
I've decided to use it. There are two or three slight changes
I would suggest, but on the whole, a very good essay."

Joel stood transfixed, red as a beet, composing stick in
hand, a capital letter A held shaking in air with the other,
paralyzed with delight. It seemed to him that he could
never in his life be any happier than he was at that moment.
"J. C. Harris" had come before the world as an author.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Woodland Melodrama

^UT-of-door life was glorious, too. Joel made the
acquaintance of a boy from a neighboring plan-
tation, a year older than himself, who was just the
type to be a boon companion for a nature lover. This was
James Knox Polk Gaither, named in honor of a recent
President of the United States.

"I got an uncle named James, too," he told Joel, "and to
keep from gittin 5 us mixed up, they call me Jim-Poke."

The Gaithers, though prosperous plantation owners,
were not cultured, as were the Turners, and Jim-Poke,
though he was nearly fifteen when Joel first came to know
him, could read only the simplest things in books for little
children. Words of two syllables or more were apt to be too
much for him. There were no schools out in the country
then, and a child must either be taught at home or sent to
town for schooling, else he had no education at all.

Jim-Poke could write his name when he did, Joel
said, the letters "looked as if they were wrestling with each
other" and that was about all he could do in the way of
penmanship. His favorite way of writing his autograph
was with a pointed stick in sand or dust, and he was very

89

90 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

proud o this achievement. Whenever he and Joel in their
forays came to a place where recent rain had washed sand
into a smooth plane, Jim-Poke could never resist that in-
viting surface. He would get a stick and laboriously scrawl
"James K. Polk Gaither" on it.

But though Jim-Poke lacked book learning, he had a
keen mind and much learning of another sort; he was al-
most an encyclopedia on nature. He was a friendly soul,
and ever afterward, Joel counted his acquaintance with
this unlettered country boy as one of the most valuable of
his early life.

Jim-Poke knew every road, path, and dim woodland
trail in the whole neighborhood. He could find his way
through the great and seemingly trackless swamps which
bordered the Oconee River, not far away. Joel declared
that there was not a bird or a tree in the woods with whose
name and nature he was not acquainted. He knew where
the finest wild strawberries grew, the best chincapins and
chestnuts and persimmons. Sometimes, when they were on
a ramble or a hunt, he would say, "Le's go down this
branch. They's some fine bullaces grows down here. 5 ' He
meant muscadines, the luscious Southern fox grapes, first
cousins to the scuppernongs.

"These ripens the earliest of any I know of," he would
remark, "and if we don't git some of 'em, the 'possums will
have 'em all."

On the ground under the tall forest trees over which the
vines clambered and spread their small, delicate foliage,
die boys would find some of the tough-skinned grapes lying
singly, like nuts, and they would throw clubs up into the
t^cs and bring others thudding down. 9

The birds could not hide their nests from Jim-Poke, nor

WOODLAND MELODRAMA 91

could the wild animals escape him for he was an ardent
hunter. He had a tame buzzard which he had taken from
a nest when it was young and brought up as such a pet
that if he would permit it, the ugly bird would sometimes
follow him on a ramble, flying from tree to tree. He set
traps for flying squirrels, and tamed them very quickly
after he had made them captive. The fearless way in which
he pounced upon and handled snakes astounded Joel until
he discovered that Jim-Poke played with only the harm-
less ones.

"No, sir! Nothin' but blacksnakes and chicken snakes
and such," said he. "Whenever I pick up somep'n pizen,
like a moccasin or a spreadin' adder, I do it quick and hard.
Ill show you next time I can ketch one."

Truly, his method with these reptiles was as startling as
that with the others. He and Joel were walking through
grass and weeds a few days later when Jim-Poke suddenly
leaped forward and downward, made a grab at the earth
and came up with the tail of a high-land moccasin in his
hand. With a quick and powerful reverse movement of
his arm, he snapped the reptile zip! as one cracks a
whip, jerking its head almost completely away from its
body. Joel saw him do this a number of times afterwards
with venomous snakes.

"Always ketch 'em by the tail," he grinned at Joel, "but
be sure you don't miss your grab."

"I don't think I'll try it," said Joel.

"Now, I'll hang this feller on this limb," said Jim-Poke,
draping the moccasin's body over the bough of a sapling,
"and hit'll bring rain. We need rain."

A few small superstitions like this were the only flaws
in his nature knowledge. He firmly believed that hanging

92 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

a dead snake on a fence or bough would cause rain to fall
within twenty-four hours. Sometimes this didn't come to
pass, and Joel would remind him of it. But Jim-Poke al-
ways had an explanation.

"That snake musta wriggled off that limb/ 5 he would
say. "You know, a snake never dies till sundown, I don't
keer what you do to it. You kin kill it at sunup in the
mornin', mash it to a jelly or cut it in two, and it won't
die till sundown nohow. That moccasin musta wriggled
ofFn that limb onto the ground, and of course that stops
the rain from comin'."

Once when they were walking in the woods, Jim-Poke's
keen eyes spied two large hawks circling above the trees
ahead of them.

"Gimme your hankcher," he said in a low tone to Joel,
"and git under that red haw bush. We'll have some fun
with them hawks."

He himself crouched under another shrub, and with
Joel's handkerchief doubled and held just in front of his
mouth, he began to make a queer sound a series of cries
something like "Hoo ! hoo! hoo-hoo!"

"Some kind of owl?" asked Joel in a whisper.

"Yeh swamp owl," replied Jim-Poke. "Never hear
one?"

"No."

'Watch the other birds hide theirselves." And truly, the
cry had caused great consternation in woodland. There
were quick flashings of wings here and there in the shades,
and then all the smaller birds had vanished and their voices
were hushed. But the two hawks, screaming with indigna-
tion, came flying toward the sound with their feathers

Jim-Po^e suddenly leaped jorward and downward) and made a
* grab at the earth.

94 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

ruffled, and were followed by a third one, all primed for
battle.

Jim-Poke had given the call again and again. As the
hawks swooped around the trees above the boys 9 heads,
the caw of a crow was heard.

"N(?w you'll see some fun," muttered Jim-Poke. "Keep
right still."

The crow, flying high, might have gone on its way had
it not heard the hated owl cry. It alighted on the very tip
of a tall pine, and then caught sight of the three hawks.
Instantly, it sounded the "assembly" call. Joel could not
detect any difference between these caws and the others,
but to crow ears, they meant an emergency. Where they all
came from was a mystery, but in a few seconds the air was
a-whir with wings and the pine was dotted thickly with
sleek, black bodies, while others dropped down into scrub
oaks near by.

They couldn't discover the owl, but the hawks would
do just as well for opponents, so it was "Up Crows, and
at them!" Truly a battle royal such cawing, screaming^
squawking, and fluttering Joel had never heard or seen
before. The hawks, badly outnumbered, finally fled the
scene of action, after losing many feathers. But as they
went

"Look at that bee martin!" cried Jim-Poke.

He meant a kingbird or tyrant flycatcher, a little, scrappy
fellow no bigger than a robin, but the Jack-the-Giant-
Killer of the bird world. It darted down like a fighting
plane from the skies, alighted on the back of one of the
hawks, dug its claws into the flesh, and rode away on the
big bird, tearing out beakfuls of feathers as it went.

The woodland melodrama was over. It had been so novel

WOODLAND MELODRAMA 95

and thrilling that Joel felt as if he had had a front seat at
a real play.

"You cain't beat the crows/ 5 said Jim-Poke. "Smartest
birds in the world; smarter'n some people I know. They're
the only birds that'll gang together at a minute's notice
when one of 'em hollers, and light into some other birds
or whatever it is they wanta lick. They know what a gun
is jest as well as you do. When they see a man with a gun,
they'll git away from there a-callyhootin'."

Jim-Poke had two hounds, black and tan in color, named
Jolly and Loud, which were almost as interesting to Joel as
was their master. When Jim-Poke brought them over for
Joel's first night hunt, Harbert went along, and even Mr.
Wilson, but the latter fell over so many stumps and got
into so many difficulties that he proved to be a nuisance,
and never went again.

"Now, these are funny dogs," said Jim-Poke before they
started. "If you start out with a light, they'll hunt 'possums
all night long. If you go into the woods and fetch a whoop
or two before you strike a light, they won't notice no
'possum, but you better believe they'll make oT Zip Coon
lift hisself off'n the ground. So whichever you want, you'll
have to start out right."

Joel suggested 'coon, and with a whoop from Jim-Poke,
they started into the woods in darkness, Mr. Wilson falling
down now and then, and becoming impatient with the
idea. Jim-Poke went on to explain the temperamental
whims of the dogs.

"If Loud strikes a trail first," said he, "Jolly will pout
I call it poutin'. He'll run along with Loud, but he won't
open his mouth until the scent gits hot enough to make
him forgit hisself."

96 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

The dogs had long since vanished from sight and hear-
ing, and the hunters waited in silence only a few minutes
before a far-off, mellow bay gave the news that Loud had
found a trail. Sure enough, Jolly said nothing for a few
minutes, until the trail became hotter.

"Now, le's light up," said Jim-Poke. They set fire to the
pitch-pine torches and started on, but Jim-Poke called a halt
again, that he might listen carefully.

"That 'coon has been caught out from home," he said
after a pause. "The dogs are between him and his holler
tree. He's makin' for that dreen in Pap's ten-acre field.
There's a pond there, and old Zip has gone there after a
bait of frogs. Jest wait till they turn his head this way."

Mr. Wilson ridiculed the notion that Jim-Poke could
know all this just by listening to the distant voices of the
dogs, but the young hunter went even further and said
that the 'coon was about three-quarters of an hour ahead
of the dogs maybe a little more or less. He knew this by
the fact that the dogs were not giving tongue as vigorously
as they would when the trail became hotter.

"How do I know that 'coon is goin' away from home?"
he repeated. "Shucks ! My sev'm senses tell me that." He
believed that the dogs would bring the animal back in
their direction, and sure enough, they did their voices
proclaiming the fact that they were gaining on the quarry.
They passed not far from where the hunters were waiting,
and the latter promptly ran after them for another mile.
Then Jim-Poke and Harbert both exclaimed:

"They've treed him!" for now the dogs' voices took on
a new sound. The men and boys reached the spot, and
Harbert, who had brought his ax with him^felled the
tree, which was not a large one. The raccoon daringly stole

WOODLAND MELODRAMA 97

down the trunk and escaped as the tree struck the ground,
and the dogs chased it for two miles more. Then their
voices proclaimed to Jim-Poke's knowing ears that the
'coon had taken to water. They found him, a big fellow,
treading water in a pool, with the dogs running around
it, barking furiously.

"Fetch him out, boys ! " ordered their master, and in they
went cautiously, for a big raccoon is a dangerous antag-
onist. They had their own artful plan of campaign. While
Jolly swam around the animal, making feints at attack,
Loud idled near by until the 'coon's attention was drawn
from him; then he made a sudden dart and snap, and the
battle was over.

Mr. Turner added to Joel's out-of-door enjoyment by
giving him a colt to break and use as his own. Joel devoted
much care to the training of this beautiful little animal,
which he christened Butterfly.

There was a fox-hound pup, too, which came from the
kennels of the celebrated Mr. Birdsong of south Georgia,
who was a great admirer of The Countryman and its editor.
Mr. Turner gave the dog to Joel to be trained. Mr. Bird-
song wrote that the pup had been born under a gourd
vine, so they called him Jonah.

"Mr. Birdsong breeds the only dogs around here that
can catch the red fox," Mr. Turner told Joel. "Perhaps you
didn't know that the red fox is not a native of this country.
The gray fox is our American species, but dogs can catch
it too easily. So in 1730 some gentlemen in Maryland de-
cided to import some red foxes from England to give their
dogs better sport. They did so and turned them loose, and
now red fexes are scattered over most of the country east
of the Mississippi River. Mr. Birdsong's dogs have become

98 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

famous as hunters of this fox." (The Birdsong breed is
famous to this day.)

Joel had great fun out of training Jonah. Almost every
day he would drag a foxskin through wood and field for
the pup to trail, or send a little Negro boy to do it while
he followed with the dog. Before he was two years old,
Jonah had tracked and caught a red fox unaided, and a
little later he was the star of a neighborhood fox hunt.

Joel soon learned from Mr. Turner how he could make
some pocket money.

"Mr. Wall needs rabbit fur for making hats/' explained
his employer. "He runs our little hat factory, though I'm
backing him. You may take my rabbit dogs in your spare
time and catch them, and you can make some traps and
catch more. Wall will pay you fifty cents a dozen for the
skins. There are so many rabbits around here that they are
a great nuisance. They eat our green vegetables in the gar-
den, and they gnaw the bark off young fruit trees and kill
them. I'd be glad to have them thinned out."

So Joel took the little harriers and had many a chase,
bringing in quantities of skins. Sometimes Jim-Poke ac-
companied him, and then it was more fun. He had to take
his pay in paper money, of course, for there was no silver in
circulation in the Confederate States, and nobody had seen
any gold since the war began.

There were advertisements of the hat factory always
in Mr. Wall's name in The Countryman every week:

HAT SHOP. Those who desire hats made, must have
tKeir orders entered upon my book, and they will be filled
in tbeir turn, as millers grind. Provisions and material are
all Ac time going up, so that I cannot tell you what I will

WOODLAND MELODRAMA 99

charge you. When the time comes to fill your bill, I will tell
you my charge, and you can have your hat made, or with-
draw your order. Positively no order will be attended to
out of its turn. I can't even buy a band for your hat except
for cash. If you haven't got the money to pay me, bring
meat, corn, or other provisions, and they will answer in the
place of money. . . . Good people of Putnam, encourage
home industry, and let the old man live.

MILES S. WALL

Joel went over to the small frame building which housed
the hat business and made the acquaintance of Mr. Wall
a quaint little old man who came from North Carolina,
and was an ardent Baptist. But he was very superstitious;
he believed in ghosts, witches, and werewolves, and saw
signs in everything. If his nose itched, that meant that
somebody was talking about him. When he had rheuma-
tism in his left leg, he tied a rattlesnake skin around it, and
believed that this eased the pain considerably. If a dog
howled at night or a screech owl cried on the roof, he ex-
pected some ill fortune, probably death, to strike near by,
perhaps at himself. But with all his queer beliefs, he was
very orthodox in his religion.

"Whenever you hear anybody," he admonished Joel,
"a-axin' anything 'bout how I'm gittin' on, an' how my
f am'ly is, an' whether or no my health is well, you thess up
an' tell 'em I'm a natch'al Babtist. You thess up an' tell 'em
that, an' I'll be mighty much obleedge to you. Tell 'em I'm
a borned Babtist.

"Most folks," he told Joel, "brings the wool or the skins
in here rabbit, 'coon, or beaver and I make 'em into
hats. But you cain't hardly git 'em to bring wool enough.

100 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Mr. Turner says he's goin' to put a 'tisement in the paper,
tellin' 'em to bring more wool than they think's enough.
He's a-goin' to say to 'em, Tour cheap scales is no 'count.
They pull down about a pound before they begin to weigh
anything. If you bring too much wool, you kin tote some
of it back.' That's Mr. Turner! He don't mind tellin' 'em
right to their faces."

"Do you get any beaver skins nowadays?" asked Joel.

"Hardly ever. I dunno whether they's any beavers left in
Georgy now or not. We got three beaver hats left, an' it's
goin' to be hard to sell 'em, they're so dear. 'Course, we
only make the beaver into dress hats; plug hats, ye know.
Up No'th, they make these here silk hats nowadays, but
folks down in this neck o' the woods don't wear 'em;
'specially since this war come on, an' they cain't get 'em.

"Thess about the finest hat I ever made," said Mr. Wall,
looking upward with dreamy eyes. "I made it fur Mr.
John D. Tharp, Esquire, of Macon. Don't happen to know
him, do ye? It was made outa beaver that was took right
below Macon, an' it was a joe-darter, ef I do say it myself.
But" he paused and thumped angrily at a batch of wool
on his table "It was too big fur him. Consound him, he
didn't medjure his head right ! An' I cain't make hats to fit
unless I git the right medjurements, kin I? He said he
wouldn't 'a' took a hundred dollars fur that hat ef hit'd
been the right size. As 'twas, he had to sell it."*

Mr. Wall had other lines of business, too. He made shoe
blacking "Beauregard Blacking," he called it, in honor
of a popular Southern general, and advertised it in The
Countryman at twenty-five cents a pint "It is liquid,"
his ads said, "and until I get my glass factory in operation,
you must bring your bottles, and I will fill them."

WOODLAND MELODRAMA 101

Once in a while he sold a pint o the blacking.

"Spinnin' wheels, too/' he told Joel. "Don't know of a
lady wants a good spinnin' wheel, do ye? I got a couple
nice new ones I'll sell fur five dollars each. A bargain ! "

The method of making hats at this little factory was the
same* as it had been in England a hundred years and more
before. One of Mr. Wall's three or four Negro helpers
stretched a rabbit skin on a bench, fastened it, and scraped
it with a knife.

"What you see on a rabbit when you looks at him," ex-
plained this man, "is de outer ha'r; long ha'r, an' it's too
coarse for us to use in hat-makin'. We scrapes dat off, an'
den we comes to de fine, soft fur nex' de skin. Jes' feel it
finer dan any ha'r you ever seed. Now, we takes dat oflf."

He slid a razor-sharp steel knife along the skin, shearing
off the fluffy, delicate fur. When starting to make a hat,
Mr. Wall would take sheep's wool or the fur from a great
many skins and weigh it until he knew he had just the
right number of ounces. Then he would heap it on the
table and stir and fluff it until there seemed to be two or
three times as much of it as at first. Next he began spread-
ing and patting it into a big sheet.

"A little thicker nigh the edge than in the middle, ye
see," he pointed out to Joel. "That's for the brim. It must
be heavier an' stiff er than the crown. Mo' wear an' tear on
it.

"Now, we call it a bat," he said when he had finished the
spreading, "thess the same as you call a sheet of raw cotton
a bat."

He laid a damp cloth over the sheet of fur and patted it
gently all over, then laid a large piece of leather on the
cloth and patted again. Finally he removed the leather,

102 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

took hold of the middle of the cloth with his thumb and
finger and lifted it quickly and the whole sheet of fur
came with it!

"Now we put it into the heatin' box/ 5 said Mr. Wall.
"That makes the fur shrink."

There was a long process of heating in the box, of pat-
ting and kneading and occasional sprinkling with water.
At last, the bat had been turned into a big, clumsy, flappy
sort of conical affair. It didn't look as if it could ever be
made into anything wearable.

"Now we call it a bonnet," said Mr. Wall.

Joel laughed. "It doesn't look like any bonnet I ever saw
a lady wear," he said. "Looks more like the hat a clown
wore in a circus that came to Eatonton a couple of years
ago, only the clown's hat was a better shape."

"I seed that circus show," said Mr. Wall contemptuously.
"Went all the way to town to see it, an' I wisht I'd 'a'
saved my time an' money. Hit was the triflin'est thing I
ever laid my two eyes on. Only one clown, an' him not
very funny, an' about half a dozen hosses, an' no wild ani-
mals, an' the pe'fawmers all second rate. \ wisht you could
see the circus shows I've went to a.coupla times in Raleigh.
Had to go forty miles to see 'em, but hit was worth it. Why,
a circus show wouldn't hardly dare to come to that town
nowadays unlest it had a elephant."

The hat making went on. Mr. Wall passed the bonnets
to the Negroes, who dipped them in boiling water, then
pressed and kneaded them with tools something like small
rolling pins. Every time the hot water touched the bonnets,
they shrank still more under the rolling and kneading.
Finally one of them was ready for Mr. Wall to place it on
the Mock and shape it for the wearer's head. As the final

EC lend a damp cloth over the sheet of fur, and patted it gently

all over.

104 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

touches, Joel watched him sew the bands on it, inside and
out.

"Now, thar's your hat," he said at last, holding it up
proudly. "As han'some a job as you kin git in New York,
if I do say it myself."

Mr. Wall was a good hat maker, but a poor business man-
ager, so Mr. Turner presently took over the factory every-
body in the neighborhood knew that he practically owned
it, anyhow and put Mr. Wall on a salary as superinten-
dent.

Now the advertising took on a different tone. As Mr.
Wall said, Mr. Turner "didn't mind tellin' 'em!" "No hats
made to order," was his new policy. "You can find them
of all sorts and sizes, ready made, at the hat shop. I will not
trade in Eatonton,"

Another notice was still more blunt:

Fur hats for sale, by retail. Call at the shop and get them,
if you want them. I am not going to be hat peddler and haul
hats backward and forwards to Eatonton any longer. You
have already imposed too much upon my good nature.
Quousque, tandem, abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?
J. A. Turner.

yet this man who was so gruff with his higher-class
customers gave away more and more hats as the war went
on, and the poor people in the country became poorer.
Many a Confederate soldier went into battle wearing a
Turnwold hat which was never paid for.

CHAPTER NINE

A Race of Song and Story Makers

WHEN Joel described to Harbert how the hawks
and crows had bristled up and prepared for
battle as soon as they heard what they thought
was the cry of an owl, Harbert said, "Law, yes suh! Ain't
you nebber hear de tale obut de owl an' de yuther birds?"
Joel hadn't, and Harbert told him why the owl is an
outcast. Of course, it all happened long ago, before history
began, when all the birds were "in cahoots," and had a
community storehouse, where they put away all the food-
stuffs that they could "ketch and fetch." But they discov-
ered that some thief was stealing from their store, and de-
cided that they must appoint a watchman to stand guard
over it all day long.

After much powwow, Mr. Owl was chosen and took his
post. But during the first day, Mr. Crow and Mr. Jaybird
met and gossiped several miles away, and each admitted
to the other that he doubted that Mr. Owl was fit for the
job, because he was so sleepy-headed. They finally decided
to fly back to headquarters and see how he was getting on,
and there they found him so sound asleep that " 'twas all
dey could do to wake him up."

105

106 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

The two reported the matter to the other birds, some of
whom didn't mbre than half believe their story. But after
much debate, it was Raided to give Mr. Owl another
chance. They gave him not only one but two more trials,
and each time someone came back and found him fast
asleep and some of the provisions stolen.

"Dat settle de hash for Mr. Owl/' continued Harbert
"De birds set a day an' fotch Mr. Owl up for trial, an' dey
laid down de law dat f 'm dat time on, Mr. Owl shan't go
wid de yuther birds, an' dat ev'y time dey kotch him out,
de word was to be giye, an' dey was all to fall foul on him
an' frail him out. Den dey say dat when he sleep, he got
to sleep wid bofe eyes wide open, an' dey lay it down dat
he got to keep watch all night long, an' whensomever he
hear any fuss, he got to holler out:

" "Who who who pesterin 5 we all? 5

"Dat's de way de law Stan's," Harbert concluded, "an'
dat's de way it gwine to stan'."

When Harbert repeated the words which the culprit was
doomed forever to say, he gave so good an imitation of the
hoot owl's cry in speaking them that Joel was greatly enter-
tained.

The old Negro had much to tell his young friend of
other things, too of "patter-rollers" and runaway slaves,
and adventures in the great canebrakes along the Oconee;
things, some of which Joel afterward worked into his story,
"Daddy Jake, the Runaway." Thepatroller "patter-roller"
as the Negroes called him was a sort of neighborhood
policeman who was most active at night. His job was to
catch Negroes away from home without permission, those
who went visiting or went to town and overstayed their
leave, those who got drunk or stole from the neighbors or

RACE OF SONG AND STORY MAKERS 107

committed other misdemeanors. Joel observed that the
patroller was seldom seen around the Turner plantation,
where the Negroes were well behaved and gave very little
trouble.

Harbert had a powerful yet musical voice, and when he
sang or shouted on a still day with little moisture in the
air, he could sometimes be heard for two miles. The call-
ing of hogs on farms has always followed rather closely a
certain set of sounds, but Harbert or some earlier humble
or gifted plantation minstrel had taken these sounds and
woven them into a song:

Oh, rise up, my ladies, listen unto me,
Gwoop! Gwoop! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!
Fin a-gwine dis night f er ter knock along o* you
Gwoop! Gwoop! Gee-woop! Goo-whoo!
Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!

Oh, de stars look bright, des like dey gwine to fall,
En 'way tow'ds sundown' you hear de killdee call;
Stee-wee! Killdee! Pig-goo! Pig-gee!
Pig! Pig! Pig-goo! Pig! Pig! Pig-gee.

De blue barrow squeal kaze he can't squeeze froo,
En he hump up his back, des like niggers do
Oh, humpty-umpty blue! Pig-gee! Pig-goo!
Pig! Pig! Pig-gee! Pig! Pig! Pig-goo!

Oh, rise up my ladies! Listen unto me!
Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!
Fm a-gwine dis night a-gallantin' out wid you!
Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-whoop! Goo-hoo!
Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!

108 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Ole sow got sense, des as sho's you bo'n,

'Kaze she tak'n hunch de basket fer to shatter out co'n

Ma'am, you makes too free! Pig-goo! Pig-gee!

Pig! Pig! Pig-goo! Pig! Pig! Pig-gee!

Wen de pig git fat he better stay close,
'Kaze fat pig nice fer ter hide out an' roas'
En he taste mighty good in de barbecue!
Oh, roas' pig, shoo! 'N-Yum! dat barbecue!
Pig! Pig! Pig-gee! Pig! Pig! Pig-goo!

Oh, rise my ladies! Listen unto me:

Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-woop! Goo-whee!

I'm a-gwine dis night fer ter knock aroun' wid you!

Gwoop! Gwoopee! Gee-whoop! Goo-whoo!

Pig-goo! Pig-gee! Gee-o-whee!

Certain lines of this song, as may be guessed, were sung,
while the "Gwoop! Goo-whee!" and the "Pig! Pig! Pig-
goo ! Pig-gee ! " were whooped in the old-time calling style,
so that the hogs a mile or so away in wood and field could
hear it, and come, grunting and squealing, for their supper.

'Tig-goo! Pig-gee!" was not the only song whose words
Joel preserved during those war years. At Turnwold and
on other plantations which he visited, he heard plowhands'
songs, joyous melodies of Christmas and of cornhusking
time in autumn, serenades, play songs, and what we now
call "spirituals," and he set the words of many of these
down on paper, just because of the deep interest they had
for him. He had not the faintest idea that some day he
would publish them, and they would attract wide attention
as quaint and beautiful expressions of a highly rhythmic,

RACE OF SONG AND STORY MAKERS 109

imaginative, and poetical race. It did not occur to him that
in listening to these enslaved but joyous minstrels, he was
laying the cornerstone of his career.

We have all seen pictures of Pan, the rural god of an-
cient Greek mythology, playing upon his Pandean pipes
or teaching Apollo to do so. This instrument was just a
row of reeds, usually about a dozen, of different lengths,
fastened alongside one another, and the musician blew
upon the tops of them to produce the music. As each pipe
sounded only one note, the performer had to whisk the
thing to and fro pretty rapidly in almost any sort of tune,
and if he was playing a lively air, he was apt to jerk his
head back and forth, too, in a way that was comical to
onlookers.

How this ancient instrument descended to the Negro
slaves of early American history is something that we can-
not account for now. In Georgia it was called "the quills."
The Negroes in Putnam County got the reeds from the
Oconee canebrakes, cleaned the pith out of them, carefully
cut them into lengths so that they were in tune, and lashed
the little pipes together with cobbler's twine waxed with
cobbler's wax so that it would not slip. Fontaine usually
called "Fountain" a Negro on the Turner plantation,
was an expert performer on the quills, and Joel found much
pleasure in listening to him.

In fact, Joel and the Turner children, with whom he had
become well acquainted, spent many of their evenings,
both winder and summer in the "quarters," as the Negro
cabins back of the big house came to be called, for there
was always entertainment for them there music on the
Pandean pipes, singing, dancing, and, best of all to Joel,
the stories of old Uncle George. Harbert and Uncle George

110 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

were the chief storytellers of the plantation, and many an
evening Joel spent by their fireside, while yams baked in
the hot ashes, a corn pone browned, either in a "reflec-
tor" or on a shovel before the flames, and the old Negro,
in the mellow, flowing dialect of his race, told the vivid
myths of the wild things of wood and field, or softly sang
one of the songs which Joel afterward made known to the
world. Uncle George had an even greater fund of the ani-
mal yarns than Uncle Bob Capers, Joel's pal in Eatonton.
Most of the Negroes cooked over an open fire, but Uncle
George, who was a widower and lived alone, had an unu-
sual feature at his cabin a curious Dutch oven, in which
he baked ginger cakes which were famous for miles around.

Every Saturday he baked a quantity of these cakes and
sold them in autumn, along with a drink made from
wild persimmons and called persimmon beer to the chil-
dren of the neighboring plantations, who would come a
long way to taste Uncle George's dainties and hear his
quaint sayings.

The Turner children would drop in at his cabin in the
evening while he was cooking his supper in that oven, and
by the flickering firelight they would chat with him, listen
to his stories and hoodwink him out of some of his sweets.
He had ginger cakes all through the week, too, and though
this was supposed to be an article of commerce with him,
the children often succeeded in wheedling them away
from him, together with juicy, baked yams, and goodness
knows what not. Little Joe Syd Turner, slightly younger
than Joel, but his favorite chum among the Turner chil-
dren, was especially clever at this. Uncle George f requently
grainbled that he was destined to "die in de po'-house,"
tet lie couldn't resist Joe Syd's blandishments.

RACE OF SONG AND STORY MAKERS 111

On those evenings, while the lightwood knots blazed
in the fireplace or under the oven, the children sat and
heard those legends, whose first teller no one knows, but
which followed a similar pattern among all the Negroes
of the South. Br'er Rabbit, one of the smallest and weakest,
certainly the most defenseless of animals, was by a sort of
poetic justice, nearly always the hero. A confirmed practical
joker, he was continually in hot water, and usually in peril
of his life, but always managed to escape through his own
shrewdness.

Br'er Fox and Br'er Wolf were the villains, and inevi-
tably got their just deserts at the end of a story. They were
killed time and again in the course of Uncle George's eve-
nings, and he had to do a lot of explaining to account for
these numerous deaths, for the children always wanted to
know why the rascal was alive again, after having been
scalded to death last week. Sometimes the old man had to
wriggle out of his dilemma by changing the subject, or pre-
tending to be offended, or announcing that the session was
over for the evening.

Then there was Br'er Bar (the common black bear of
the eastern United States was his original), big, clumsy,
crotchety, slow-witted but commanding respect because of
his size, sometimes on good terms with Br'er Rabbit, at
other times angry at him and trying to kill him; Br'er Tar-
rypin (the land tortoise), also small and helpless but crafty
and full of tricks, which enabled him to escape from tight
places and the wiles of his enemies; stodgy old Sis Goose
and Sis Cow you could put almost anything over on them
Br'er 'Coon, Br'er 'Possum, Br'er Turkey Buzzard, and
several more.

There were many ways of starting Uncle George on a

112 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

story. One of the Turner boys came in one evening with a
paper box containing a crawfish, which he had captured
in a brook running down into the swamp.

"Dem crawfishes is cu'ious critters/ 5 said Uncle George,
shaking his head at the little thing as it scuffled about in the
box. "Folks call 'em fish, an' yit dey ain't fishes. Some of
'em lives in de swamps an' branches an' some of 'em digs
holes in de groun', an' lets it rain a little puddle at de bot-
tom o' de hole, an' lives in dat. De ones dat lives in dem
holes must be thinkin' 'bout de time wher der great-grand-
daddies started de Flood."

"What flood, Uncle George?" asked Joel.

"De big Flood, honey. De one away back yonder. Hit
was long befo' yo' daddies an' mammies was bawn. In dem
days, de animals an' de beasteses had lots mo' sense dan
what dey got now; let alone dat, dey had sense same like
folks. Well suh, dey sorter 'lectioneered 'roun' mongst
deyselves, till at last, dey 'greed for to have a 'sembly, to
sorter straighten out matters an' hear de complaints.

"An' when de day come, dey was all on han'. De Lion,
he was dere, 'ca'se he was de king, an' he had to be dere.
De Rhinossyhoss, he was dere, an' de Elephant, he was
dere, an' de Camels an' de Cows, an' plumb down to de
Crawfishes, dey was dere. Dey was all dere. An' when de
Lion shuck his mane an' tuck his seat in de big cheer, den
de session begun fer to commence."

"What did they do, Uncle George?" asked Joe Syd, after
an impressive pause.

"Well, suh, dey was so much of it dat I cain't skacely
call to mind all dey did do, but dey spoke speeches, an' hol-
lered, an' cussed, an' flung der languidge 'roun' des like
wh<fn yo' daddy" he looked at the Turner children

RACE OF SONG AND STORY MAKERS 113

"run fer de Legislator' three, fo' year ago. Howsomever,
dey 'ranged der 'fairs an' splained der business. Bimeby,
w'iles dey was 'sputin' longer one anudder, de Elephant
tromped on one o' de Crawfishes. Co'se, when dat creetur
put his foot down, w'atsomever's under dere's boun' to be
squshed, an' dey wasn't 'nough o' dat Crawfish left fer to
tell dat he'd been dar.

"Dis make de udder Crawfishes mighty mad, an' dey
sorter swa'med togedder an' drawed up a kinder peramble
wid some wharfo'es in it, an' read it out in de 'sembly. But
bless gracious ! sech a racket was a-gwine on dat nobody
ain't hear it, 'cep'n maybe de Mud Turkic an' de Spring
Liza'd, an' deir infloonce was pow'ful lackin'.

"Bimeby, whiles de Nunicorn was 'sputin' wid de Lion,
an' whiles de Hyener was laughin' to hisse'f, de Elephant
squshed anudder one o' de Crawfishes, an' a little mo' an'
he'd 'a' ruint de Mud Turkle. Den de Crawfishes, what
dey was left on 'em, swa'med togedder an' drawed up
anudder peramble wid some mo' wharfo'es; but dey might
as well 'a' sung OF Dan Tucker to a harrycane. De udder
creeturs was too busy wid der fussin' to pay any 'tention.
So dar de Crawfishes was, an' dey didn't know what minute
was gwine to be de nex'; an' dey kep' on gittin' madder
an' madder an' skeerder an' skeerder, till bimeby dey gin
de wink to de Mud Turkic an' de Spring Liza'd, an' den
dey bored little holes in de groun' an' went down outer
sight.

"Yes suh, dey bored into de groun' an' kep' on borin'
ontil dey unloosed de fountains o' de earf, an' de waters
squirt out, an' riz higher an' higher till de hills was kivered,
an' de creeturs was all drownded; an' all 'ca'se dey let on
'mong deyselves dat dey was bigger dan de Crawfishes."

114 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Uncle George drew a hot yam from the fireplace, blew
the ashes from it and proceeded to remove the peeling.

"Where was the ark, Uncle George?" asked the little
Turner girL

"Which ark's dat?" asked Uncle George, with an affec-
tation of surprise and curiosity.

"Noah's ark," was the reply.

"Don't you pester wid oP man Noah, honey," said Uncle
George, shying away from the subject, as usual when he
was caught in a tight place. "I be bound he took keer o'
dat ark. Dat's what he was dere for, an' dat's what he done.
Leastways, dat's what dey tells me. But don't you bodder
'long o' dat ark, 'ceptn de preacher brings it up."

"But Uncle George," protested Joe Syd, "the Bible says
the flood happened because it rained forty days and forty
nights." Joe Syd hadn't yet learned, as Joel had, to take
these old legends as they were, without question.

"As to dat," said Uncle George with stiff dignity, "dey
mought 'a' been two delooges, an' den ag'in dey moughtn't.
If dey was any ark in dis yer w'at de Crawfishes brung on,
I ain't hear tell on it, an' when dey ain't no arks aroun', I
ain't got no time for to make 'em an' put 'em in dere. Hit's
gittin' bedtime for little chillen."

CHAPTER TEN

Young Oliver Goldsmith

TTOEL had been working on The Countryman only a

I few months when Mr. Turner wrote an editorial

^ which had a great influence upon his career. It began:

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, England, or
France for things for their pens. Let them write about things
at home and around them.

Joel pondered that editorial, and it influenced his future
thinking. He became a booster for Southern literature, and
he gave his attention to subjects near home, things about
which he knew instead of trying to write about Italian ban-
dits and Western Indians. Years, later, he was to remember
what Mr. Turner said about the Negro, too.

But at the time, even if it had occurred to him that some-
thing literary might be made out of his experiences with

115

116 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

his colored friends, there would have been no market for
what he might write. The South was too busy with the war,
and the Negro was still too much of an everyday subject,
and too closely connected with the causes of the war; peo-
ple wanted to think about something else.

Finally, dialect stories, such as he wrote in his later years,
were not considered quite dignified then, and Joel in his
teens was very firmly determined not to get off his literary
dignity. His aspirations were lofty. The sparkling humor
which flowed so freely from his pen when he was working
on other newspapers a few years later was not in evidence
now. Instead, most of the things he brought out from his
old notebook or wrote anew were deadly serious, and some
even somber.

One of the articles which he had written some time
before was entitled, "Sabbath in the Country," and began:

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 the city, one cannot read or worship God
as he would choose. He must needs be interrupted; while in
the country, it is the reverse. . . .

Fancy that, from a youth who had never in his life seen
a town larger than Eatonton ! Incidentally, the "crowded
cities" in 1863, with their tree-shaded streets, with no auto-
mobiles or apartment houses, no elevated or subway lines,
no telephones or radio or motion pictures, no airplanes
buzzing overhead, would seem almost rural to us today.

The strangest subject of all for a boy of fourteen to choose
was "Death." This , essay appeared in The Countryman

YOUNG OLIVER GOLDSMITH 117

early in 1863, when he had not been working on the paper
a year. It began:

What is death, that we so much fear it? Is it the end of
man? Is it an end to all his troubles? Is it a long, eternal
sleep and is this why we all dread it? These are the ques-
tions that come looming up before the mind of every one

From such work as this, one might get an impression of
the writer as a solemn, owlish sort of person who saw no
fun in anything. On the contrary, Joel, when away from
his writing, was one of the merriest lads that ever lived,
and he continued so throughout life. His choosing of those
sober subjects was the result of his belief that he was des-
tined to become as essayist one like Oliver Goldsmith, he
hoped. Several years more were to pass before he realized
that he was a born humorist.

But that impish humor which expressed itself in his
everyday actions now began to beg for expression through
his writing, too. Still he held it back, but he wrote down
in the old composition book a little jingle it never saw
print which shows that he had begun to smile at senti-
mentality:

Of all the flowers that grow in dirt,

I own I hate the rose,
For "roses have their thorns" and I

Stuck one into my nose.

I know also the lily is

In virgin dress bedight;
But if that color suited me,

Why, geese are just as white!

118 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

The poet rants of verdant fields,

And of the sky serene;
But I've seen Yankees just as blue,

And boobies just as green.

He talks of love, that passion blent

With heavenly pleasure sweet,
But as for me, I've always loved

A dish of cold fried meat!

For the rest of his life, whenever Joel heard anyone be-
ginning to gush or trying to get him to do so, he was apt
to turn the thing to ridicule by a quip like that in the last
line of his poem.

He now began to break out in a rash of puns, some of
which Mr. Turner let him slip into the paper, as by "The
Countryman's Devil." A typical one was this, which plays
upon the political relations of two Georgia politicians:

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.

Some other papers began to joke about this, and Mr.
Turner cracked back at one of them, "The Confederate
Union is disposed to undervalue the services of The Coun-
tryman's devil. If it only knew what a smart devil The
Countryman has, it would not do so. Just ask your 6 ]im y
about it, Brother Nisbet. He knows our devil."

This meant that young Jim Harrison, who had worked

YOUNG OLIVER GOLDSMITH 119

for The Countryman for a while, had gone over to the
other paper.

Joel loved to write on subjects relating to literature. Mr.
Turner let him do a number of reviews and criticisms of
the work of others then writing in the South. These, like
his other productions at the time, were never written out
with pen or pencil, but composed by him in type.

One of his favorite Southern writers was Captain Harry
Lyndon Flash, who was born in Ohio, but who, after sev-
eral years of study and travel in Europe, had settled in
Georgia and become an ardent upholder of the Southern
cause. He was editor of the Macon Daily Confederate dur-
ing the war, and wrote poetry and essays also. Joel greatly
admired his concise style, and called it "nervous condensa-
tion." In The Countryman of June 1864, he wrote an article
on Flash's poem which opened in the manner of a reviewer
or critic for one of the most dignified literary magazines:

Dryden, I believe, has remarked upon the delicacy of visit-
ing criticism upon living men. In view of this, I shall not
attempt to criticise any of the productions of Mr. Flash, but
merely give the readers facts in my knowledge which, I
doubt not, every admirer of Southern genius will be glad
to know, believing that if there was ever a time when the
South should fully atone for her former coldness to her
sons of song (and in fact, to all her authors), that time
is now.

He went on to compare two or three of Flash's poems
with those of Poe, and declared that in one poem, "He has

120 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

told in twelve lines what some authors could not tell in
twelve hundred."

A modern critic exclaimed in amazement, "It does not
seem possible that this is the work of a fifteen-year-old boy."
It seems still more amazing when we think of that boy an
hour or so after writing it, whooping through the broom-
sedge fields with the illiterate Jim-Poke Gaither on a rabbit
hunt, or sitting with the Turner children in Uncle George's
cabin, munching gingerbread and listening to tales of Br'er
Rabbit and Br'er Fox and Br'er 'Possum. The quotation
from Dryden who is too dry even for most adults to wade
through today proves how much reading of the classics
in the Turner library the boy had been doing since coming
to the plantation.

But Joel did not always please Mr. Turner with his ef-
forts. On one occasion he wrote an article taking for his
text an essay of Captain Flash's which he turned over to
the editor. A few days later he found the manuscript back
on his table, together with this scorching note from Mr.
Turner:

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 contemptible and beneath criticism. It borders
on idiocy. Captain Flash did his paper injustice in publishing
it. In the next place, there is want of unity and condensa-
tion in your article. It is headed "Irishmen Tom Moore,"
and then goes off on a great variety of subjects, and is too
diffuse on everything it touches.

YOUNG OLIVER GOLDSMITH 121

In writing hereafter, 1st select a good a worthy subject.

2nd, stick to that subject.

3d, say what you have to say in as few words as possible.
Study the "nervous condensation" which you so much ad-
mire in Captain Flash.

All this is for your good.
August 21st, 1864. J. A. TURNER

This note cast the young author into deep gloom for an
hour or so. But he knew that Mr. Turner, as he said, meant
the criticism kindly, and he knew that the blunt, out-
spoken editor was a pretty good judge of literary produc-
tions. So he presently took heart, and began* trying to write
something more worthy. All his life, Joel was very humble
about the quality of his work. If an editor told him that a
piece was bad, he usually admitted that the editor probably
knew what he was talking about.

It was a great comfort to him shortly afterward when
Mr. Turner took up the cudgels in his behalf, and wrote
with a touch of the contempt which he was apt to display
when he was angry:

The gentleman (we forget his name) who is writing some
articles for the Raleigh Mercury on the literature of the
South . . . uses pretty freely an article of our young cor-
respondent, Joel C. Harris, and yet never gives that corre-
spondent the credit which is his due.

Mr. William Turner, who was sent home from the army
in 1863 because of a wound, also took a deep interest in
the young scribe's literary development. He continued to

122 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"oversee" the ancestral plantation in his easygoing way,
but became associate editor of The Countryman, which had
now grown to a sixteen-page paper, though the pages were
somewhat smaller than at first.

"Here's something that may be of use to you, Joe," said
he one day, handing the boy a book. It was Parker's Aids
to English Composition, anckon the flyleaf was written
"William W. Turner to J. C. Harris."

Despite its increased size, The Countryman had not room
for all the ideas which came trooping through Joel's brain,
and many things that he wanted to say were not suitable
to that paper, so he began very timidly at first sending
them elsewhere in the South. He could not have gotten
them through to Northern editors, and they might not
have been accepted if he had.

He was still boy enough to enjoy writing an occasional
story about and for children, and he sent these, for the
most part, to Sunday-school papers. "Charlie Howard; or
Who is the Good Boy?" was a typical subject which ap-
peared in the Child's Index, a Baptist Sunday-school paper
published in Macon.

To adult papers and magazines he sent literary and polit-
ical articles, stories, satire, and now and then a poem. He
was very modest, as might be expected about these things.
One letter will prove this:

EDS. COMMONWEALTH:

SIRS: I send you an article for the "Commonwealth,"

which, if you see fit, publish, otherwise burn it up. On no

account let my name be known. Hoping that you may

YOUNG OLIVER GOLDSMITH 123

soon receive a thousand reams of nice paper (which is the
best wish that any paper can receive nowadays) ; I remain

Your friend,

J. C HARRIS

RS. I have an original composition for the "Common-
wealth" entitled "A Night Hunt." Must I send it?

J. C. H.

At times he jotted down in his old scrapbook a sort of
summary of his literary work for some weeks past, and an
item in it in 1863 when he was not yet fifteen shows
how busy he was at composition:

Don't recollect when I finished "Doodang." The "South-
ern Watchman" copied it under the head of "Select Miscel-
lany" ! ! ! Finished "Laughing Corpse" June 14th, have
not sent it off, yet. Finished "Gran'pap" the same day. Have
not sent it off yet. Will send it to "Child's Index." Finished
"A Night's Hunt" three weeks ago. Have not sent it off
yet. No literary papers to send it to in the South, now that
the "Fireside" had stopped. I am engaged on a "Burlesque,"
though that is not its name. It shall be in ridicule of the
Yankees, and of the South, too, for not advancing literature;
do what I can to help the cause along, people will not
patronize our papers.

Remember that for not one of these pieces did the
author receive a cent of pay. There were comparatively few
publications at that time which paid for the material they
used certainly none in the South during the war. Most
writers, both North and South, had to be content for their

124 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

reward with seeing their work in print and being read by
the public.

Joel wrote political satires and burlesques which did not
find their way into type, and no doubt he was glad of it
afterward. One of these was a scathing letter to President
Lincoln in rustic dialect apparently Joel's first attempt
in that form. Another was a play which was never com-
pleted, but which was to hold up to public odium the
Northern General Butler, who was military governor of
New Orleans for a time during the war. There was also
a poem in another vein, an "Ode to Jackson, the Martyr of
the South."

After he had seen his own name in print in The Coun-
tryman, Joel's confidence increased rapidly. Emboldened
by the fact that the editors to whom he was sending his
manuscripts did not know how young and rustic he was,
he even became a bit cocky and ventured to criticize some
of the publications for which he wrote. From a letter writ-
ten to the Illustrated Mercury when he was sixteen, it is
evident that he took such a deep interest in the paper which
published his productions that he felt almost as if he were
part owner of it. He said:

I like the "Mercury" exceedingly well, with the exception
of one thing, if I may be allowed to be candid and that is
the illustrations. After you get your paper to paying, I hope
you will discard them altogether. I am anxious for the
"Mercury" to succeed, as I believe it is the only publication
in the State, with the exception of the "Countryman" which
does not model itself on the vile publications of the North,
as for instance, the "Field and Fireside." I am afraid, also,
that our Southern writers are giving way to a wholesale

YOUNG OLIVER GOLDSMITH 125

imitation of Yankee authors, especially the younger portion
of those afflicted with the cacoethes scribendi. . . . Hoping
that you may succeed in your endeavors to establish an un-
defiled Southern literature, and that the "Mercury" may
prove a blessing to the "Confederacy/' I remain,
Your well-wisher,

JOEL C HAJOUS

"Cacoethes scribendi" that is, the "itch for writing,"
indeed! Certainly, Joel was getting on flinging Latin
about as if he had been a Bachelor of Arts !

CHAPTER ELEVEN

War Timef

\ OR a long time the Civil War seemed far away from
Middle Georgia. To be sure, every little while news
came that someone from Putnam County had been
dreadfully wounded or killed ; perhaps a boy not much older
than Joel and whom he had known at Eatonton. He wrote
or rather composed in type obituary notes of some of these,
casually throwing in some bitter remark about the Yankees
in the course of them. He who after he became a well-
known writer was the most tolerant of men and did all he
could in his writings to dispel the prejudice and ill feeling
between the North and the South was a fiery partisan
in his teens, as boys usually are, and could see no justice
whatsoever on the Northern side of the quarrel.

Mr. Turner's plantation was almost a little world in it-
self. It could produce its own food and clothing, but even
it began to feel the pinch of war. Coffee became very scarce
all through the country, and many people were drinking
substitutes made of parched corn meal, sweet potatoes
shredded and dried, parched rye, parched okra seeds, or
chicory. More tea made from sage and sassafras roots was
drunk than ever before. Joel's favorite beverage was water

126

WAR TIMES 127

sweetened with sorghum molasses, and he found it very
pleasant and refreshing. Salt, which was not produced in
the South, also became very scarce and costly. One day the
Negroes heard that over on the Gaither plantation they had
dug up the earthen floor of the smokehouse saturated
with years of drippings from the salt meat hung to its raf-
ters and were boiling it to get the salt out of it.

"Well, I'll have to be more hard up than I am yet before
I'll do that," said Mr. Turner. "We're nearly out of salt
right now, and I don't know where we are going to get
more, but I've about come to the conclusion that salt is an
unnecessary luxury anyhow."

"I just don't see how you can cook without salt," sighed
Mrs. Turner. "I would think it would be necessary to our
health."

"Not at all," declared Mr. Turner. "Look at the savage
tribes all over the earth. None of them use a particle of salt
in their food. Most of them never heard of salt. It's just
unnecessary flavoring, like pepper or vanilla, and if worst
comes to worst, I can get along without it."

"But how are you going to cure meat?" persisted Mrs.
Turner.

"We'll just have to smoke it more," he answered.

Joel understood most of the difficulties of the South very
well. He read in other papers of the blockade of Southern
ports by the Northern warships, which prevented merchant
ships from taking the South's chief product, cotton, out to
sell to England and also prevented ships from bringing in
coffee and sugar and salt and kerosene and, what was
highly important to Joel, paper for printing. Paper became
enormously expensive, but stranger still, things which they
grew and made at home food and clothing and shoes

128 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

became costly, too. The price of rabbit skins rose until Joel
was being paid twenty cents apiece for them all in paper,
of course and he thought he was getting rich. But the
queer thing was, that the more plentiful the paper money
became, the higher prices were for everything you had to
buy in the stores. Mr. Bryant, who owned a plantation near
Turnwold and whose Negroes made quantities of the com-
mon cloth called jeans, worn by Negroes and the poorer
class of white men, put an advertisement in The Country-
man, offering it for sale at twenty dollars a yard.

"I'm going to be compelled to raise the price of The
Countryman again," said Mr. Turner to Joel one day.

The subscription rate had been a dollar a year at the be-
ginning. A few months later it was raised to five dollars,
and then to ten.

"I'm losing money on it now," added the publisher, "and
I can't keep on. I think I'll just announce the new rate as
Tive dollars for four months.' That won't sound so bad as
fifteen dollars a year. I'll lose some subscribers, but it can't
be helped."

"Why is everything so expensive, Mr. Turner?" asked
Joel.

"Because our money is cheap," replied his friend. "It's
always that way, Joel." He held his two hands in front of
him, imitating the balances of a primitive scale. "When
one goes up, the other comes down. Now our money is
cheap, which means that everything you buy at the store
is high. When we have a panic, as we had in the United
States six years ago, money becomes scarce and high, and
then goods are cheap. I'll loan you a book written by an old
Scotchman named Adam Smith which will tell you about
it."

WAR TIMES 129

"But why is our money cheap now?" asked Joel.

"Because our bankers and businessmen, because nobody
has any confidence in it. Look at this paper money." He
held out a ten-dollar bill. "You see that it's just a promise
to pay ten dollars to anyone who brings it to the Confeder-
ate treasury two years after the signing of a treaty of peace
with the United States. At first, when we thought we could
lick the Yankees overnight, the notes promised to pay six
months after the signing of such a treaty. Now we see that
it's going to be a much tougher job, and we know that
our government treasury has very little gold and silver;
that these notes are just based on hope. And the worst of it
is that our government keeps right on printing this so-called
money, which for that reason grows less and less valuable
all the time. Our State of Georgia money is still less reliable.
That's the trouble when you start inflation you can't
stop."

Joel was downcast. He was thinking of all that paper
money he had stowed away in his trunk upstairs from the
sale of rabbit skins and the savings from his own wages.
Mr. Turner guessed what was passing through his mind.

"I'll raise your wages and price of rabbit skins again,
Joel," said he, "though it's becoming harder all the time
for me to make ends meet. But if our armies can win some
victories, if we can break the blockade and sell some cotton
to Europe, if we can raid the North and get some cash out
of those big banks up there, why, maybe we'll make our
money worth something."

It was only a short time after this that news began to
come of the great battles around Chattanooga, at first joy-
ously proclaimed as Southern victories. But after two
months the Northern army was in possession of the city

130 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

and the surrounding mountains. This was at the northwest
corner of Georgia, the closest yet that the great and bloody
struggle of armed men had come to Putnam County. But
then the two armies settled down where they were for the
winter, and again middle Georgia, with enough to eat,
such as it was, in the barns, cellars, and smokehouses, took
life rather easily. That the soldiers were not faring so well
is proven by an appeal from the Quartermaster General of
Georgia, which appeared in The Countryman and other
papers in February 1864:

Daughters of Georgia! I still need socks. I still have yarn
to furnish. I earnesdy desire to secure a pair of socks for
every barefooted soldier from Georgia. You are my reliance.
Past experience teaches me that I will not appeal to you
in vain.

Spinning wheels turned, knitting needles clicked, and
looms thumped on every plantation. There were no longer
any new silk dresses for the ladies; their cloth was made at
home. Young women made their hats of rye and wheat
straw, and some very pretty bonnets from the lacy fiber
which enclosed the seeds in the hollow of what was called
the "bonnet" squash.

The Confederate government allowed the farmer to
plant only a limited number of acres in cotton, so that most
of the land could be given to the growing of foodstuffs.
Next came a law by which the government could seize as
much of the farmers' grain and meat and hay as it thought
necessary for its armies, leaving him just as little as it
thought he and his family could get along on. This brought
some queer dishes into existence persimmon bread, for

WAR TIMES 131

example. In autumn, the pulp of ripe persimmons was lib-
erally mixed with corn meal to make bread. Joel found that
he soon tired of it; in fact, there came a time when his
stomach absolutely turned against it. Potato pone sweet
potatoes, boiled, mashed, and kneaded, formed into little
loaves and baked wasn't so bad.

At Turnwold, the vegetable dish at some times of the
year was a mixture of collards, turnip greens, and the young
shoots of the pokeberry plant. This was boiled for noon
dinner, and the leftover part fried for supper. It was called
callalou by old Jimsy, the cook, its inventor. He had been
born in the West Indies. His real name was Zimzi, and he
was very sensitive; he ran away when anybody scolded
him, but always came back in a day or two.

Already the government had been drafting men for the
Confederate army, and now a law was passed by which it
might seize horses, cattle, anything necessary for the sup-
port of the army or government. Some cattle were taken
from the farms in Putnam County, but for a time life
seemed to Joel to move along about as smoothly as usual.
Sure enough, many of the subscribers of The Countryman
had ceased to take the paper, and work wasn't quite so hard
on press days. But in May came the news that the Confed-
erate army under General Johnston was being rapidly
pushed back from Chattanooga toward Atlanta by the
Yankees under General Sherman.

Again the price of The Countryman rose, this time to
twenty dollars a year.

Bad news came to Joel in letters from his mother and
others. One from Hut Adams, now twenty years old and
in the Quartermaster Department at Macon, addressed
Joel as "Syksey," and jested about his job:

132 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

I trust you will not attribute my backward-git to any
demoralization on my part, but remember that I am in the
Q.MJDept., and it is the first law of that heroic tribe to keep
as far removed from danger as possible, for we are too
important an institution to lose. Kill the Quartermaster!
Why, the thought is too horrid to contemplate. Who would
wear the gold lace, drive fast horses, etc. ? Bully for the life-
insured, bomb-proof Department!

Farther on he became serious, and said:

You asked me about the boys of those good old days now
gone. There have been sad changes. Eli Awtry and Jim
Johnson were killed in the late fight at Spottsylvania Court-
House. I don't know where Gordon Whiting can be; he was
nearly dead from Consumption the last I heard of him. Old
Siddon you can't kill. Always foremost in the fight, he has
passed through a dozen battles unscathed.

Late in July the news was that Johnston's army was in
Atlanta and almost. encircled, that Johnston had been re-
placed by General Hood.

A cousin of Joel's wrote from the battlefield there dur-
ing the occasional "hissing of the minie-balls passing over
our trenches. . . . The enemy are within 300 yards of our
works. Their Sharp Shooters frequently greet us with un-
pleasant messengers, they also send a great many shell,
which are very annoying but inaflfective."

About this time some Federal raiders made a dash
through Putnam County. As Mr. Turner had been attack-
ing the Northern government pretty strongly in The Coun-
tryman, he was a marked man, and might have been

WAR TIMES 133

roughly handled if they had caught him. As he wrote
humorously a week later:

"It seemed evident that we must become non comeatibus
in swamfo (whither we retired) or be made prisoner. The
female portion of our family decided the former was bet-
ter for us, and we acted upon the suggestion." Then
Joe Wheeler's gray-coated cavalry came along and drove
the enemy raiders away, "and we have emerged, to finish
our notes in our sanctum."

Some Negroes from plantations near by followed the
raiders back to Atlanta and became hangers-on of the North-
ern army, but none forsook Turnwold. Many plantation
owners feared an uprising of their slaves. Some of them
were talking to Mr. Turner about it every few days.

"Remember the Negroes have the whites outnumbered
three to one in this county," they would say. "If they should
start an insurrection, they could make mince-meat of us.
It would be just like the Yankees to supply them with
guns."

"I don't think they will rise," said Mr. Turner, laugh-
ing comfortably. "I'm sure mine won't. If a man treats his
Negroes kindly, he has nothing to fear from them."

Still there was great nervousness in the neighborhood
as the siege of Atlanta went on. But Joel continued to com-
pose his little essays in type, not much perturbed. One day
Mr. Turner came back from Eatonton, and said, "They're
fighting at Jonesboro, sixteen or eighteen miles south of
Atlanta. That's only about sixty miles from here."

"Getting too close for comfort," said Mr. Wilson.

They would step out of doors now and then to see if
they could hear the sound of cannon. Mr. Turner, anxious
for news, went to town or sent Harbert almost every other

134 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

day. Early in September the word came that Atlanta had
fallen into the hands o the enemy; then there was a period
of quiet. Presently a neighbor came one day to report,
"Hood's gone back toward Chattanooga with Sherman
after him, but Sherman left a part of his army at Atlanta."

"Well, I guess we'll not be bothered with them for a
while," said Mr. Turner.

"What's a wool hat worth now?" asked the neighbor,
after they had talked of the war for a while.

"Forty dollars."

The man whistled. "I reckon one made of 'coon fur
would be plumb out of sight."

"They'd be higher, of course," said Mr. Turner, glancing
at a copy of his paper which he held in his hand. "I've
just written an advertisement of my hat business in this
week's Countryman" he continued. "Here are the prices I
quote. I'd have to charge you $80 for a rabbit hat, $110 for
one of 'coon fur, and $160 for a beaver."

"Laws a-mercy ! " exclaimed the man. "I guess I'll have
to get along with this old wreck I'm wearin' unless you'd
take barter for a new hat."

"Be glad to have it," said Mr. Turner, consulting his
paper again. "I'll give you a wool hat for two-thirds of
a beaver skin and pay you the difference; or I'll swap a
wool hat for two pounds of clean, washed wool, three
bushels of corn, a bushel and a half of wheat, ten pounds
of lard, twelve 'coon skins, fifteen muskrat skins, twenty
mink skins, or thirty rabbit skins. A rabbit hat will be
worth double as much, a 'coon hat a third more than a
rabbit hat, and a beaver double the price of rabbit."

Fancy two pounds of wool or three bushels of corn
being worth forty dollars! But, of course, on the other

WAR TIMES 135

hand, that money wasn't worth much more than the
paper it was printed on.

That advertisement of the hat factory appeared in The
Countryman for September 27, 1864, in the same number
with Joel's first published poem. He had first written it
when he was eleven. Since then, he had rewritten it and
changed words and phrases in it time and again. Finally
he submitted it to Mr. Turner, and it was accepted. It had
the somber turn which appeared in most of Joel's writing
during these years:

Netty White

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 awhile,

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.

136 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

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 fitful light,
Which shone with dreary gleam upon

The grave of Nelly White.

How strange that little poem looks now, by contrast
with the thunder of the war not so many miles away!
It proves that its author's mind was occupied with other
things than war.

The weeks went on pleasantly for Joel, for never in his
life was he a worrier, and now he was doing just what he
wanted to do composing something every week for the
paper, hunting, trapping, rambling between times. As he
had enough to eat and wear, he did not realize how con-
ditions were beginning to pinch Mr. Turner. Crops had
been good. The Southern army had taken a great deal of
the grain and cured meat, but left some still in the cribs
and storehouses. There were hogs waiting to be killed
whenever the first cold snap came on, chickens and turkeys,
fruit and vegetables. To easygoing Joel, trouble seemed
far away.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Storm Clouds

UT one day while Harbert was cleaning and oiling
the old press in the printing office, he said to Joel,
"De Yankee ahmyll be comin' thoo heah befo'
long."

"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Joel. "What would they be
coming down this way for? There's nobody here for them
to fight. Hood's army is on the other side of Sherman,
away over in Alabama or Tennessee."

But Harbert was unmoved by his objections. "De word
done come," was all he would say. "Hit's obleedged to be
so, ca'se all de niggers done hear talk on it."

Joel knew that news traveled mysteriously, sometimes it
seemed as if through the air, by way of the Negro quarters
from plantation to plantation. Often it proved to be just
idle gossip; even the more intelligent Negroes laughed at
such talk and called it "nigger news." But in many cases it
was correct. It was called over rail fences from one field to
another by workmen, chattered by Negro women visiting
from one plantation to another.

Just how the humble slaves learned of Sherman's in-
tention to march toward the sea before the march began,

137

138 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

before the whites knew it, has remained unexplained to
this day. Even after the army started on that fateful march,
some of the white people far down the state refused to be-
lieve that it was coming.

"I don't 'spect dey goin' ter bodder folks what don't
bodder dem, is dey?" asked Harbert, still working on the
press.

"I don't know/ 5 said Joel carelessly. "I guess not." He
mentioned Harbert's remark to Mr. Turner when he saw
him later that day, and he could see that his employer was
very much impressed. The news spread rapidly in the
vicinity, and all sorts of wild rumors followed. A few days
later, Harbert had a confirmation of his story.

"Dey's on de way," he said, "comin' f m Atlanta on forty
diflfe'nt roads millions an' millions of 'em, an 5 headin'
right for Putnam County."

Joel could not understand why. "Aire they running away
from our men?" he asked Mr. Turner.

"No," was the reply. "Our army has gone to Tennessee,
and there are plenty of Yankees there to fight it." He
pulled his beard thoughtfully. "Sherman may be heading
toward the seacoast," he said slowly. "Aiming to cut our
country in two. If he comes, we're going to lose a lot of our
horses and cattle and provisions. But I'll have to have better
information before I'll believe he's coming through here."

He went to his dwelling house, however, gathered up
all the best of the family silverware, and put it into gunny
sacks. Then he called Harbert out away from the house and
said, "Harbert, this evening after dark I want you to bring
Hector to the kitchen door. We're going to bury the silver
in the woods." He believed that Hector was as faithful as
Harbert and would help keep the secret. So that evening

STORM CLOUDS 139

he and the two Negroes, Mr. Turner carrying the pick and
shovel while the two others shouldered the heavy bags of
tableware, went out in the forest and in the midst of a dense
thicket buried the bags.

"Now you boys be sure you don't tell a soul where this
is," said Mr. Turner. "Not even your families."

"No suh, we won't/' they promised, and they were true
to their word.

Negro messengers on horseback began galloping in now
and then, bringing notes from neighboring plantation
owners, telling of what they had heard. Then perhaps the
messenger would ride on, carrying the same note to two or
three other neighbors.

On Wednesday, the sixteenth of November those dates
were burned indelibly into Joel's brain for life one of these
men came spurring in through the wagon gate, his horse's
hoofs throwing mud high in air. He rode to the "big
house," as the Negroes called the Turner dwelling, and in
a few minutes rode away again.

"What's the news, Colonel?" asked Mr. Wilson, when
Mr. Turner came to the shop shortly afterward.

"Note from Mrs. Reid," said Mr. Turner. "She lives just
over the line in Jasper County, west of here. Says report is
the Yankees are coming, and she thinks of sending her son
Sam with all their Negroes, mules, and meat, over here to
my place. Then if the Yanks come here, I can send them
on still farther. That's putting a considerable responsibility
on me. She says Sherman's reported to be headed for
Macon, and if that is true, we are off the line of march.
She also says they are moving along the railroads. And as
we are between the railroads, I doubt that they'll visit us."

But rumors kept flying that day and the next, and Mr.

140 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Turner was noticeably uneasy. Friday about noon a note
came from Mr. Prudden, the Eatonton postmaster. Though
Connecticut born, he had lived in Georgia for so long that
here he was, giving his neighbors all the news he could
gather about the doings of the "Yankees."

"He says the Yanks have crossed the Ocumulgee," said
Mr. Turner, looking over the note in the printing office.
"A man told Prudden that they entered Monticello the
county seat of Jasper, you know at two o'clock this morn-
ing. But his postscript was evidently written later. It says
'Indian Spring and Nuting's factory reported burned.
3500 Yankees camped at Social Circle last night. 5 That
means a column is following the Georgia Railroad. Then
he adds, 'No Yankees in Monticello at 4 o'clock this morn-
ing. This is reliable.'

"That sounds to me," said Mr. Turner, folding the letter
slowly, "as if we don't need to worry about our little turnip
patch being invaded."

"Nivertheless," said Mr. Wilson when he was gone, "I
reserve the right to do me own little private worryin'. Thim
Yanks might regard me as a mighty valuable recruit."

Again Turnwold went to bed and slept in a false feeling
of security. But on Saturday morning came a note from
Dr. Rogers in the west part of the county, which set Mr.
Turner on edge again. It read:

Twenty-five or thirty citizens of Jasper County have just
passed, with 75 or 100 negroes on mules. They report the
Yankees marching in three columns, one on each railroad,
and one through the district between. I advise you to remove
all you can, as they are carrying off or destroying everything.

STORM CLOUDS 141

They burnt Monticello last night and Atlanta a few days

since.

"I wonder where Sam Reid is," fretted Mr. Turner. "If
they've burned Monticello, he ought to be here if he's
coming."

Sam rode in just before dusk, with most of his mother's
Negroes, mules and horses, and a wagonload of hams
and bacon.

"I had to come, to satisfy Mother," he told Mr. Turner.
"I think she's unduly scared. Yes, the Yanks are moving
down the railroad, but I don't believe they are coming
through the back country. Some other fellows and I did
some scouting early this morning, and I can guarantee that
there isn't a bluecoat in Putnam County."

Mr. Turner, always eager to be reassured, took heart at
this. The mules were stowed away somewhere, and all the
cabins in the quarters had guests that night. In the big
house, with genial Sam at the table, supper was merry, and
the crackling logs in the fireplace made everything seem
very cozy and secure. Outside, a slow, cold rain had begun
falling.

Joel went to bed early, but was nervous and slept lightly.
Somewhere in the night he seemed to hear a voice calling
in his dreams. Then suddenly his eyes popped open, and
he heard it again a call of "Hello ! " from the road. One
did not ride up to a house and knock on the door in those
troublous times; one was too apt to receive a bullet from
inside.

Joel hurried to a window, but could see nothing in the
blackness outside. He heard the murmur of the rain on

142 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

the roof and in the trees, and the plashing of the gutters,
and then heard Mr. Turner call from the front door,
"Who's there?"

"A friend," came the reply from the road.

"I suspected it was a Yankee," said Mr. Turner after-
ward, "but I concluded to face the music." So, "Come in!"
he called.

Joel hastily drew on his trousers and a pair of shoes and
went to the head of the stairs, where Mrs. Turner, with a
cloak around her, was already watching.

They heard horses' hoofs clatter up the house. Then Mr.
Turner, who had lighted a candle, opened the door, and
two men came in, streaming with water. They wore black
felt hats and rubber coats which came down below the tops
of their muddy boots, and had the collars turned up around
their necks. Were there uniforms under those raincoats?
And if so, what color were they?

"Sorry to disturb you, neighbor," said one of the men,
"but we're mighty nigh frozen. Can we have a drink of
whisky?"

"Certainly," replied Mr. Turner. He went to the dining
room, returned with a bottle and two glasses, and poured
out a drink for each.

"Couldn't you let us have the bottle?" asked the spokes-
man. The other man did not speak during the interview.
"It's a mighty raw night and we've got to be out in it, not
tellin' how long."

Mr. Turner handed over the bottle. There seemed noth-
ing else to do. "Soldiers?" he asked.

"Coupla General Wheeler's scouts," replied the man.

"Then maybe you know where the Yankees are," sug-
gested Mr. Turner.

STORM CLOUDS 143

"That's what we're tryin' to find out. We know they're
goin' down the railroad, but are there any in here by the
Oconee? That's the question."

They handed their glasses back. "Thanks, Mr." His
glance at the planter's face was sharp. "This Mr. Turner?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Well, we know you're a good Confederate. You won't
tell the Yankees about us being here."

"Naturally not," said Mr. Turner, with a fine touch of
sarcasm as they clumped out. He closed the door and stood
by it waiting, until he heard their hoofbeats fade away.
Then he called in a guarded tone to the two faces whom
he could dimly see at the top of the stairs:

"Is Sam there? Great Scott! Did that fellow sleep
through all this? Call him, Joe. We must have a council
of war."

He held up his candle and peered at the tall clock in the
hall. "Nearly two o'clock," he said. "Strange doings for this
time of night."

Sam, sleeping like a log in a rear bedroom, was hard to
awaken. He came forth yawning and still complacent. He
doubted that the two callers were Union soldiers, and still
refused to believe that there were any Yankees in the
county.

"Most likely just a couple of Joe Wheeler's scouts, like
they said," was his opinion.

"Well, if that chap's Southern accent wasn't a little
artificial, then I don't know what I'm talking about," said
Mr. Turner.

"That's just what I thought," offered Joel.

Still they couldn't convince Sam, and after a few minutes'

144 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

talk, the amazing youth went back to bed and fell asleep
again.

But for some reason he awoke at dawn, much more con-
cerned. He dressed, went downstairs, and asked the cook
for a cup of coffee and some bread.

"Fm going to scout up the road a piece," he said to Mr.
Turner, who, hearing him, had come out to the kitchen
and found him standing with bread and coffee cup in his
hand.

"Follow the hoof tracks of those fellows and see which
way they went," advised Mr. Turner.

"I'll do that." He ran out to the stable for his horse and
was off.

In two hours he came tearing back, wild-eyed, spattered
with mud even to his hair.

"There's a lot of 'em camped at Park's Bridge," he said,
"and the tracks of those two fellows led right back to the
camp."

Park's Bridge was only about six miles away. Sam im-
mediately began rounding up his crew of Negroes. They
bridled the mules, hitched up the wagon, and away they
went, southward, they knew not where, just fleeing before
the storm.

Mr. Turner meanwhile shouted for Harbert.

"Get some men and take the horses and mules away out
in the swamp and hide them," he told the old man. "The
Yankees may be here at any time. Put the horses where
they can drink and graze."

It was Sunday, and some of the Negroes had scattered,
visiting at neighboring plantations, but Harbert rounded
up enough men to take care of the horses.

Joel himself went with them and led his favorite, Butter-

STORM CLOUDS 145

fly. By tortuous paths which followed the firmer ground
and which were known only to two or three of the Negroes,
they went far into the swamp toward the Oconee. Joel
tethered Butterfly in a canebrake with a long rope, so that
she could eat the green cane leaves and drink from a
near-by pool.

About noon, Joel, wandering restlessly about the grounds,
was at the big gate leading into the road, when two men
in blue uniforms with heavy capes came galloping by on
fine horses. He stared at them in great curiosity. They were
the first Union soldiers he had ever seen; at least they were
the first Northern uniforms he had seen. Perhaps last
night

"Hey, boy," called one of them, "how far is it to
Eatonton?"

"Nine miles," he replied, and they sped on. They were
couriers bearing messages to General Sherman, who was
then nearing Eatonton by another road.

Next morning, just as dawn was breaking, Joel was
awakened by an unusual stir and tumult. Big four-horse
wagons were lumbering along the road, horsemen in blue
uniforms were swarming in through the big gates, leaving
them open, apparently taking possession. Officers were call-
ing out, "Bring in those cattle!" and "Put those hogs into
the wagons." "Sergeant, empty that corn crib." An officer
who seemed to be in charge of affairs was talking to Mr.
Turner on the porch.

"I regret, sir," said he, "that we shall have to take your
cattle and horses and some of your grain. I see you haven't
much corn left. Where are your horses?"

"That you will have to find out for yourself," said Mr.
Turner.

146 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

The officer smiled sarcastically, and said, "Well do our
best." He and Mr. Turner argued for several minutes, the
latter evidently restraining his temper with great difficulty.
Presently an orderly hurried up, saluted, and said, "Cap-
tain, we've found where the horses are. Some of the niggers
told us they're hid in the swamp, and they're showin' the
way now to Sergeant Ormsby and a squad of men."

"Very good," said the captain, dismissing him. When he
looked at Mr. Turner again, he saw that his face was white
with baffled rage.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Turner," said the captain. "You see, we
need good animals for this long march to the sea. We'll
give you some of our discarded horses and mules in their
place. A little rest and feed will make them as good as
yours."

"You're very kind," said Mr. Turner, with bitter sarcasm.
"And on what will I feed them?"

"Oh, there ought to be plenty for them to eat on this big
plantation root crops, fodder, and grass, and you've prob-
ably got some corn hidden somewhere."

Old Harbert came hurrying up from the barn. "Dey are
gittin' de hosses, Marster," he burst out, "but I didn't tell
'em where dey wuz."

"I know you didn't, Harbert," assured Mr. Turner.

"Hit wuz dat triflin', low-life Zeke," said Harbert, "an'
if I kin lay han's on de scoun'el, I'll give him a frailin' dat
he'll remember de longest day he lives." He darted a
venomous glance at the unwelcome guest's blue uniform,
and added, "Does you need any help to gyard de house,
Marster?"

"You need not worry, my man," said the captain, "Your
family and personal belongings are safe," he added to Mr.

STORM CLOUDS 147

Turner. "General Sherman has given strict orders that there
be no looting."

"Then you don't call it looting/' said Mr. Turner
satirically, "to take all of a man's food and the horses with
which he makes a living?"

"In war it is called foraging/' replied the captain coldly,
"and is considered legitimate, especially in an enemy coun-
try. I'll station a guard here to see that nothing is stolen
from your home," and he turned away.

Joel wandered about the place and noticed that the sol-
diers who were doing the foraging were for the most part
good-humored, greeting him as "bub" and "Johnny"
"Johnny Reb" was a favorite Northern soldier's nickname
for a Southerner. Joel was surprised, for he had gotten the
impression that Yankees were all hard, rough, surly men.
But there was one of these who was far from genial. Joel
saw this man, who had a foreign accent, enter the hat shop,
now deserted, and, following him, saw that he was pro-
ceeding to load himself with all the hats in the place.

"You leave those hats alone," cried Joel indignantly.

"Shut up, liddle fool ! " was the only answer, as the man
glowered at him.

"Put those hats down!" cried Joel, standing in the fel-
low's way. "You haven't any use for them. General Sher-
man has given orders against looting. I'll tell the captain
on you "

The man, with a sweep of his arm, sent the boy spinning,
across the room.

"Yoost for that," said he, "I burn dis place." He swept
some papers together, threw some loose wool on them,
lighted a match and tossed it into the pile. In another
minute the building would have been in flames. But just

148 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

as he struck the match, a shadow darkened the door and a
lieutenant looked in.

"What are you doing, you scoundrel?" he roared.
"Throw that rubbish out of the door! Help him get it
out, boy!"

"He's trying to steal all our hats," said Joel, as he kicked
at the burning paper, the officer helping with his sword.
When the blazing mass was well outside, the officer, began
to spank the soldier unmercifully with the flat of his sword.
Dancing about, screaming "Ow!" and trying to shield
himself, the man backed away from the door. Joel laughed
till the tears came. It seemed as good as a circus.

"Now get out of here," said the officer, "and if I catch
you at this again, I'll have you put in irons."

The soldier hurried off in one direction, and the officer
strode away in another without a word. But Joel had
scarcely ceased laughing when he saw the horses, among
them his beloved Butterfly, being led toward the road by
Northern soldiers. Tears stood in his eyes as Butterfly dis-
appeared through the gate into the road, but there was
nothing he could do. He just stood with clenched hands
and watched her go.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The End of a World

last wagon had disappeared from the ravaged
plantation. Some of the gaunt mules had been un-
hitched from them on the spot and left to replace
some o the animals taken away. The captain in command
of the raid had left a soldier with his gun on guard in front
of the mansion to prevent any marauding by other soldiers
or "bummers." The road, its mud now deeply cut and
churned by hoofs and wagon wheels, was quiet for a few
minutes; then a group of mounted officers went clattering
by, now in a trot, now in a gallop, their horses' hoofs throw-
ing mud high in the air and spattering their uniforms.

"That's General Slocum and his staflE," said the guard.
"He commands the left wing of the army now."

Shortly after that, Joel heard a faint noise of singing,
and saw that the army was upon them. He ran and climbed
up on the fence by the road. A group of officers came
riding ahead, and then a long column of men in blue,
marching four abreast, though not in perfect order. In fact,
dress parade marching would not have been possible on
those rough, muddy roads. The whole scene was a dis-
appointment to Joel at first. It was not like the glorious

149

150 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

pageantry of war as he had imagined it. There were neither
bands nor flying banners; all these were being carried in
the baggage wagons. There was just a long thick rope of
men in faded blue uniforms trailing snakelike over hills
and hollows along the winding road; men trudging
through mud ankle deep, carrying heavy guns and knap-
sacks, but singing.

"John Brown's body lies mould'ring in the tomb.
John Brown's body lies mould'ring in the tomb.
John Brown's body lies mould'ring in the tomb.
As we go marching on.

"Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
As we go marching on."

They were singing it raggedly, one company not in tune
with another, evidently singing just because they were in
good spirits. Then came a break in the line, a major riding
at the head of another battalion, and these were not sing-
ing, but were in just as happy a frame of mind laughing
and cracking jokes. The small, lonely redheaded figure
sitting on the fence attracted their attention, and they
tossed many jests at Joel as they went by: "Hello Johnny!
Where's your parasol?" for a thin mist was falling again.
"Jump down, Johnny, and let me kiss you good-by," called
another. Joel could not help grinning back at them, for they
were so jovial with it all. But one man with a pale, drawn
face staggered out of line and sat down on the wet bank
almost at Joel's feet.

Slog, slog, slog, the mud-laden shoes rose and fell

152 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"Buddy," he gasped in a sharp-voiced drawl it seemed
to Joel that he was talking through his nose "could you
get me a drink of water ? "

This was a hated Yankee, but the boy's ideas of Yankees
were undergoing a slight change; and, furthermore, his
sympathy was aroused by the evidently suffering man. He
ran and brought some water in a gourd, the favorite rural
drinking vessel in the South in those days.

"Thank ye, son," said the soldier when he had gulped
down the water.

"Are you sick?" asked Joel.

"No, jest tired, mostly," was the reply. "I hurt my foot
yesterday and it wore me out to march on it." Slowly, every
motion showing how tired he was, he took a big cracker
Joel guessed that it was hardtack out of his knapsack and
bit off pieces of it, talking in broken sentences as he chewed.

"Not used to this heavy mar chin 5 . . . . Been indoors all
my life workin' at a bench clockmaker. . . . Ain't got
much taste for war, anyhow. . . . They drafted me a few
months ago. . . . Got a wife and four children back in
Connecticut."

"Are these all Connecticut soldiers?" asked Joel.

"Oh no. This is the Hundred and Twenty-third New
York passin', now. My regiment Fifth Connecticut is
gone by."

"How will you get back to it?"

"I'll get on a wagon when it comes along and ketch up
with the boys tonight, maybe, when they go into camp."

Slog, slog, slog, the thousands of feet plodding through
die mud, steadily getting worse as little misty showers fell;
still that long dull blue mud-spattered ribbon crawling over
the little rise beyond the cornfield. The soldier named some

THE END OF A WORLD 153

of the regiments as they went by "Forty-sixth Pennsyl-
vania . . . Second Massachusetts . . . Thirteenth New Jersey,"
. . . Again the jokes. "Hey soldier/' called someone in the
ranks to the straggler, "has Johnny on the fence took you
prisoner?" During an interval between divisions, another
group of mounted officers came in sight, spurring along
rapidly. The Connecticut soldier struggled to his feet and
stood at attention.

"General Alph Williams, new commander of the Twen-
tieth Corps and his staff," said he out of the corner of his
mouth to Joel. "He's the feller with the big, forked beard
and long mustache."

"Is all this the Twentieth Corps?" asked Joel, when the
man had sat down again.

"Yes, but you won't see more'n half of it. The other part
is goin' by another road."

"Is it all from the Eastern states?"

"Oh no, we've got regiments from Ohio, Indiana,
Illinois, and le's see one from Michigan."

"How many men are in the corps?" was Joel's next
question.

"About 14,000, as I ricollect," said the man.

Slog, slog, slog, the mud-laden shoes rose and fell, the
moving thicket of guns bobbed up and down with them as
Joel pondered all this. War had lost its glitter for him, but
the spectacle was beginning to have a frightening grandeur
which he hadn't seen in it before. Never before had he had
the faintest realization of what a thousand men, five thou-
sand men meant. There seemed to be no end to the march-
ing column. He was beginning to be awed and frightened
by the immensity and power which he saw there.

Presently, at the end of a division, several wagons came

154 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

along, and the Connecticut man rose and hobbled toward
the road.

"Good-by, buddy/' he said over his shoulder. "Thanks
for the drink. Come and see me.'* He climbed on the tail-
gate of one of the wagons while the grinning driver was
calling to Joel, "Run and git your trunk, Johnny, and git
aboard!"

Another division commander and his staff and then
more infantry, most of them good-natured, unheeding the
sticky red clay which sucked at their feet and weighted
their shoes, making marching doubly hard. Still they found
the small, lone, freckle-faced figure on the fence pleasantly
humorous.

"Where's your regiment, Johnny?" "He's a bush-
whacker, boys; if he so much as bats his eye, I'm goin' to
dodge." "If there was another one of 'em settin' on t'other
side of the road, I'd say we was surrounded."

Joel, tired now and then of watching the moving
column, went away when the rain became a little heavier,
but was always drawn back to the road again after a while
by an irresistible fascination. He couldn't help thinking of
that gentle Connecticut clockmaker who didn't want to
fight. Would he get back alive to his wife and children?
The spectacle was beginning to have new meaning for
Joel. These men didn't look any different from Georgians.
Their faces were much like those of home folks. Take the
blue uniform off them and you wouldn't know the differ-
ence. And probably they all or nearly all had people back
there in those Northern states who loved them, and were
praying for their safe return. That day was destined to
play an important part in this thoughtful boy's life. It had
is writing years afterward.

THE END OF A WORLD 155

Late in the afternoon he saw the end of the infantry
column; then came strings of horses and cows seized from
other farms, and a portion of the vast wagon train of the
army, many of the wagons, to his astonishment, carrying
big flat-bottomed boats one boat to each wagon. Joel had
read of pontoon bridges, but he had supposed that the
pontoons were made at the water's edge when the soldiers
came to a stream. But this army, expecting to find bridges
destroyed in its path, and not wishing to be bothered with
ferrying, carried its own bridges of boats with it.

"De governor and de legislature has all run away f m
Milledgeville," was Harbert's news, when he went back to
the house again.

So there was no longer a state government in Georgia!
A stunned silence reigned over Turnwold that night. Joel
thought often of those soldiers going into camp a few miles
away on the muddy ground, among wet grass and under-
brush, trying to start fires with sodden wood, perhaps some
of them sleeping, or trying to sleep, without tents in the
cold drizzling rain. No, there was no longer any glamour
in war for him.

Next day, work on the plantation was almost at a stand-
still. Mr. Turner, haggard and tired, was trying to re-
organize his little community. More than half his Negroes
were gone, they had followed the Federal army, as did
thousands of others in Georgia, expecting to be cared for
and to have a happy life without work. Harbert, Uncle
George, and most of the older ones were still faithful, but
the younger ones, especially those who worked in the fields

and had not been on familiar terms with the master had

*

vanished, and numerous cabins were vacant.

"It's lucky for me," sighed Mr. Turner. "Sherman will

156 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

have to feed them, if they're fed at all. I don't know how
I could have done it this winter, after this raid. 55 He paused
for a moment, staring at the wall, and said, "It looks like
the beginning of the end, Joel."

Work on The Countryman was forgotten that week. As
Joel stood at the big gate next morning looking northward
along the road, peopling it again in his mind with the
thousands of men he had seen marching over it yesterday,
he thought he saw something move in a fence corner a
hundred yards away. Looking more keenly, he was sure
there was a human being there. He walked toward it, and
saw that it was an old colored woman, thinly clad, sitting
on a stone, shivering and moaning. Beyond her, in the
fence corner, lay an aged Negro man, his shoulders covered
by a ragged shawl

"Who is that lying there, Auntie?" asked Joel.

"My ol' man, suh."

"What is the matter with him."

"He dead, suh," she replied simply. "But bless God, he
died free."

There was a catch in Joel's throat for a moment. Then
he asked, "Where did you come from?"

"F'm Morgan County, little mahster. We was followin'
Giner'l Sherman to freedom, but my ol' man, he couldn't
go any furder."

She burst into sobs, and rocked to and fro.

"I'll bring some help, Auntie," said Joel, and sped away.
Soon he returned, bringing Harbert and three other men.
Gently they carried the body of the old slave, who had
found his freedom, back to the quarters. They had to carry
his wife also, for she was in a state of exhaustion. Next day

THE END OF A WORLD 157

there was a funeral service, with one of the Negroes who
was a lay preacher officiating, and the elderly stranger was
buried in the little plantation cemetery.

His wife had been put to bed in one of the cabins deserted
by a family who had followed the army. There the Turners
and the colored people tended her carefully, though it was
evident that she had not long to live. Joel visited her fre-
quently, and she invoked many blessings upon the "little
mahster" who had been so kind to her. Within a few
weeks, she went, quite contentedly, to join her "oP man"
in eternal freedom.

In the issue of The Countryman for the week following
the passage of the army, Mr. Turner remarked that during
the past week he had been "entertaining some gentlemen
from the United States of North America, including a few
from Europe." There would be quite an interesting story
to tell of the invasion, he said, but "we deem it prudent to
omit it for the present. The truth is, we don't know just
now whether we are a subject of Joe Brown, Gov. Logan,
Jeff Davis, old Abe or the King of Dahomey."

Thereafter, the paper appeared in smaller size. Of course,
no new subscribers appeared, and it could not be profitable.
The plantation struggled through the latter part of that
winter somehow, though food for humans and the few
animals left became painfully scarce. Even at that, Turn-
wold was more fortunate than some other country places
where the buildings had been burned and only devasta-
tion left.

In May 1865, Mr. Turner wrote an editorial, saying that
he had just heard of the surrender of the main Confederate
armies to the Union generals. Grant and Sherman, that

158 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

henceforth he would publish the paper in greatly reduced
size and would say nothing about politics until he learned
how much he would be permitted to say.

"I suppose I may as well tell you, Harbert," he said when
the old man came to him for orders about some matter,
"that you people are all free."

Harbert peered into his face with something of consterna-
tion in his eyes. "You ain't goin' to send us away, is you,
Marster?" he asked.

"Not if you don't want to go," replied Mr. Turner. "You
may stay as long as we can find something to eat on the
place. How long that will be I don't know."

So The Countryman became just a little leaflet, scarcely
larger than a book page. Mr. Turner calmly announced his
acceptance of the new regime: "Reunion Henceforth we
desire to know no North, no South, no East, no West, but
one common country." Nevertheless, a harsh Federal gen-
eral named Wilson, who was in military control of Georgia
at the time, seized him and kept him for several weeks in
prison at Macon on the charge of "disloyal utterances."
The effect of such injustice upon a proud soul like Mr.
Turner was calamitous. He never quite recovered his spirit
thereafter.

Of course, The Countryman was suspended while he
was in prison, and for several weeks after he was freed.
When he began issuing it again, he showed a flash of his
old humor. The paper's motto formerly had been "Inde-
pendent in everything, neutral in nothing." Now he
changed it to "Independent in nothing, neutral in every-
thing."

|od had remained at Turnwold all this time, helping to
look after the farm work. When the paper resumed publi-

"You ain't goin' to fend us away, is you, Marster?" he as\ed.

160 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

cation, he went back to his old job, though there was not
much to do. Mr. Turner, in his melancholy, found some
comfort in the belief that he was coaching one of the future
great writers of the South. Once Louise Prudden, Joel's
former little seatmate, now a pretty girl of sixteen who was
showing promise as a writer, came to visit at Turnwold.
With one hand upon her shoulder and the other on Joel's,
Mr. Turner said, "You two will do the writing for the
South which I will be unable to do."

Smiling, looking at her old playmate, Louise asked,
'"What are you going to write about, Joe?"

The conversation was becoming too emotional for Joel,
and as usual at such times, he struck back at it with a piece
of nonsense. Blushing furiously, he muttered, "B-bumble-
bees and jaybirds."

He was nearer right than he knew.

Through another winter the little paper dragged along.
Turnwold took care, not only of its own Negroes but of
several who had drifted in from other plantations, where
all the buildings had been burned and the masters fled.
One of Mr. Turner's last editorials shows a spirit far in
advance of many of those around him:

If the negro is forced upon us as a citizen, we go for
educating 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 en-
couragement in the power of our people to give him.

How greatly Joel Harris's thought and life were influ-
enced by this kindly slave owner and gentleman, no one
can tell But the end of their pleasant association was draw-

THEENDOFA WORLD 161

ing near. Mr. Turner came into the shop one day, and said,
"I'm sorry to tell you, Joel, that we can't go on. I haven't
the money to buy any more paper and ink."

Sadly, Joel set the type and ran off the sheets for the last
time. On the margin of the copy which he kept all his lif e>
he wrote:

This is the very last number of The Countryman ever
issued. 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. HAJGEUS

When they had prepared the few copies for mailing, Mr.
Turner looked around the shop sadly. "There'll be no more
happy days here at Turnwold, such as we've known in the
past. For me the end of the world has come. But you are
young and talented. Life is all before you. There will be a
place for you somewhere, and my best wishes go with you.
It's been a great pleasure to have you here, Joel, and you
have been a loyal and able employee and friend. I hope I
have helped you a little toward the career of which I can
see you're dreaming."

"Y-you have, sir!" stammered Joel. "M-more than I
can ever tell you."

It was hard to say good-by to this kind family, to the
loyal black friends, and to the little shop, the woods, and
fields where he had been so happy for four years. It was
agony to Joel because he could not express in words his
gratitude to them all, and his sorrow in parting. But he
turned his back upon them at last and started on his walk
to Eatonton. He was almost penniless. Mr. Turner had

162 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

been able to pay him little since the end of the war, and all
that he had earned before that had, of course, been paid to
him in Confederate money, which was now not worth the
paper it was printed upon. But even so, it was as his em-
ployer had said: He was the more fortunate of the two.
The war ruined Mr. Turner, as it did many another
Southern planter, and he died only two years later, broken-
hearted and in poverty.

As for Joel, those years at Turnwold formed one of the
most important periods of his life. There he found material
for many of the stories which brought him fame. There
he found encouragement for his ambition and some knowl-
edge of the practical side of publishing. There he may be
said, in four years, to have grown from boyhood to man-
hood. There he really began his literary career.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

One Foot on the Ladder

" ONG before he left Turnwold, Joel had begun to think
of venturing into the world outside the plantation.
-" Less than two years after he began work there.

he wrote to a former Eatonton friend, a little older than
himself, who had a place in a newspaper shop down at
Columbus, Georgia, asking if there was a chance of his
finding work with that paper. It may seem odd to think
of a boy of fifteen expecting to take a man's place in a
printing shop, but so many of the men in the South had
been drawn into the armies that a great deal of their usual
work at home was being done by boys and old men.
Furthermore, it must be admitted that by this time Joel
could set type just about as well as any man in the business.
The friend in Columbus wrote, "I should be delighted
if you could come, as I am bored to death with the society
with which I am compelled to associate. The boys in the
office are, with a few exceptions, stupid wooden-heads.
Now, as to work; I can only say that I have tried in all the
offices, and there is no empty case all full at present. . . .
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."

163

164 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

This letter was such a damper that Joel, still loath to ven-
ture into strange scenes, did nothing more until The Coun-
tryman ceased to exist. Then he went home and began
writing letters here and there asking for work. He took his
friend's advice and centered his attack on Macon, one of
the leading cities of the state. Aided by strong recommen-
dations from Mr. Turner and men in his home town, he
quickly found a place in the composing room of the Macon
Telegram. He was only seventeen.

The managing editor must have wondered, when the
freckled, undersized boy weighing less than a hundred
pounds stood before him, blushing and stammering,
whether he had done wisely in taking on such a youngster;
and yet young Harris's letters had been written in such
faultless English and sounded so intelligent he took them
out again and looked them over to be sure he was not mis-
taken. Perhaps someone else had written them for him.
Anyhow, his recommendations were excellent. Well, it
would be only fair to give the boy a chance and see how
genuine he was.

Joel's first work was that of taking proofs and helping
the foreman. He was quiet, having little to say to anybody
at first, and he studied carefully every detail of the making
of what seemed to him this great and important city news-
paper with a press operated by steam. In his spare time,
both in and out of working hours, he was reading and writ-
ing.

Soon he was given a chance to set type.

"That cub will do," said the old foreman, bringing some
proof sheets of his work to Harry Neville, the city editor.
"He's fast and he's accurate. Here are a couple of galleys
he's set. Look 'em over."

ONE FOOT ON THE LADDER 165

"Well, there's a lot of truth in the old saying that you
can't tell by looking at a frog how far he can jump/' said
Mr. Neville, when he had glanced over the proofs. "What
seems still more incredible is that this schoolboy, not dry
behind the ears yet, is supposed to have written a lot of
excellent things in The Countryman you remember the
paper, Ed some of them as much as two years ago when
he was still more of an infant than he is now. It gets me!"

It wasn't long before Mr. Neville began giving Joel the
task of writing small items for the paper. He would pick
out some event which he thought well suited to the boy's
style and ask him to write it up. In those days, business
concerns sometimes secured free puffs in the paper by
giving a present to the editor or a treat to the whole staff
of employees, which would bring out an item something
like this:

"Mr. Liebman, the well-known Eighth Street baker,
placed on our table yesterday a large and handsome fruit
cake which proved to be one of the finest delicacies of the
sort that we ever stuck a tooth into. The staff cleaned it
up in short order, much to the editor's regret, and all agreed
that it could not be surpassed. Mr. Liebman's goods are
always of this high quality, and our lady readers are advised
to let him do their baking for them instead of spending
hours over a hot stove at home."

Some items of this sort were assigned to Joel, and he
wrote them in such an unusual and lively manner that they
attracted much attention. In his reports of other events, he
now began to show evidences of the humor which was to
be a chief characteristic of all his mature writing.

Because of his greenness and good humor, the other
workmen in the office at first imposed upon him, putting

166 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

more work upon him than was his due. But he took it so
good naturedly and was so likable that they ceased to do
this after a while, and all became fond of him. Because of
the color of his hair, the office nickname for him was "Pink-
Top"; but the jest grew to be an affectionate one.

As he became better acquainted with his work, and
acquired some closer friendships on the staff, he relaxed and
spent some time with them in his evening hours. Perhaps
his best chum was a young man not much older than him-
self named Bridges Smith, who years later studied law and
became a judge. This gentleman used to laugh over the
time when Joel "completed his trade," as the saying was,
by joining the local typographical union. The ceremony
took place on a Sunday afternoon in a little brick engine
house, the home of a volunteer fire company known as
Young America No. 3, where the union met.

To join the union, it was necessary to repeat the words of
an obligation. Joel had it all memorized, but when the time
came, he was seized with such a panic that he was unable
to say a word. The silence grew painful, and finally Bridges
Smith, amused but pitying his friend's embarrassment,
said, "Mr. President, Mr. Harris stutters."

"Well, I guess we will have to take the will for the deed,"
said the president, after another few moments' hesitation,
and so Joel joined the union without promising loyalty, as
prescribed by the by-laws.

All the time Joel was writing articles, poems, and, some-
times, stories for Southern magazines, for most of which he
still received no pay. Among the magazines to which he
contributed was the Crescent Monthly, published in New
Orleans. Its editor was that same Captain Flash, the former
Macon, journalist whose poems and prose style Joel had

ONE FOOT ON THE LADDER 167

admired so much, and about whom he had written in The
Countryman. Captain Flash was naturally much pleased
by JoePs praise, and it was through him that an offer came
when Joel had been in Macon not yet four months of a
place as secretary to Mr. William Evelyn, owner of the
magazine.

Joel was almost in consternation at the thought of what
the offer meant. New Orleans was so far away. ... It was
such a big city. . . . He would have to go among strangers,
make acquaintances all over again. . . . The problem was,
for two or three days, a nightmare to him, and in despair of
solving it himself, he finally decided to lay it before Mr.
Neville. He went into the editor's office red and flustered,
handed him the letter, and said, "M-Mister Neville, th-this
letter came for me Monday. I d-didn't ask for a job there.
I don't know how they happened to ask me."

Mr. Neville was pretty well acquainted with Joel's char-
acter by that time. He read the letter through, and asked,
"Well, what do you think of it, Joe?"

"I don't know what to think," was the reply. "I came to
ask your advice."

The editor hesitated a moment. "It's a bigger thing than
we can offer you, Joe," he finally said slowly. "More salary,
perhaps a bigger chance for promotion. And New Orleans
is a wonderful city. Many cultures there Anglo-Saxon,
French, Spanish; you'll see and hear things which will be
of great value to you. I know your ambition. You want to
be an author. On a magazine you will have a better chance
to cultivate your talent as it should be cultivated than on a
newspaper."

He felt silent so long that Joel finally asked, "Then you
advise me to accept?"

^gS^T^^^^g^]^ .".V^'iA^. J J ..' J^w'...?:

tf A wonder.

Lo^/y steamboats with their gold-braided officers.

170 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"Giving advice in a case like this is dangerous business/'
said Mr. Neville. "All I can say is this, Joe: If I were only
seventeen and in your shoes, I would accept the offer with-
out hesitation."

Yet Joel hesitated for at least two days more before writ-
ing his letter of acceptance. He left Macon with regret for
he had made friends there, and he liked his employers.
Many years later, in a letter to one of his children, who
was visiting in that hospitable city, with the broad tree-
shaded streets, he said, "You can't tell me anything about
Macon. I once lived there and liked it very much. The
people are fine "

Now for the first time in his life he ventured outside the
familiar atmosphere of Georgia, and for weeks on end as
he moved about New Orleans his eyes were round with
wonder. A great, lazy river, which seemed not to move at
all, lordly steamboats with their gold-braided officers and
aristocratic passengers, ocean vessels which had come up
the mighty stream one hundred miles from the sea, bustling
docks littered with baled cotton and coffee and sugar and
a thousand other things, the vast sullen swamps, the
strange bird and animal life, the long moss trailing from
the trees like funereal decorations why, here he seemed
to be in a foreign country! The narrow, cobbled streets
with their lovely romantic names Bienville, Iberville,
Baronne (where his own office was), Dryades, Melpomene,
Clio . . . The mansions in some quarters of town with lacy
ironwork over the porches, yards full of flowering trees,
shrubs and vines, and the air heavy with the scent of bloom,
the strange foods lobster, crab, shrimp, crawfish . . . The
soft Creole dialect, even Negroes talking French. . . . The
old colored woman with her basket of vegetables on her

ONE FOOT ON THE LADDER 171

way from market, who dropped on her knees on the stone
floor just inside the door of St. Louis Cathedral and said
her little morning prayer . . . The stall keeper in the old
French market, shoveling up live crawfish with a scoop
like the grocer at home used for sugar, pouring them into
a paper bag on the scales, and the woman customer going
off with them, audibly scuffling and scratching inside the
bag It was all as fascinating as a play. There was a young
newspaper reporter named George W. Cable, working in
the city at the time, who was keenly alive to its charm, and
who later wrote it into some fine short stories and novels.

But Joel did not give all his spare moments to sight-
seeing. He spent much time outside office hours in writing
paragraphs and unsigned articles for his employer's maga-
zine, and also for the New Orleans papers.

"You'll have to be careful what you write for these
papers, Joe," grinned Captain Flash, when he heard of
this sideline, "or you'll have somebody taking a pot shot
at you on the street or an elegant gentleman walking in
here one morning with a challenge for you. These fire*
eating editors down here crave your blood if you so much
as bat an eyelash crooked. We'd hate to see you toted home
plumb full of holes or all messed up with a bowie knife."

Truly enough, the brawls and duels in which the editors
there were involved seemed too numerous for comfort, and
Joel was careful to write nothing which would offend these
touchy citizens. Many of his productions were romantic
little poems. He was ashamed of most of them when he
grew older, and called them doggerel. One of them which
is known to be his work was "The Sea Wind," written for
the New Orleans Times. It began:

172 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

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.

Odd that a youth who had never had a love affair should
write so fervently of love !

Joel was very useful to his employer and editor. He is
said to have written all but one of a series of lectures on
English literature which Mr. Evelyn, the proprietor, de-
livered before a girls' school in New Orleans. But after all,
New Orleans was never home to Joel. It was too foreign,
too different from the rustic Georgia environment in which
he had grown up and which he ever afterward preferred to
all others. He tasted the rare food in the famous French
restaurants of the old Creole city, but let others praise them
as they would, he preferred corn bread and buttermilk,
fried chicken, ham, and collards.

He was homesick, too, for the red clay banks, homely
living and crisper winters of Georgia, and fate helped him
to get back there. The Crescent Monthly, never prosperous,
died when he had been in its office less than a year, and
back he came in May 1867, "nursing a novel in his brain,"
as he said, to spend a little while with his mother in Eaton-
ton, "ruralizing in the places where grain grows and birds
sing."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Joel Builds a Refutation

B

UT Joel couldn't afford to be without a salary long,
so after a very brief vacation, he began looking for
a place again. He was going into Macon on a train
one day, with his flabby carpetbag in his hand, hoping to
find a composing-room job again, when he saw on the
platform of one of the coaches a familiar face none other
than that of Jim Harrison, who had worked for a time in
The Countryman office. Jim was a few years older than
Joel, and to Joel he was always "Mr. Harrison." He looked
in every direction but the right one, until just as the train
was cranking to a stop, his glance fell upon Joel. He stared
for a moment, then his face lighted up with recognition.

"Joe Harris," he exclaimed, reaching for the boy's hand,
"is it really you?"

"Y-yes sir," stammered Joel, blushing as usual.

"What do you mean by that 'sir' ? Well, well, how you've
changed since I saw you last ! How many years has it been?
Three? Four? I've been hearing of your career. Where are
you working now? Still in New Orleans?"

"No," said Joel. "The magazine collapsed. I'm out of a
job now."

173

174 JOEL CHANDLER HAR.RIS

"Is that so?" They were climbing down the steps to the
station platform. "Listen! Come over here where we can
talk." Jim dragged him by the arm to a quiet corner. "You
may be the very man I'm looking for. I've bought the news-
paper up at Forsyth, in Monroe County, just northwest of
here. It's called the Monroe Advertiser. I always wanted to
publish a newspaper. Now I have to have somebody to run
the shop. You could do that and some of the writing,
too. Would you consider such a place?"

"Why, yes, I might," said Joel.

"Now, as to wages." Harrison hesitated a moment. "A
country newspaper, you know, can't pay fancy salaries.
But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'm married now finest little
wife you ever saw, Joe and I'll give you board and lodging
in my home as part pay. Add to that well, say seven dol-
lars a week in cash. Does that sound all right?"

Joel hesitated. To go and live in a strange home again,
with a young woman fussing around him, having to eat at
the table with her. . . .

Jim Harrison misunderstood his hesitation. "Well, make
it eight dollars."

"Oh, that's all right!" gasped Joel. And thus at eighteen
he became well-nigh the mainstay of a country newspaper.
Long afterward, he humorously described his job thus:

"I set all the type, pulled the press, kept the books, swept
the floor, and wrapped the papers for mailing; my me-
chanical, accounting, and menial duties being concealed
from the vulgar hilarity of the world outside of Forsyth by
the honorable and impressive title of Editor."

Jim. Harrison had ideas. The Monroe Advertiser was one
of the first newspapers in the county to have a local depart-
ment; that is, columns of personal items about the little

JOEL BUILDS A REPUTATION 175

everyday doings of citizens of the town and surrounding
country. Up to that time newspapers thought they were
called upon only to record important political news, prefer-
ably about the state and nation, with some items describing
great disasters and other momentous or curious happenings
in various parts of the world all this clipped from other
papers, of course. Local news was being given much more
space by the time Joel went into the Advertiser office, but
still there was no column in which the little visits and
travels and sicknesses and accidents of ordinary folk were
recorded. To publish material like this would have, up to
that time, been considered a sort of yellow journalism.

"Other people beside politicians have a right to have
their names in the paper, Joel," said his employer. "I think
they'll be interested in seeing their own names and those of
their neighbors in print, and I think it will win a lot of
new readers for us."

So the Advertiser began carrying a column of items such
as everyone who reads a country newspaper sees to this day:

Ed Simpson has gone back to college neighborhood -was in town yesterday,

at Athens. shopping. He says the crops look

Mr. John A. Timmins was in Macon on good out his way.

business yesterday. Mr. Henry Huskins had the misfortune

Miss Hattie Gates of Dames Ferry is to have his right kneecap broken

visiting Miss Willie Toland. Thursday by the kick of a horse. He

Mr. Azariah Dickey of the Towaliga is resting comfortably at this writing.

/

This department greatly increased the Advertiser's circu-
lation, but editor and proprietor must have had to do con-
siderable "leg work," as the reporters say, to gather the
material. Joel also wrote paragraphs, commenting on local,
state, and national news, and here he began to display the
rich fund of humor which soon earned him a wide reputa-
tion. The terse, snappy paragraphs were copied into other

176 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

papers far and wide. The Atlanta Constitution published a
string of them at intervals under the heading of "Harris-
oniana," but as time went on other editors learned who was
really responsible for them, and then and there Joel's
reputation as a journalistic wit was born.

All this work and the increased circulation made the
office so busy that within a few months Mr. Harrison said,
"Joe, I'm going to take on an apprentice to help you in the
shop. There's a farmer boy named Turner Manry that
wants to learn the trade. Of course, I can give him only his
board and clothes at first. You don't mind his rooming with
you, do you?"

"N-no," said Joel slowly. He did mind; he dreaded it.
But it would have done no good to say so.

In later life, Turner Manry moved to Louisiana and
became a member of the state legislature. But his appear-
ance gave no promise of such a future on that day when he
came walking in from his father's farm, seven miles out
in the country, a gawky youth of seventeen carrying all his
belongings in a flabby carpetbag.

His new boss took him into the shop where he saw the
first type case and printing press that he had ever laid eyes
on and introduced him to Joel, who shook hands and
mumbled something. Turner's first impression of him was
that "he had the reddest hair I ever saw, and had less to say
than anyone I had ever met."

But as they became better acquainted, Joel thawed, and
grew quite talkative with the new helper. Turner was
tremendously awed by him, and never called him anything
but "Mr. Harris." He looked on with amazement as Joel
composed paragraphs and even long articles, standing at
the case. One which he long remembered, "A Fox Hunt

JOEL BUILDS A REPUTATION 177

in Georgia/' describing one of those dear old days at Turn-
wold, was a column and a half in length.

"I don't see how you do it, Mr. Harris," he said over and
over again.

Manry first took on the "devil's 55 work, then learned to
read proofs and then to set type. Jobs were strenuous in the
Advertiser office ten or twelve hours a day, and every
week, just before the paper came out, they had to work
evenings. But Turner could not remember that Joel ever
took an hour off during the more than two years of their
association. After some further years of experience in the
business, he declared that Joel was the best pressman he
ever saw, and that as a writer he could say more in ten
lines than many editors could say in a column.

Newspapers exchanged copies with one another then,
and magazines sent copies gratis to newspaper offices in
order to get an occasional free notice. All the best maga-
zines, including BlacJswood's, the Living Age, Harper's,
Appleton's, and others came to the Advertiser's office, and
Joel, a voracious reader, contrived to absorb the most of
their contents another amazing thing to young Manry. He
was deeply absorbed in Dickens's last work, The Mystery
of Edwin Drood, as it came out in monthly installments,
and was greatly shocked when the novelist's sudden death
ended the story in the middle of its course.

"What a loss to literature!" he mourned. "What a loss

to the world ! And he was writing one of his best stories

I wonder if he told anyone how it was to come out."

"Turner," he said to his young helper, "you don't read
enough. You don't read any books."

"Well, I never seem to find time," defended Manry
sheepishly. "I never seem to get around to it."

178 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"You just haven't formed a reading habit/' said his
mentor.

"Joe's right," said their employer, who was present.
"You can't get anywhere in journalism, Turner, unless you
have done some reading. Dr. Jayne, the druggist, has a little
circulating library. Why don't you join it?"

"I'll do that, sir," promised Manry, always ready to take
the advice of those two great men. "You tell me what books
to pick out, Mr. Harris."

"Here's one for you to start on," said Joel that afternoon,
handing the youth a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. "A
great story of the French revolution by Dickens. I want you
to read it carefully you'll enjoy it, too and tell me what
you think of it. Criticize it if you think it has any weak
points."

Turner read it, and said, "That sure was an interesting
book, Mr. Harris. I'd heard a lot about that French revolu-
tion, but I never realized what it was like before."

"Well, now would be a good time to discover what it
was all about," said Joel. He found a history of France, not
too heavy, and gave that to his young pupil to read. And
so he continued his cultivation in literary taste in the
young man, which Manry remembered gratefully for the
rest of his life. He remembered also how thoughtful Joel
was toward everyone, especially those in humbler positions.
Knowing that Manry received no salary, he would fre-
quently stand treat, especially on hot summer days, when
a watermelon or a glass of soda would be particularly
refreshing.

It was at Forsyth that Joel had his first taste of what
seemed real literary fame. A man named Davidson was
compiling a work which he called Living Writers of the

JOEL BUILDS A REPUTATION 179

South, and he asked the young printer-scribe to prepare
the index for it. He also sought Mr, Harris's opinion as
to the disputed authorship of the famous Civil War poem
beginning, "All quiet along the Potomac tonight." A
Southern man named Fontaine was claiming the author-
ship, although the poem, so far as known, had first ap-
peared in Harper's Weekly over the initials of a New York
woman. Joel made a long and serious investigation, and
decided in favor of the New Yorker.

Living Writers of the South contained, among others,
a sketch Joel blushed and wriggled with modesty when
he looked at it, even in solitude of none other than Mr.
J. Chandler Harris himself. It contained at least one glaring
error, namely the statement that Mr. Harris was studying
law.

Mrs. Harrison was very kind to the two young men,
and she and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Starke, who paid her
some long visits during Joel's stay in Forsyth, did all they
could to overcome his agonizing bashfulness. When he
first arrived, he sat completely tongue-tied at the table
during meals, and escaped as soon afterward as possible.
He was morbidly conscious of his awkwardness, and he
had been teased so much about his red hair and freckles
that he thought himself much more unattractive to other
people than he really was. Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Starke
were thoughtful and tactful, and he presently began to
be more at ease with them.

But the person who really brought him out of his shell
was Mrs. Starke's tiny daughter, Nora Belle, who took to
him at once, and was too young to notice his timidity.
She climbed into his lap and put her arms around his
neck, and his heart opened up to her as it seldom did to

180 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

anyone. All his life he fell an easy captive to any child,
and the children in turn loved him. Even after he left
Forsyth, Joel sent gifts to Nora Belle, and once he wrote
a little poem to her.

Mr. Harrison's younger, unmarried sister Nora also
became an acquaintance of Joel's, but he was never quite
at his ease with her. One winter Sunday afternoon they
were walking together and how that happened, it is
hard to understand while the sun was setting, redly and
gloriously, amid tattered clouds edged with gold.

"Oh, isn't it lovely ! Isn't it wonderful ! " exclaimed Miss
Nora, ecstatically. "It creates inexpressible thoughts in my
soul. What do you think of it, Mr. Harris?" She was
hoping to evoke some beautiful poetic expression from
the young genius. But he was repelled as usual by what
he considered "gush," and just stammered:

"R-rem-minds me of a d-dish of scrambled eggs."

Miss Nora was disgusted with him. Apparently he
never stood so high in her estimation afterward.

His salary rose while he was in Forsyth, until he was
receiving forty dollars a month plus his board and lodg-
ing. He sent money to his mother, and her life began
to be much easier than it had been for years past. And he
also began to gratify modestly a young man's natural liking
for nice clothes. His and Turner's room at the Harrisons'
house contained little beside the bed, a pine table, two
chairs, and Joel's trunk. But the trunk had in it several
white shirts with pleated bosoms and some fine English
socks. He was particular about his clothes though some
people declared that they didn't fit and took good care
of them.

When once Joel got acquainted, he was a good talker,

Joel made one -{lying leaf through the window.

182 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

and might even be lively and full of jokes. The talk at the
Harrisons' dining table was well worth hearing, so Turner
Manry thought, and Joel and some of the young men of
the town had a club called "Company Two," of which he
was one of the leading spirits.

But his timidity, actually a horror of meeting strangers,
continued. Twice after he left Forsyth he visited Mrs.
Starke and her husband at their home in Milledgeville.
Once, while they were sitting in the parlor with a close
friend or two, some people who were strangers to Joel
were seen approaching the house.

He became red and nervous at once. There was only one
exit from the parlor, and that was through the hall, which
was now blocked by the incoming callers. Mrs. Starke,
laughing, whispered, "You are cornered now! You can't
get away."

But he did ! The house was built in a favorite old South-
ern fashion, rather high off the ground, so that the window
sills were seven or eight feet in the air. Nevertheless, Joel
made one flying leap through a window into the yard and
vanished for the afternoon.

He added nothing to his stock of Negro folklore while
he was in Forsyth, but he did find something which was
destined to become immortal. There was an old Negro in
the town who, since he was made free, had earned his liv-
ing by working in the gardens of the townsfolk, and the
name of this old man was Remus! Of course, everybody
called him Uncle Remus. The name struck Joel as amus-
ing, and when, a few years later, he began writing the
stories which brought him fame, he represented them as
being told by a kindly old plantation Negro to whom he
gave the name of 'the obscure gardener in Forsyth.

JOEL BUILDS A REPUTATION 183

The news finally spread among other editorial offices in
Georgia that the editing and all the best writing on the
Monroe Advertiser was being done by a redheaded young-
ster named Harris who never had a word to say for himself.
The result was that when Joel had been there about three
years, he received a letter one morning which fairly struck
him dumb with astonishment. He read it through a second
time, and still it seemed almost incredible. As usual, he
went directly to his employer.

"M-Mr. Harrison," he blurted out, "the S-Savannah
N-News has offered me forty dollars a week."

Mr. Harrison stared at him in amazement Forty dollars
a week was a high salary for any newspaper man in those
days, let alone a kid not yet twenty-two.

"Here's the 1-letter," said Joel, handing it to him.

Mr. Harrison read it through.

"Well, I won't pretend that I wasn't expecting some-
thing of this kind," he said, slowly. "You've made a repu-
tation, Joel, and I couldn't expect you to stay in Forsyth
forever. It will be impossible to fill your place, but I'll have
to do the best I can."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Savannah Humorist

IAVANNAH! Another beautiful, elderly Southern
city, with broad, tree-shaded streets, gracious old
mansions, great live-oaks trailing long streamers of
moss, the scent of magnolia and gardenia blooms, forts and
scars of Civil War and revolution, memories of colonial
days long before that, even back to the time of the founder,
Oglethorpe. But it had something of Georgia in it, and it
was therefore more like home to Joel than New Orleans
had been.

It was a slow-moving, easy-going city in those days. Joel
used to tell how he once ran to catch a street car when he
first went there, which was such a startling thing to do
that people on the car stared at him in amazement, and one
old lady whispered to another, "If you think he's crazy,
well get of!." But perhaps that was just one of Joel's jokes
after he moved to Atlanta. Atlanta loved to tease prim,
touchy old Savannah.

Joel approached the place with his usual dread of meet^
ing new associates and acquaintances. He chuckled in mid-
dle life, and remarked that with a salary of forty dollars
a week assured him, he felt like "the biggest man in the

184

world." But that feeling was all inside him; none of it ap-
peared in his demeanor.

He had raised a mustache by this time, so that he did
not look quite so boyish. But when Colonel Estill, the pro-
prietor of the News, took him up to the editorial room to
introduce him to Colonel Thompson, the editor, and the
rest of the staff, one of the reporters said, "We thought at
the time that he was the greenest, gawkiest-looking speci-
men of humanity our eyes had ever rested upon."

After Colonel Estill and Joel had left the room, the others
turned to Colonel Thompson and bombarded him with
jokes about the new paragrapher.

"What is that critter that Colonel Estill has found?"
asked one. "Is it human or what?"

"How did the colonel catch him in a fishtrap or a
net?" wisecracked another.

Colonel Thompson smiled comfortably. "Fact of the
matter is, boys, that I myself am responsible for bringing
him here. He is the wittiest paragrapher in Georgia. He
will rather surprise you, if I'm not mistaken."

The fact that Thompson himself was a humorist ex-
plains why he was so strongly drawn to young Harris. Two
volumes entitled Major Jones's Courtship and Major Jones's
Travels, written before Joel was born, and bearing the
name of W. T. Thompson on the title page, are still valued
as humorous pictures of Southern village and backwoods
life before the Civil War.

Any newcomer to a newspaper staff was doomed to
suffer some unmerciful teasing. But that evening, when
JoePs manuscript written in pencil, as all newspaper copy
was then and for long afterward began to come to the
composing room, the printers said to one another, "Say,

186 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

that new fellow has had some writing lessons, anyhow.
You can read every word of his stuff clear as print ! "

This was an unusual blessing, for many editors and re-
porters, in their haste, wrote very badly. The great editor,
Horace Greeley, wrote such atrocious script that hardly
anybody could read it.

Manuscript for the News was sent into the composing
room as fast as it was written and impaled on a hook on
the wall. After Joel came, the printers would watch for his
copy. When sheets written by others came in, the printers
would pretend to be busy at something else. But when they
saw from a distance a fresh sheet on the hook with that
clear, even copybook writing of the new man, there was a
rush for it, and the fellow who captured it was happy.

The staff found, as Colonel Thompson had predicted,
that Joel's work was superior in journalistic quality, too.
His particular job was the creation of snappy paragraphs
of the sort which had made his reputation at Forsyth;
comment, usually humorous, sometimes sharply satirical,
upon local, state, or national happenings or characters.
Georgia's statesmen and politicans came in for a deal of,
usually good-natured, teasing, as did certain institutions of
which this or that community was proud Augusta's canal
project and the State-owned railroad, for example. He was
amused at the rapturous descriptions of the Atlanta Steam
Dye Works, which, he said, "appear in the papers of that
city."

The South was suffering from the evils of the recon-
struction period following the Civil War. Federal troops
were still stationed in Savannah, causing much ill-feeling
among the citizens, but almost nothing of all this appears
in Joel's lively paragraphs, some of which were like these:

SAVANNAH HUMORIST 187

The colored people of Macon celebrated the birthday of
Lincoln again on Wednesday. This is the third time since
last October.

The Atlanta man who hilariously tempted his mother-in-
law to hold a firecracker while he called the children, is
now temporarily boarding with his uncle.

The editor of the Cuthbert Appeal, having seen a ten-
dollar note, has removed the crape from his arm and an-
nounced in his paper that money is becoming easier.

In White County recently, Mr. James H. Trooth had a
dispute with a neighbor over some corn. Trooth was crushed
to earth, but soon rose again and vanquished his assailant,
and now the eternal ears of corn are his.

When the United States had a rather dangerous quarrel
with Spain in 1873, Joel wrote:

The 'bare possibility of a war with Spain has caused some
of the 'valiant roosters who recovered from lameness so sud-
denly after our late war, to hunt up their old canes. Nothing
like being in time.

A humorous warfare with another editor, in which the
opponents fired the wittiest retorts they could think of,
back and forth at one another, day after day, was a favorite
sport of a paragrapher like Joel Harris. Once, when affairs
of this sort became rather quiet, he wrote a "want ad":

We desire to engage in a newspaper duel with some
respectable person. He must be a man of family and a
member of the church. References given and required. No
objections to going into the country.

188 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

An editor named Shropshire was a favorite antagonist,
as another paragraph indicates:

The Hawkinsville Dispatch, in noticing a local Irish
potato, says, "It is nearly as large as some editors' heads we
wot of." Why can't these editors let Shropshire alone?

The newspapers in Georgia were all pretty good friends,
and, for the most part, enjoyed their controversies im-
mensely. Joel's quips were so much more clever than most
of the others that they were widely copied. Every day
groups of them were reprinted in other papers, under more
or less humorous headings: "Harrisania," "Harrisgraphs,"
"Harris Sparks," "Red-Top Flashes," "Hot Shots from
Red Hair-is." The Macon Enterprise quoted them under
the heading, "Red Hairs." At which another editor mut-
tered, "Somebody is going to see trouble yet about Harris's
head."

But not so. The victim didn't seem to mind, and the
nicknames for him, most of them alluding to that hair,
were numberless. "Red-Top," "Pink-Top," "Torchlight,"
"Sorrel-Top," "Vermilion Pate," "Molasses-haired humor-
ist," "Our friend of the ensanguined foretop," "That little
crimson pink of the Savannah News," "Burning bush of
Georgia journalism," "One of the most valuable contribu-
tors to the Southern waste-basket" these were just a few.

When that curious phenomenon, the Northern Lights,
appeared in the sky for two or three nights, an editor an-
nounced that he had ascertained that it was not the Aurora
Borealis at all, but Pink-Top Harris sailing around over
Georgia in a balloon. At another time, Joel admitted having
been annoyed, while on a visit to the country, by chigres,

SAVANNAH HUMORIST 189

those microscopic crimson insects which attack one in the
Southern outdoors, and which in Georgia at that time
were called "red bugs." Whereupon another joker wrote:

The impression that Harris of the Savannah News was
annoyed by red bugs while at Tallulah is all a mistake. The
red bugs saw him coming, thought he was their big brother
just got home, and went for him widi fraternal embraces.

One editor, describing him, said, "His head is encircled
by a halo of redolent glory." But the Macon Telegraph,
going at the job more satirically, wrote, "J. Chandler
Harris, of the Savannah News, stands six feet, five in his
stocking feet. He is a brunette of the most perfect type,
with coal black hair flowing down his neck in beautiful
ringlets."

Once more a serious editor protested that whenever some
journalist got the worst of a duel of wits with Harris, "he
always falls back on that old, stale, weather-beaten and
worn-out repartee, 'red head.' J. C. has one consolation; if
his hair is red, it is a durned sight more than their articles

are."

But very often the other editors paid real tribute to his
genius. One called him "the bright, sparkling, vivacious,
inimitable Harris. There is no failing in his spirit of wit
and humor, playful raillery and pungent sarcasm. As a
terse and incisive paragraphist, he is unequaled in the
South." "The wit of the press"; "A genius of rare and ver-
satile ability," were other tokens of appreciation.

A subject frequently mentioned in his column was a
small-town character named Tump Ponder some say
there really was such a person the owner of a roan mule,

190 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

whose heels were so dangerous that his harness had to be
put on him with a long pole, and, even then, there had to
be a new pole every day, because he wrecked the old one.

Joel was now so widely read that he could start discus-
sions and sensations quite in the manner of today. Once he
stirred up much interest over the question, "Who was the
prettiest girl in Georgia?" He deftly gave the impression
that his "editorial album" was full of photographs of the
loveliest beauties of the state. When he went to Eatonton on
a visit to his mother, another sharp-eared editor heard of
it, and set afloat the story that the brilliant paragrapher of
the Savannah 'News had started on a statewide, personal
search for that P. G. in G.

But when, shortly after this, he was asked by the press
association to respond to the toast, "The Ladies," at the
annual banquet, it all turned out just as they might have
expected. He at first said no, that he couldn't think of it!
Then he began to toy with the idea that he might try the
stunt, after all. But as the hour approached, he saw that it
was impossible. He went to the dinner, but when the after-
dinner oratory came on, it was suddenly discovered that
his chair was vacant.

"And this is the man who says so much about the T. G.
in G!' " jeered a fellow writer. "Fie, Brother Harris! We
never in our days heard of a more diabolical case of igno-
minious desertion."

In his column Joel claimed to be the agent for a newly
patented invention, the "chicken torpedo," which would
blow up any prowler who tried to steal fowls from a hen-
house at night. This brought forth many humorous fake
stories, one of them supposed to come from a Baptist min-
ister, who told of rushing to his chicken house after a night

SAVANNAH HUMORIST 191

explosion and finding many chickens dead and maimed.
Grasping the two severed legs of one fowl was a big, black
hand, supposedly that of the colored larcenist who was try-
ing to get away with the chickens.

This joke gave birth to a number of new, fanciful titles
for Joel "Colonel J. Craw Harris, President and Treasurer
of the Georgia Chicken Torpedo Company"; "Traveling
Agent, J. Codrington Harris 5 '; "J. Charlemagne Harris,
the inventor" and others.

But the jester also wrote a serious editorial or a literary
article at frequent intervals, something whose fineness of
conception and crisp beauty of style impressed those who
read it. He wrote poems, too, for the paper always anony-
mous both grave and gay, and some of real merit. But
the printers said they could always tell when he was writing
one of his funny things, for they could hear him laughing
in his little den.

One day a prominent citizen of Savannah came to him
with a clergyman from Florida, saying, "Mr. Harris, here
is a gentleman whom I think you ought to know, and who
is very anxious to meet you. He has a communication of
unusual importance to make."

The gentleman then went away, and left Joel with the
preacher, who proved to be a dry and long-winded talker.
After many preliminaries, he finally reached the subject
which was nearest his heart.

"The earth is not round, as scientists have always be-
lieved," he declared solemnly, "but is shaped like an egg."

Joel, who had been considerably bored, sat up with new
interest. He saw that the visitor was what was called in
those days a "crank."

"Instead of revolving around the sun," the reverend

192 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

gentleman continued, "the earth is the center around which
the sun and the whole solar system revolve. The seasons,
the periods of heat and cold, are caused by the endosmose
and exosmose processes. As you, not being a scientist, may
not be familiar with such words as endosmosis, I will
explain."

He explained, at great and tiresome length. On and on
he maundered, and presently he opened up a package
which he carried. Joel saw to his horror that it was a
manuscript. There looked to be a ream of it.

"I have written a poem on the subject," said the minister.
"I will read portions of it to you."

He cleared his throat and began. Instead of "portions,"
the unfortunate listener had the impression that he read
nearly all of it. It seemed to Joel that the torture would
never end, but he was too polite to ask for mercy.

"Now, I have decided," said the gentleman, when he had
concluded his reading, "that you are the person to aid me
in making known this revolutionary truth to the world. I
shall leave the manuscript with you. Study it all at your
leisure, publish it in your paper, add your own comments
upon it, and it will make us both famous."

He went away, leaving the young scribe flabbergasted.
Naturally, the first thing that popped into Joel's head was a
satirical comment upon the subject, instead of the grave
discussion which the theorist expected. It was a golden
opportunity for a youthful humorous paragrapher, but "I
ought to have known better," he sighed regretfully in later
life.

The irate author called at the News office for his manu-
script, went up to Chicago or thereabouts, and, for years
afterward, took pleasure in launching in the newspapers all

SAVANNAH HUMORIST 193

sorts of fake stories about Joel, by way of revenge. Accord-
ing to him, "Mr. Harris is a native of Africa, having been
born of missionary parents at Joel, on the northeast coast.
. . . His hair is snowy white, as the result of a strangely
romantic career." He never failed to send his victim a
marked copy of the newspaper in which these skits
appeared.

Jim Harrison felt Joel's absence from the Monroe Adver-
tiser so severely that he went to Savannah to make Joel an
offer to return to Forsyth. But naturally, he could not match
the salary or the opportunity that Joel had on the News,
and so nothing came of the proposition.

But Joel, as usual, remembered his former employer with
enormous gratitude. He wrote of Jim to Mrs. Starke that
"He treated me throughout with a kindness and consider-
ation which I am not sure I deserved."

He also remembered gratefully others at Forsyth "the
friends whom I knew and loved there . . . who were so
gentle, so kind and so good, who were always ready to
overlook my shortcomings and to forgive my awkward
blunders. ... I know in my soul that I will never again
find such friends,"

It was always so with Joel All through life he was con-
vinced that people everywhere had been and were kinder
to him than he deserved. He once remarked that he owed
everything to the people at Eatonton, who had been so
good to him and his mother when he was a child. But he
didn't quite mean that. Later, he was to feel just as grateful
to Mr. Turner and his family, and then to the people at
Macon and then Forsyth and so on.

It was natural, too, that one of his temperament should
write gloomily to Mrs. Starke soon after he reached

194 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Savannah, "I don't expect to make any friends here for
the simple reason that I shall not try."

But he did, of course. He was soon on very happy terms
with all the News staff, and he made other acquaintances
at the Florida House, a sort of family hotel or boarding
house which was his home throughout his stay in Savannah.
After he had been there a few months and some of his
shyness had worn off, his appearance at the table was wel-
comed, for the conversation immediately became livelier
and wittier.

One of his close friends at the boarding house was Louis
Weber, a young pharmacist and clerk in one of the city's
drug stores. Their rooms on the fourth floor were next to
each other. Both had to work until late at night, Joel a
little later than Weber, who would always sit up until his
friend came. Then they would discuss politics or literature
or read aloud to each other from some new book and criti-
cize it. Or, on rare occasions, when they were feeling
frolicsome, they might indulge in a bit of singing or
skylarking.

On Sundays, the most thrilling recreation was a stroll on
Bull Street, the city's main residence boulevard. They had
a funny little tradition in Savannah. It was an unwritten
rule that the sidewalk on the west side of Bull Street was
reserved as a promenade for the aristocracy; the east side
was for the lower classes. Joel and Louis dressed up in their
best clothes and walked on both sides.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Romance

A MONG the boarders at the Florida House were a
/=^\ middle-aged couple, Captain Pierre La Rose and
-4- -^- his wife, Mrs. Esther Dupont La Rose. They
were French Canadians by birth, and their charming per-
sonalities and piquant pronunciation made them quite
popular. Captain La Rose was the operator of a steamboat,
the Lizzie Balder, which ran from Savannah down the
coast and up the St. John's River to Palatka. He also owned
some large farms in the Province of Quebec. They had three
children, but for a long time Joel saw only two of them.

"Our oldest daughter, Esther she is nearly sixteen
is at school in St. Hyacinthe in Quebec," Mrs. La Rose told
him.

"Is she a native of Canada, too?" asked Joel
"No sir/' replied the Captain, "she was born when we
were living in Lansingburg, near Troy, New York. That
was in 1854. 1 was running two boats, the John Tracy and
the Edmund Lewis, on the Hudson River then.

"After the Civil War began, and the Federals got posses-
sion of the mouth of the James River, I took the John Tracy
down to Washington and carried mail and supplies be-

195

196 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

tween there and the army. I would sail from Washington
down to Newport News, or whatever port near by the
Union army was using. Going back, there would usually
be a load of Confederate prisoners and wounded soldiers
of both armies, poor fellows, on their way north to prisons
and hospitals. In summer they lay on the open deck; some-
times it was covered with them. Picture it to yourself, Mr.
Harris. The sun may be very hot in Virginia, and the suffer-
ing of those sick and wounded men tore at my heart. One
day some Southern wounded prisoners in their agony
begged to be thrown overboard."

The Captain's voice rose in his excitement.

"I protested to the army officer in charge of them. It is
inhuman!' I cried. 'You should provide shelter for them
or not send them north in such hot weather.' "

"Papa ! " admonished Mrs. La Rose. "You are talking too
loud."

"He was angry," said the Captain, lowering his voice
with terrific effort. "He bade me attend to my own affairs.
I saw by his look at me that he meant me no good. And
sure enough, he reported to the War Department that I was
a rebel sympathizer. Soldiers came to my boat and arrested
me, and I was thrown into the old Capitol Prison."

The Captain's arms fell into his lap in tragic despair.

"Do you know Washington, Mr. Harris? No? Then you
do not know that old brick building they called the Capitol
Prison. A terrible place I The filth ! The rats ! The bugs I I
cannot tell you about it. ...

"When my wife, who was up at Lansingburg, heard of
my troubles, she hurried down to Washington. Someone
said to her, *When you want justice in Washington, when

ROMANCE 197

you need kindness and understanding, do not go to any
minor official. Go right to President Lincoln/ And so she
did.

"Ah, there was a great man, Mr. Harris ! What a pity he
was not allowed to live! How much better off the South
would be now ! Of course, he received my Esther. He re-
ceived anyone who went to him in trouble. She told him
that I acted only from humanity. 'We are French Cana-
dians, Mr. President," she said. 'We care little for your
politics down here. But my husband was in your govern-
ment's service, and whatever work he goes into, he is loyal
to it. He is not two-faced. If you had been in his place, Mr.
President/ she said, leaning over and looking into those
sad eyes, 1 know that you would have done just as he did/

"Well, you can guess what Mr. Lincoln did. He issued
the order for my release at once, and I went back to my
boat. A little later I sold the John Tracy and the Edmund
Lewis. After the war I came down here and bought the
Lizzie BaJ^er and started operating it. I have a captain on
tke boat, but I cannot resist making most of the trips with
it. The water and I, we belong to each other."

For nearly two years Joel did not see the older daughter.
In late spring at just about the time for her school term to
close, Mrs. La Rose and the two younger children would
join her in Canada, and they would spend the summer on
one of their farms.

But in the second spring, Essie came down to Savannah
at the close of her school, and one glimpse of her changed
the whole aspect of life for Joel, She was small and dainty,
with sparkling, dark eyes and brown hair in ringlets. She
played the piano and sang prettily. She had the most de-

198 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

licious little touch o a French Canadian accent that one
ever heard.

Joel was completely captivated. He began shyly to linger
after meals to talk to her, and finally became bold enough
to tease and joke with her. But there were times when he
was perfectly convinced that she could never take him
seriously. He was very gloomy over the prospect. He would
take Louis Weber out to a cemetery as being the place
most suitable to his state of mind and there sitting on an
old flat gravestone, he would pour out his feelings, telling
of his love and the complete hopelessness of it.

"She has many beaux, Louis," he would wail. "They just
swarm around her. What chance has a homely, stammer-
ing, redheaded country lout with those stylish fellows?"

Louis listened and consoled him. He was too good a
friend to let it be seen that the moonstruck lover was rather
boring.

Liking Joel as they did, and knowing of his excellent
position and prospects, Essie's parents made no objection
to his going out with her. Among her many admirers they
did not think he could be a very serious contender. His
greatest difficulty was with the young lady herself. She was
something of a coquette, and her sudden changes of attitude
toward him, her kindness toward other admirers, nearly
drove him wild at times.

A style of dress called "Dolly Varden" af ter the heroine
of Dickens' s novel, Barnaby Rudge was a great fad at
that time, and Essie was particularly attractive in it. Joel
wrote an anonymous poem for the News, which had her
for its subject, though none of the readers of the paper
knew it, and probably thought the writer was just describ-
ing a "type 55 :

ROMANCE 199

An Idyl of the Period

Oh, surely you have met her
At the Park or on the street
She wears her hair in jaunty curls
And dresses deuced neat.

Her Grecian bend's a bouncer,
And her hat's the merest scrap
Of silk and straw and ribbon but
She doesn't "care a snap."

She sports a Dolly Varden

Of yellow, red and green,

And skips along in bronze bootees.

The neatest ever seen.

When she thrids the crowded pavement,
You can hear her flounces flap,
As she boldly swings her parachute.
But she doesn't "care a snap."

The boys call her "a stunner,"
And many a love-lorn chap
Tips his beaver as she passes but,
She doesn't "care a snap."

And her epitaph will be,
When Death's cold hand shall rap
Upon her varnished chamber door:
"She never cared a snap."

200 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

The "Grecian bend," a slight stoop forward, affected by
ladies when they walked, was another fad of the day.

Essie's shrewd mind saw the worthy soul beneath the
awkward exterior of the young fellow boarder. If there was
ever any doubt as to his intellect, his writings for the paper
were enough to remove that. Within a few weeks Joel
thought he had reason to believe that he had found a place
in her heart. But then she would smile at some other fellow
or go out walking with him, and Joel would take Louis out
to the cemetery and sit on a tombstone and tell him another
tale of woe.

Now he heard to his consternation that in June Mrs.
La Rose and the three children would go to Canada as
usual to spend the summer. He began hesitatingly, of
course to sound Essie to see whether she would write to
him while she was away. Sometimes she seemed to say yes,
and at other times no. He didn't know what to think. On
the morning of her departure he was at home, but so over-
come by he knew not what that he could not say fare-
well to her. He shut himself up in his room, but, listening
at the door, had the agony of hearing her exchange good-
bys with Louis Louis, the rascal, as cool as a cucumber
meanwhile and adding, "Tell Mr. Harris good-by for me,
if he cares to hear of me."

"If he cares!" Joel buried his head under his pillow and
kicked himself for being so inept

On the day after her departure, he began writing a
journal to be sent to her, recording some of his doings but
more of his thoughts. In a day or two he decided that she
couldn't possibly be interested in such junk, so he wrote
her a letter instead. Later on, he sent her the journal, too.

ROMANCE 201

It was written with the best literary skill that he possessed,
and it declared his love as fervently as his letters had done.
But Essie didn't write as often as he thought she should, he
complained of it, and she ceased to write at all.

When she returned in the autumn, more beautiful than
ever, there were rumors that she had a suitor in Canada.
The sight of her, the sound of her voice made him ready
to forget and forgive everything. He began eagerly seek-
ing a few words with her after meals each day. Then she
consented to give him one evening a week. She was so
understanding, so sympathetic, so in tune with his humor-
ous view of life that in her company he forgot his self-
consciousness and was perf ectly at ease.

It soon became evident that she loved him, and not many
weeks had passed before he had her answer, "Yes if Papa

consents."

There was the rub. In those days, especially in the case
of a girl as young as Essie, and one brought up as she had
been, you had to ask Papa, too. Fancy Joel's terror at such
an ordeal ! For days he strove to nerve himself to it. Then
he began trying to catch Captain La Rose alone, but the
wily shipmaster had guessed what was up, and, reluctant
to give up his daughter, deftly avoided him.

Finally the time came when the question could not be
deferred any longer. Trailing the Captain stealthily from
the dinner table through the long hall of the Florida House,
Joel caught him alone near the front door. Red as a lobster
and stuttering furiously, he hurled his request at Essie's
father like a grenade:

"C-c-c-captain, I w-want to m-m-marry your d-d-
daughter."

202 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

The Captain had been expecting something of the sort,
but that didn't make the news any easier when it came. In
his excitement, he became more French than usual

"Eempossible!" he exclaimed, throwing up his hands.
"Sheeestooyong!"

"B-b-but "

"She knows nothing of housekeeping."

"S-she c-can learn."

"You are both too yong to take care of yourselves."

"Fve t-taken c-care of myself for ten years," Joel re-
minded him. "I g-guess I can take care of her."

"But she is a Catholic and you are a Protestant."

"I d-don't belong to any church," declared Joel. "D-does
it make any difference, anyhow?"

"Does it " The Captain, waving his arms, lost his Eng-
lish and burst into French. Finally, the storm having
passed, he regained control of himself. He faced the inevi-
table, and said, "Well, if she wants to marry you, I leave it
with her."

Privately, however, he tried to stave off the event, in the
hope that the lovers might change their minds. "You
should not be in a hurry," he said to Essie. "I will give you
a trip to Europe Paris, Switzerland, Rome. . . ."

"That would be very nice, Papa," said Essie, "but I think
I would rather stay at home and marry Joel."

The Captain's hands fell into his lap in tragic despair.

That had been an eventful summer for young Harris. He
had risen to the top of the editorial staff so rapidly that
Colonel Thompson, when he went away on his vacation,
left him in charge, and other editors, as well as readers,
said they could see no letdown in the quality of the paper.

In 1872 a wing of the Republican Party nominated

"Eemfossiblel" he exclaimed. "She ees too yongl"

204 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Horace Greeley, the New York editor, for President.
Greeley had very quickly forgiven the South for its seces-
sion, and was opposed to the Republican leaders who were
bent upon punishing the former Confederates. Just after
this, Colonel Thompson went on his vacation, leaving Joel
at the helm. One day a surprising telegram was delivered
at the 'News office.

"What do you think of this?" said the staff man who
opened it. "The Democrats have nominated Greeley, too."

"I was expecting it," said Joel slowly, "but I'll not sup-
port a Republican. He fought us too hard during the war."

So as the days went on, the News said nothing about
Greeley or the campaign. It was unprecedented. Many
people of the South were against Greeley, too, but the poli-
ticians in the state insisted that the News ought to back the
party nominee or back somebody, at least. Joel, who
didn't like politicians anyhow, calmly went on writing
editorials on other subjects. The country editors were at a
loss, for many of them took their tone from the News and
followed its ideas.

"Look here, Joe/' said Colonel Estill, the owner of the
paper, "the party leaders and the editors are getting all
stirred up because we don't take a stand. Seems to me you
ought to do something."

"Colonel," said Joel, calmly leaning back in his chair,
"I'm against this Greeley nomination, and I'm not going
to support it. Colonel Thompson left me in command, and
as long as I'm in this chair, I will say nothing for Greeley.
When the chief comes back, he may do as he likes. If you
want to replace me "

"Oh no ! No ! " protested Colonel Estill, and went away,

ROMANCE 205

marveling at the stubbornness of a young man who ordi-
narily seemed so meek and mild. Colonel Thompson re-
turned in a few days, and the very next morning the News
took its stand for Greeley. There was no friction over the
incident, and Joel didn't greatly care about the paper's
attitude. He had been true to his own beliefs, and that was
all that mattered.

In the following spring, on April 21, 1873, just as the
magnolia and jasmine and azalea and japonica and
bougainvillaea were in a riot of bloom, Joel and Essie were
quietly married in the parlor of the Florida House, with
only Louis and a select few of the boarders as guest wit-
nesses. Papa La Rose gave the bridegroom a big, hand-
somely chased silver watch, of a type that was popular
then, and he carried it for the rest of his life.

When the Georgia editors heard of the event, there came
a flood of sincere congratulations and not a little joking.

"Marriage has not dulled Harris's wit," wrote one con-
temporary. "He has launched out lately in a brighter and
saucier style than ever." His friend, Henry W. Grady of
the Atlanta Herald, thought another twelve months would
tame him down, and jested about his buying ormolu
clocks a favorite wedding gift of those days for other
brides through the coming years.

Henry Grady was destined to play a large part in Joel's
life. They had met a few years before, when both were boy
editors, Joel at Forsyth, and Henry, only eighteen, was
actually editing the leading paper in Rome, Georgia. They
became acquainted through their editorial teasing of each
other, wrote a few letters back and forth, and finally Joel,
taking a short vacation, went by Rome, picked up Grady,

206 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

and they journeyed to Chattanooga and Lookout Moun-
tain on a jovial sightseeing trip. In print Joel usually re-
ferred to his friend as Col. H. Whiffletree Grady.

Two children were born to Joel and Esther in the next
two years, sons who were named Julian and Lucien. Father
La Rose, thinking his son-in-law should be at the head of
his own establishment, wanted to buy a small-town news-
paper for him.

"I've looked into the matter," he said. "There are papers
in La Grange and Monroe that can be bought, and I will
gladly buy one of them for you. There you would be your
own boss, and you could make a paper that everybody in
the state would want."

"No thanks, Father," said Joel. "It's very kind of you,
but I'd rather stand on my own feet. I think my best oppor-
tunity is on a city newspaper, anyhow."

About this time he even dallied a little with the idea of
going to New York. It is likely that he could have made a
success there, but he would never have been happy there.
New York was too big, too far from and too unlike
Georgia.

And then came the catastrophe which swept him out of
Savannah involuntarily. In 1875 yellow fever leaped over
from the West Indies to Key West, Florida, and a few
cases even appeared in New York City. No one knew how
to prevent the spread of the disease then, for this was more
than^twenty-five years before Dr. Walter Reed and his
associates discovered that the yellow-fever germ is carried
by a certain type of mosquito.

In the summer of 1876 the dreaded disease appeared
again on the Gulf Coast and crept rapidly northward. The
first case appeared in Savannah on August 2ist. It spread

ROMANCE 207

with terrifying rapidity, and within a few days people were
dying of it. Between that time and the end of the epidemic
late in November, 1,600 white persons died of the plague
in Savannah. It was not nearly so fatal to the colored people.
In fact, many of them seemed immune to it.

As soon as the epidemic took hold on a Southern city
in those days, some of the citizens began fleeing northward.
There were many who could not afford to leave, and there
were others who grimly stuck by their work and took
their chance.

Joel might have been one of these had it not been for
his concern for his family. As the situation grew more
terrifying, he could not endure the thought of exposing
Essie and the children to it for another day. So they packed
their belongings, and on a crowded train they hurried
through a frightened countryside at many stations there
were guards to prevent passengers from Savannah from
getting off to Atlanta, which was not invaded by the
disease.

At Atlanta they settled down though they did not
realize it at the time to spend the rest of their lives. It was
a wrench to leave Savannah and the News, which had
grown very dear to them. Colonel Thompson, after the
scourge was over, begged Harris to come back to the paper,
but Joel was afraid to expose his family to the menace of
yellow fever, and furthermore, the epidemic had been so
disastrous to business in Savannah that the News was not
able to offer him his old salary. Atlanta was a rapidly grow-
ing city, and the time soon came when Joel was glad that
he had made the change.

Savannah was long jealous of the upstart young city up
the country, which had by smart politics taken the State

208 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

capital away from Milledgeville and had risen from its
wartime ashes to pass Savannah in population and become
one of the leading cities of the South.

Joel, with his love of a joke, got some fun out of this
whenever he could. Twenty years after he left Savannah,
he went back there on a business trip. He arrived in the
morning and went to a restaurant for breakfast. He was
seated at a table with three elderly men, one of whom,
sitting beside him, he recognized as a friend of other days.
The old gentleman, however, did not recognize his friend
Harris, who had grown much heavier and changed from
youth to middle age.

Joel began to seethe inwardly with fun at once. While
waiting to be served, he turned with an innocent face to
the old acquaintance beside him and asked blandly, "What
town is this, sir?"

The three men stared in amazement. The old gentleman
shuffled his feet perplexedly and finally said, "I didn't catch
your remark, sir."

"I asked the name of the town," said Joel, his round
chubby face still beaming with innocence. "I think it's a
very pretty place."

"It is Savannah, sir! Savannah!" said the old gentleman
in a deep and awful voice.

One of the other men leaned an elbow on the table and,
fixing the stranger with his eyes, said, "And what part of
the country may you be from, sir? 35

"Atlanta," replied Joel The effect was electric. The
horrified indignation on the three other faces was appall-
ing. The old gentleman next to Joel beckoned to the
waiter.

"George," he said, "take my breakfast to another table,"

ROMANCE 209

"Why, Mr. 1" exclaimed Joel, calling him by name.

"You wouldn't have treated me this way twenty years ago."

The old man glared in amazement. "Who are you?" he
asked, finding his voice at last.

"Joe Harris," was the meek reply.

The rage upon the old man's brow melted into plain
astonishment and then into pleasure. He burst into a roar
of laughter. He pounded Joel's back, he shook his hand
again and again; he introduced him to the two other men,
to whom, by that time, the name of Joel Chandler Harris
was as well known as that of the President. He thought it
the best joke of the year.

"He even paid for my breakfast," chuckled Joel, in tell-
ing of the incident.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Birth of Uncle Remus

WHEN the Harrises reached Atlanta, they
went to the Kimball House, then the leading
hotel, where the husband and father solemnly
registered:

J. C. Harris, one wife, two bow-legged children and a
bilious nurse.

Of course the joke was being told all over town in a
few days.

The hotel was crowded with refugees from the yellow-
fever cities. The optimism and jesting of the Savannah
editor had such a good effect upon the gloom of these other
folk that when Joel went to the desk to pay his bill upon
leaving, the manager said, "Mr. Harris, you don't owe us
a cent. You've been such a good influence here that we're
indebted to you at least three dollars' worthl"

But we do not hear that this magnificent sum was ever
paid to the genial guest.

Jim Harrison, his old employer at Forsyth, was now

210

THE BIRTH OF UNCLE REMUS 211

living at Decatur, only a few miles out of Atlanta. He and
his wife extended a typical, old-time Southern invitation,
the sort which was accepted as readily as it was given.

"Bring your family out and visit with us until you get
your bearings/' they said, and thither the Harrises went.

Jim, a good businessman, had left Forsyth and risen
rapidly. Mr. James P. Harrison was now president of a
printing and publishing company which issued several
papers, among them The Granger, an organ of a farmers'
political movement of the period.

"Come around and make yourself at home in the office,
Joe," he invited. "I'll have a desk rigged up for you. If you
care to write anything for The Granger or our religious
or children's papers, we will be mighty proud of it and
glad to pay you for it."

And thus Joel picked up a few dollars. He also wrote
some bits for the Atlanta newspapers and did some cor-
respondence for the Savannah News.

Soon after arriving, he met his friend, Henry Grady, on
the street in Atlanta. Henry was accompanied by an older
man.

"Joel," he said, "let me introduce one of our Georgia
senators, Mr. Ben H. Hill."

Joel blushed, for he had often cracked jokes in his
column at Mr. Hill's expense. Now he saw the Senator
drawing an old leather wallet from his pocket. He took a
clipping from it.

"Young man," he said, "did you write that?"

Joel looked at it and blushed more redly than ever one
of those blushes, as they used to say, when you couldn't tell
where his face ended and his hair began. The paragraph
was a recent one, which treated in a good-natured manner

212 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

an unfortunate incident in which Mr. Hill had been
involved.

"Y-yes sir, I did," admitted Joel.

"I own a block of stock in the Kimball House, Mr.
Harris/' said the Senator. "You may go there, register, and
tell the clerk to charge your board to B. H. Hill as long as
you want to stay."

All of which showed that Senator Hill had a broad and
generous mind and a sense of humor.

"And how are things with you?" asked Joel of Henry
Grady, after more talk.

"Not very good at present," was the reply. "The Herald
has collapsed, and I am out of a job. But Captain Evan P.
Howell is about to buy a controlling interest in the Consti-
tution. That will mean some changes, and I am hoping to
find a place there. Maybe there will be something there
for you, too, Joe."

He had already said to Howell, "Do you know that the
most brilliant paragrapher in Georgia is here in the city and
at liberty?" The captain who knew something of Joel's
work, thereupon sought him out and said, "You are not
going back to Savannah, Mr. Harris. You are going to stay
right here and join the Constitution's staff."

Sure enough, when Howell completed his deal for the
Constitution, he engaged Henry Grady for the staff. Within
two years Grady was made editor in chief, and to the day of
his death his name was inseparable from that of the
Constitution.

"I want you to write a column for us, Mr. Harris," said
Captain Howell, "but we're a young organization here,
and I can offer you only twenty-five dollars a week. I hope
I can make it more before long."

THE BIRTH OF UNCLE REMUS 213

Joel talked it over with Essie. "It's a lot less than Fve
been getting," he said, "and I hate to leave Savannah. But
on the other hand, I don't want to be running from the
yellow fever every little while, and maybe having it catch
up with us some time. I think I'd better stay here."

When the news of his engagement spread, congratula-
tions poured in upon the Constitution from all parts of the
South. Immediately, he began chaffing his old town with
such bits as "Savannah has had its regular triweekly
robbery."

To help the family finances, he also worked for a while
at night as telegraph editor, which added five dollars a
week more to his income. As soon as he had obtained his
job, Joel found a house in the city, the rent for which was
not too high; then he and Essie shopped for some cheap
furniture and set up housekeeping. Essie knew nothing
about the management of a home, for they had lived in a
hotel during their stay in Savannah. But with the assistance
of a colored maid and of Grandmother Harris, who now
came up from Eatonton to live with them, she learned
rapidly. She proved to have a good head for business, so
the family finances were well managed.

And Grandmother not only gave advice, but also told
the two little boys thrilling stories of earlier days, how she
once rode horseback with her parents to Tennessee on a
visit, passing through the Cherokee Indian country; and
how, when she was living alone at Eatonton, she kept a
hatchet in her bedroom for protection, and one night threw
it at a prowler whom she heard in the garden.

The Howells were their near neighbors, and they quickly
became such close friends that the third son, who was born
soon after they settled in Atlanta, was christened Evan

214 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Howell. But the little one died when he was only a year
and a half old. A fourth son, Evelyn, was born in 1878.

When Joel went to the Constitution, he was twenty-
eight years old. Howell, the owner, was in his late thirties,
and Henry Grady was twenty-six. They were all vivacious
in temperament, and had a lot of fun together. Forenoons,
when they met to begin the day's work, they would first
assemble, perhaps in Joel's room. Lounging about, usually
with one sitting on a corner of the desk, they would enjoy
a "kidding" session teasing, tossing jokes, and repartee
at one another, and laughing uproariously. Refreshed by
several minutes of this, they would then have the real
editorial conference on the day's policy and go to their
desks.

Under Grady and Harris the Constitution became the
most influential journal in the South. They both labored to
bring immigration and industry down there from the
Northern states, and it was Joel's particular care to heal the
wounds caused by the Civil War and bring about a better
understanding between the Yankees and the Rebs. Presi-
dent Theodore Roosevelt once said of him that "one of his
greatest services is that he has written what exalts the
South in the mind of every man who reads it, and yet
which has not a flavor of bitterness toward any other part
of the Union.'*

After he had been in Atlanta a little more than two years,
Joel found opportunity to write a column called "The
Lounger" in die Sunday Gazette. It touched in a rambling
way upon nature, literature, the drama, and other topics.
It was not signed, but another editor said, "There is only
one man in Georgia who could have written it Joel
Chandler Harris." This writer saw in it a likeness to the

THE BIRTH OF UNCLE REMUS 215

essays of Charles Lamb, and also a dramatic crispness like
that of Bret Harte.

But in the meantime its writer had found the vein of
ore which soon made him famous. A man named Sam
Small had been conducting in the Constitution a column
of sketches and jokes in which a Negro character, "Uncle
Si," appeared. Small withdrew from the paper soon after
Captain Ho well took it over.

"Joe," said the proprietor, "can't you carry on this Uncle
Si series of Sam's? It has quite an audience."

Joel did not feel enthusiastic. "I don't think I can con-
tinue another man's idea," said he. "I don't seem to know
Uncle Si. But I'll do something similar, perhaps with a
character of my own." The truth of the matter was that he
didn't care for Small's delineation of the Negro.

His first contributions in this line were dialect poems,
songs which he had heard from the plantation Negroes,
and to which he made certain additions of his own. The
first one that appeared was a revival song which began:

Oh, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes,

Wid de blowin' er de trunpits en de bangin' er de drums?

How many po* sinners '11 be kotched out late

En fine no latch ter de golden gate ?

No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer!

De sun must n't set on yo' sorrer,

Sin 's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier

Oh, Lord! fetch de mo'ners up higher!

This was copied all over the country and much enjoyed.
It was even stolen and its authorship credited to a man in
a small town in New York,

216 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Other songs followed, and then an old Negro character
appeared. As he began to take form in the author's mind,
the name of the old gardener in Forsyth, "Uncle Remus,"
popped into his head and so a noted figure in literature
was born.

At first Uncle Remus was represented as an elderly man,
a former slave, who lived in Atlanta, who dropped in at
the Constitution office occasionally, or talked with his
friends on the street, telling of his experiences and voicing
his philosophy. The sketches were all humorous.

But while he was writing these, Joel read in Lippincott's
Magazine an article on the folklore of the Southern
Negroes. It mentioned their animal stories and gave rough
outlines of a few of them, but there was no attempt made
to tell them in dialect.

Lacking something else to write on one occasion, Joel
wrote down one of the stories which he had heard from
Uncle George or Uncle Bob Capers, or perhaps from both
of them, for he had heard some of these stories time and
again. This was in 1879. It was the tale of how Br'er Fox
tried to cajole Br'er Rabbit by saying that they ought to be
better friends, and even accepted an invitation to dine at
Br'er Rabbit's house, but was so obviously intending to
make a meal of his host or some of the family that Br'er
Rabbit had to outwit him as usual.

"I hadn't any idea that the things would make much of
a hit," he told his wife. "But it seems to be well liked"
which was a characteristic understatement.

He wrote another one, and then another one. Always
the stories were told by Uncle Remus who lived alone in
his cabin on the old plantation to a little boy, the son of
the proprietor. There was a close friendship between the

THE BIRTH OF UNCLE REMUS 217

little chap and the old man who loved him dearly, and
saw in him resemblance to "OP Miss," the boy's grand-
mother.

Some people, when they learned that Joel had heard
the stories in boyhood, thought that he himself had been
the original of the little boy, some thought that his son
Julian had sat for the picture, but neither surmise was right.
In a letter to his old playmate, Joe Syd Turner, written
several years later, the author said, "Did it never occur to
you that you might be the little boy of 'Uncle Remus'? I
suppose you have forgotten the comical tricks you played
on old George Terrell, and the way you wheedled him out
of a part of his ginger cakes and cider. . . . Those were the
wonderfullest days we shall ever see!"

But now he found that the stories were creating a stir in
the land. Newspapers, both North and South, were copy-
ing them. The New Yorl^ Evening Post was particularly
interested in them. It copied so many and made so much
comment upon them that the author in a grateful letter to
the editors said, "I feel that if the Evening Post had not
taken up Uncle Remus, his legends would have attracted
little or no attention."

But this was just an example of Joel Harris's modesty.
Another is seen in his amazement when a representative of
a big New York publishing house came all the way down
to Atlanta and suggested that the Uncle Remus stories be
put into a book. The author was almost incredulous.

"But he seemed to be in earnest," said Joel, in telling of
the creation of the book. "And so we picked out of the files
of the Constitution enough matter for a little volume, and
it was printed. To my surprise, it was successful."

When the publishers chose Frederick S. Church, a

218 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

popular illustrator of the day, to draw the pictures for the
book, Joel thought that if it had any sale at all, it would be
because of Church's drawings. He wrote to the artist, con-
gratulating himself on the selection, and saying, "I was
afraid you were too busy to give your attention to such
trifles."

When the book, Uncle Remus, His Songs and Sayings,
was published in 1880, he was still more astonished at the
notice which it attracted, especially from learned men all
over the world. Even while the stories were being printed
in the Constitution, a man who was an authority on the
folklore of the Indians along the Amazon River, wrote to
him, telling of many of the South American Indian legends
which were almost identical with those of our Southern
plantations.

In these stories, the tortoise was most often the hero,
and his exploits were very closely like those of Br'er
Tarrypin; as when he won a ten-mile race from the deer,
for example, by precisely the same trick which Br'er
Tarrypin worked on Br'er Rabbit. This was done by sta-
tioning one of his family they all looked so much alike
that no one could tell them apart at the starting point,
and at every mile post along the course, so that it would
seem that he was keeping up with the deer. The old tortoise
himself was hidden in the grass near the finish, and crawled
out just in time to give the appearance of winning the race.

Joel remarked later that when he began writing these
stories, "I did not know much about folklore, and I didn't
think that anybody else did." But he soon had plenty of
evidence to the contrary.

A learned philologist said that variants of the story of
Br'er Fox and the Tar Baby which he made to catch Br'er

THE BIRTH OF UNCLE REMUS 219

Rabbit had been found among the Indians of both North
and South America and of the West Indies, in various parts
of Africa, from the Cape of Good Hope up past the Congo
to the Niger region, and in India. An army officer wrote
that he had heard stories like "Uncle Remus's" among the
Moros in the Philippines. In fact, it seemed that those
simple folk legends might be among the oldest stories in
the world.

From nearer home, the author received letters which
warmed his heart. Alexander H. Stephens, the Georgia
statesman who had been Vice President of the Confederate
States, wrote to him, "My father had an old family servant
whose name was Ben. . . . Often have I sat up late at nights
in his house and heard nearly every one of those stories
about Br'er Rabbit, Br'er Fox, and Br'er Terrapin, as you
have reproduced them. In reading them, I have been living
my young life over again."

Mr. Stephens had been clipping the stories and pasting
them in a scrapbook from the time when they first began
appearing in the Constitution.

A Southern author told of visiting a Georgia plantation
and finding a young lady, a daughter of the family, seated
in the midst of a group of little colored children, reading
aloud the "Uncle Remus" stories "to the most delighted
audience you ever saw. . . ." It seemed an odd and whimsi-
cal thing to him "A Southern girl reading to little
Negroes stories which had come down from the dead
fathers of their race."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Rising Fame

k VER and over again, as praise for his genius came
flooding in on him, the dazed creator of "Uncle
Remus" protested, "I'm not an author, I'm just a
journalist who writes down what he hears." He would
mention the articles in Lippincott's Magazine which gave
him the idea of writing the "Uncle Remus" stories, and say:

"This was the accidental beginning of a career that has
been accidental throughout. It was an accident that I went
to the Countryman, an accident that I wrote Uncle Remus,
and an accident that the stories put forth under that name
struck the popular fancy."

But others knew better. They knew that he was not a
mere phonograph nor an accident. They knew that he
could not remember all those stories, word for word, but
must re-tell them, re-create much of the humor and tricks
of dialect of the old-time Negro, and fill in the forgotten
nooks where necessary. They knew that to do this, to create
the character of "Uncle Remus," and the byplay between
him and the little boy, required genius.

Mark Twain who wrote a letter expressing admiration
of the stories told him all this. The overmodest creator

220

RISING FAME 221

of Uncle Remus replied, "Everybody has been kind to the
old man, but you have been kindest of all. I am perfectly
well aware that my book has no basis of literary art to stand
upon; I know it is the matter and not the manner that has
attracted public attention and won the consideration of
people of taste at the North."

"Mark Twain," whose real name was Clemens, replied
in effect that "you may argue yourself into that notion, but
you are the only convert you will make." And he added:

" 'Uncle Remus' is most deftly drawn and is a lovable
and delightful creation; he and the little boy and their
relations with each other are bright, fine literature, and
worthy to live. . . . But I seem to be proving to the man
that made the multiplication table that twice one is two."

Mr. Clemens gave Joel a ghost story which had been told
him by an old Negro in his boyhood, with privilege to use
it, and suggested that they two appear on the lecture plat-
form together, each giving readings from his own works.
He was going to New Orleans soon, and he asked if Mr.
Harris wouldn't meet him there and talk it over.

Joel at first took the proposition seriously. There were
fine fees to be earned on the lecture platform in those days,
and the Harris family needed money. What with three
growing boys and a girl baby recently born, the rented
house in the city was getting pretty crowded. The fine
reception which the critics had given the Uncle Remus
book encouraged its author to buy a home of his own.

"There's a place not far from my home, Joe," said Cap-
tain Howell. "Rather run down now, but you can fix it up."

Joel went out to look at it, and wanted it at once.

"It's out in what they call West End," he reported
enthusiastically to his wife. "It's really in the country

222 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

close to the end of a car line, though. I've always wanted
to live in the country. Best place to bring up youngsters,

too."

"What sort of place is it?" she asked.

"Five and a quarter acres/' he recited glibly. "Six-room
house, ground slopes down nicely to the road, beautiful
pine woods close by the house, fine spring just across the
road."

"What will it cost?"

"Twenty-five hundred dollars, and we can buy it on
easy terms."

But when Essie saw it she almost shed tears. "Oh Joel,"
she cried in disappointment. The house was cheap, com-
mon; ugly, built on no particular plan, and tall weeds
almost hid it from the road. Its interior had been painted a
hideous green, it was in bad repair, and infested by rats.

"And that street car is blocks and blocks away," the
young wife wailed, "and you have to ride half an hour on
it to get downtown."

"But look! We walk through that lovely woods to reach
the car line," her husband urged, "and they say the line's
going to be extended some day soon. We can remodel the
house "

"And that will cost more money!"

"And look at the beautiful location the pine woods
the space for the children to play in. We can have a vege-
table garden and flowers. . . ."

She saw all that very readily. It was only that she had so
wanted to move into a nice house ! But she was not hard to
convince. The house was repainted, the rat holes eliminated,
the yard cleaned up, and the family moved in. This was in
the summer of 1881.

RISING FAME 223

The thought of that mortgage hanging over him was
why the new home owner at first considered seriously
Mark Twain's proposal that they do public readings to-
gether. He went down to New Orleans to meet the great
humorist and talk it over. They went one day to the home
of another famous writer, George W. Cable, who had in-
vited some children in to meet the creator of the beloved
Uncle Remus, and hear the Tar Baby story from his own
lips. But when the time came to stand up and read, he was
overcome with shyness, as anybody might have known he
would be. All one big blush, he gasped in undertones, "I
c-can't! I j-just c-can't do it!"

"Come on! It's easy," urged the others. "Just a lot of
children . . ."

But there were some ladies there, too, with the children,
and there were two noted authors, and Well, he just
couldn't muster up the courage.

"Come ! We'll read something from our own stuff, to
show you how easy it is," said Mark.

So he read a chapter from Huckleberry Finn, and Mr.
Cable read something of his own. But even that did not
help.

"I can't do it!" still protested the scared author. "You
read it for me." And so Mark Twain had to read to the
children about Br'er Rabbit and the Tar Baby.

That ended all thought of Joel Harris's appearing on the
lecture platform. His unconquerable bashfulness and the
frightened stutter which was sure to attack him when he
was in the presence of a crowd made such hopes impossible.

His rising fame was not only bringing him an increased
income, but also some more uncomfortable moments when
he had to listen to praise of himself. Walter Hines Page,

224 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

later a great publisher and United States Ambassador to
Great Britain, but then a young journalist, went down to
Atlanta to interview him. At first he found it difficult to
believe that the shy, quiet man whom he discovered smok-
ing a cigar in the editorial rooms was the great author.

"A little man just turned thirty-one/' so Mr. Page de-
scribed him, "with red hair, a fiery, half-vicious mustache,
a freckled face and freckled hands. His eyes are all that
belongs to Mr. Joel C. Harris: all other things, hair, com-
plexion, hands, chin and manner, are the property of Joe
Harris."

When the visitor told him how much pleasure Northern
people were getting from Uncle Remus, the author blushed
and stammered:

"They have been very kind to Uncle Remus."

"It was impossible to believe," wrote Mr. Page, "that the
man realized what he had done. I afterward discovered
that his most appreciative friends held the same opinion;
that Joe Harris does not appreciate Joel Chandler Harris."

Now editors were begging for his work. He contributed
more Uncle Remus stories and "plantation ballads" to the
Century, Harper's, and other noted magazines. His stock
of animal stories ran low, and he wrote to friends and
acquaintances here and there, asking if they could scrape
up any new ones for him. One lady down on the seacoast
below Savannah was especially helpful. But as the Negroes
along the Georgia and Carolina coast speak a dialect called
"Gullah," which is much different from that of the interior,
Joel had to translate these into middle Georgia speech.

However, he decided to tell some of them in their
original dialect, and to do this he introduced a new char-
acter, Daddy Jack, a very old man who was supposed to

RISING FAME 225

have been born in Africa. Some evenings, according to the
author, Daddy Jack, Tildy the housemaid, and fat, jolly
Aunt Tempy all gathered in Uncle Remus's cabin, and
their conversation with one another was almost as funny
as their stories, for each of the visitors thought of a story
to tell now and then.

Joel even went to the Negroes themselves for some new
tales. He had found that no Negro, when approached by a
stranger, would admit knowing any of this lore. He also
had learned, as many another writer has learned, that the
best way to induce shy people to tell stories is to "prime the
pump" by telling one yourself of the sort you want.

One summer evening he was at a little railroad station
in Georgia, waiting to catch a train. About thirty Negroes
who were employed on the railroad were around the end
of the station, some sitting on the edge of the platform,
some on a pile of cross ties near by. All, as usual, were in
high good humor, cracking jokes at one another and
laughing uproariously.

The solitary white man sat down on the edge of the plat-
form next one of the liveliest talkers of the group. Presently,
when someone mentioned "Old Molly Har' " a joking
way of speaking of Br'er Rabbit's wife Joel began telling
the man next him the Tar Baby story. He told it in a low
tone, as if too modest to ask for the attention of the whole
crowd. But his listener, delighted, would exclaim every
minute or so, "Dar now ! " or "He's a honey, mon ! " or "Git
outer de way, gentermens, and gin him room!" and
mingling these remarks with loud laughter.

This quickly drew the attention of the other Negroes,
and they began to gather round the two to listen. Joel fol-
lowed the first story with the one about Br'er Rabbit and

226 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

the mosquitoes, illustrating it with the numerous slaps
which Br'er Rabbit made at the tormenting insects when
he was calling on Miss Wolf at Br'er Wolf's home down
in the swamp.

This brought shouts of laughter from the audience, but
there were two or three who could scarcely wait for the
end of it, so anxious were they to tell stories of their own.
Others followed them, and for two hours the happy author
sat there, listening to them. Some of them he had already
heard and had put into print. But most of them were new.
Some of the men were poor storytellers; others, so Joel
declared, were better than Uncle Remus himself.

It was impossible to take notes, for two reasons. In the
first place, darkness soon fell over the scene, and secondly,
the sight of a notebook and pencil would have stopped the
flow of stories instantly. But the listener had a wonderfully
retentive memory in which to stow away the anecdotes,
and probably only a few of them were lost.

He even enlisted some of his friends among the younger
generation of Negroes. They picked up some new ones
here and there, scrawled them on scraps of paper, and sent
them to him, signing the notes just "Jim" or "Buck." One
had evidently been reading the published tales, for he
began his letter, "Mr. Harris, I have one tale of Uncle
Remus that I have not seen in print yet. . . ."

Some of the stories garnered thus were in the second
volume, Nights with Uncle Remus, which appeared in
1883, and brought their writer still greater renown. He had
some funny correspondence with the publishers over this
book.

"I hear that you are going to charge $3 for the volume,"
he wrote in consternation. "This won't do. The public may

of laughter from tht audience.

228 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

stand for $2 for the trash, but I doubt it unless you make
the cover very interesting and romantic, so to speak."

And so they did; they put palmetto and coconut trees
upon it ! The author remarked in whimsical despair that
because Georgia was a Southern state, Northern people
thought of it as being in the very heart of the tropics. As a
matter of fact, he informed them, the forests of middle
Georgia differ very little from those of New England.

After this book had been out for quite a while, he ended
a letter to the publishers with the meek question, "Is there
anything coming to me?" There have been some thousands
of dollars which came from that little book since then.

Meanwhile, he had been writing for the magazines,
stories of other kinds tragic, pathetic, or humorous, of
Georgia life before and after the Civil War. Many had
Negroes as prominent characters. Some were stories in a
new field that of the white people of the north Georgia
mountains, of whom he wrote with deep understanding
and humor.

In the summer of 1882 he made his first visit to New
York, with Captain Howell as traveling companion. It is
amusing now to read an itinerary which Robert Under-
wood Johnson, editor of the Century Magazine sent him
as a suggestion for "seeing New York." It began:

1. Ride down Broadway from Delmonico's on top of
'stage and ask driver to point out things. A cigar would
arrange it with him.

2. Visit Tribune building. Introduce yourself by inclosed
card to Mr. Lyman.

3. Walk to Astor House and on down Broadway to
Equitable building. Go to top of elevator for view of city

H<r stealthily packed his bag. He left a note saying,
"I am going home."

230 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

and vicinity (bay, rivers, Brooklyn, Jersey City, Staten Island,
and the Narrows).

And so on, to Trinity Church, Wall Street, Castle
Garden, and the Battery. Point 6 was "Ocean Steamer. For
250, a sailor will show you over a steamer. Try to find one
of the new, big ones." A drive through Central Park and
a walk and ride down Fifth Avenue, past the Vanderbilt
homes and St. Patrick's Cathedral were further suggestions.

Editors and literary folk offered the two Southerners
many courtesies. A dinner for them was given at the Tile
Club. Howell had to use much persuasion to induce his
friend to go. Joel made himself very popular with those
immediately around him at the dinner, although he could
not be induced to make a speech or tell a story.

The Century Magazine editors arranged another dinner
for the two, and one of them, calling at the hotel, procured
a promise from Howell that they would both attend,
Harris being out sightseeing. Joel suspected that another
and perhaps a more vigorous effort was going to be made
to wring a speech from him. He grew more and more
terrified at the thought, and on the very day of the banquet
he stealthily packed his bag, left a note for the captain,
saying, "I am going home," stole out of the hotel, and
caught a train.

"Hang it ! Why did you go back on us so?" wrote Mark
Twain, who was a guest at the dinner.

To which Joel replied in part: ". . . When I reflected
that probably Mr. Osgood was prepared to put me through
a similar experience in Boston, I thought it would be better
to come home and commit suicide rather than murder a

RISING FAME 231

number of worthy gentlemen by making an ass of myself ."
He had now become prominent enough to be teased by
Eugene Field, the Chicago columnist, one of whose favorite
ways of making fun was to write preposterous stories about
eminent persons. This was Field's first shot at him:

Joel C. Harris has had a strangely romantic career. His
father was a missionary, and it was at the small town of
Booghia, on the South Coast of Africa, that Joel was born.
He was educated by his father and acquired a wonderful
acquaintance with foreign languages. He is an adept Sanskrit
scholar and is deeply versed in Hebraic and Buddhist litera-
ture. The sweetly quaint legend of Indian and Judean
mythology have found their way into his simple Southern
tales, and the spirit of his philosophy is identical with the
teaching of Moses and Buddha.

Evidently Eugene had read some of the yarns told by
Joel's old tormentor, the poet-preacher, herald of the egg-
shaped earth, for another item read:

Joel Chandler Harris, the Southern dialectician and
litcrateur, sails for Africa in December, it being his purpose
to revisit the little coast town of Joel, where he was born of
missionary parents January 13, 1842. Mr. Harris lost a leg in
the battle of Lookout Mountain, His career has been full of
incidents.

Field then went on airily to declare that Harris was the
richest American author, and that the fortune gained by
his writings had been invested largely in railway stock, in

CHAPTER TWENTY

By the Living-Room Fire

new home out at West End was christened
"Snap-Bean Farm" a joking parody on the name,
"Sabine Farm," which Eugene Field had given to
his own home, and which in turn was taken from that of
the ancient Roman poet, Horace. Snap-Bean Farm was the
home of Uncle Remus for the rest of his life. There all his
children grew to manhood and womanhood.

There the first daughter died in 1882 when she was less
than three years old, and a second daughter, christened
Lillian, was born in the same year. Then another little boy,
Linton, was born, but lived to be only nine before he died
of diphtheria, prostrating the family with grief, for he was
greatly beloved.

The place was really something of a farm. There were
three cows and many chickens, and in the garden the
farmer boasted to his friends one season of having raised a
hundred and seventeen bushels of sweet potatoes. His old
playmate, Charlie Leonard, who always declared that Joel
hated work, said when he heard the name of the place,
"Snap-Bean Farm, huh? I bet he hasn't got more than two
rows of beans."

253

234 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

The farmer had his troubles with that garden pest
known as Johnson grass, but to his whimsical mind it
merely suggested "a truly gifted set of dialect verses, begin-
ning, 'La, Mr. Johnson! is dat yo' grass? Well, I done
found sump'n you owns at las' ! Des take it and go, and
don't gimme no sass.' " But he went no farther with the
poem.

There were always some happy-go-lucky Negro em-
ployees scattered about the place, working in the house and
garden and elsewhere. Big, good-natured Chloe walked
two miles from her home, morning and evening, to do the
milking,, and as the years went on, one or two of her
numerous sons were usually employed as house boy or yard
boy. They furnished much amusement for their employer
especially Rufus, whose job it was for sometime to
answer the doorbell. In a letter to one of his daughters
when she was at boarding school, the father, remarking
that everything around home was about as usual, added,
"Rufus persists in going to the door with his breeches
rolled up."

At one time when they lost their cook, Chloe came over
to handle the kitchen for a few days, and, as usual, brought
several of her numerous family with her. "You know
Mattie is gone/' wrote her employer to his daughter Lillian.
"Well, Chloe and her family are cooking for us. The
greater part of last week we had in the kitchen Chloe,
Lizzie, Ed, Rufus, Johnson, and the mule and wagon."

It was nearly three years before the Harrises felt able to
undertake a general remodeling and enlarging of the new
home, to bring it nearer to their heart's desire and accom-
modate their growing family. The plans were drawn, and
early in the summer, Mrs. Harris took the children to

BY THE LIVING-ROOM FIRE 235

Canada to visit her parents for Captain La Rose's boat
had been wrecked below Savannah, and he had gone back
to his Canadian farm to live while her husband superin-
tended the building.

When they returned in the autumn, the new house was
all ready, and its master was worn thin with the job. He had
built for himself a little study on the upper floor, and there
he had a long writing table made, so high that he had to
stand or sit at it on a tall bookkeeper's stool The funny
thing was that the table sloped up so steeply that it looked
somewhat like one of those cases at which he used to set
type.

Another odd thing was that after all this preparation and
expense, he found he could not work satisfactorily in that
upper room, so far from the family. So the study became
an attic storeroom, and he continued to scribble in the bed-
room or on a tiny table in the sitting room. His writing
nearly all had to be done in the evening, for he still held his
place on the Constitution.

He could write comfortably only with a pencil. "A pen
cramps both my thoughts and my hand," he once told an
editor. The typewriter then was a very imperfect machine
and still something of a curiosity. For more than twenty
years after the birth of Uncle Remus, every manuscript
sent by Author Harris to magazine and book editors was
written with pencil on huge sheets of copy paper the
wood-pulp stuff on which newspapermen scribbled their
work twelve by eighteen inches in size. His large, shapely
script was as easy for most printers to read as typewriting.

His writing and his correspondence became more
arduous. He was asked to do an article on "Plantation
Music" for The Critic, and created a sensation with it. One

236 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

of the popular forms of entertainment of that day was what
was called Negro minstrels, in which a troupe of white men
blacked their faces with burned cork and gave what they
believed to be imitations of Negro music and dialect. In
such affairs the Negroes were always shown using the
banjo, tambourine, and bones rattled between the fingers.
Whenever artists drew pictures of Negroes merrymaking
on the plantation, the banjo always appeared.

But now Joel Harris threw a bombshell into the orthodox
belief by writing:

I have never seen a plantation Negro play it. I have heard
them make sweet music with the quills Pan's pipes; I have
heard them play passingly well on the fiddle, the fife and
the flute; and I have heard them blow a tin trumpet with
surprising skill; but I have never seen a banjo, or a tambou-
rine or a pair of bones, in the hands of a plantation Negro.

What a stew this created ! Fixed notions are strong, and
many people rushed into print to say that this fellow
Harris didn't know what he was talking about But some
Southerners came to his support, notably George W. Cable,
who said that he had seen Negroes singing and dancing
to the music of the banjo in Louisiana adding, however:

"But it is possible that Mr. Harris never saw a Negro
with one. It is a fact that where you find one Negro with
a banjo, you find a hundred with a fiddle."

There were other troubles, too, he found, which arose
from being a successful author. People came to him for
literary advice, begging him to read the amateurish manu-
scripts and even to give them introductions to editors.

BY THE LIVING-ROOM FIRE 237

Squirm as he would, Joel was too good-natured, too sympa-
thetic to be gruff with these people and refuse their requests.

To one young woman living in the north Georgia hills,
whose work showed promise, he wrote long letters, advis-
ing care in rewriting and polishing her stories, and urging
her to remember also that what is really great in literature
is the commonplace. His advice was so valuable to her that
she later sold some stories to the Century and other of the
better magazines.

Another woman had some poetry to sell, and wanted
him to give her a letter of introduction to an editor. Much
against his will he gave her a letter to Mr. Alden of
Harper's, but immediately wrote Alden an amusing little
letter in which he said:

One of the miseries of my position is that people here-
abouts think I have great influence because of the accidental
success of the "Remus" trash, and I am constantly em-
barrassed in that way. All this, however, is no excuse for
troubling you, and I write to explain and to beg your pardon.
There was no escape for me.

The stories which he had now begun to write about the
poor white people of Georgia, both in the mountains and
in the lower country, won much praise. "Mingo," the first
of them, one of the best of all his stories, appeared in
Harper's and was such a success that the author planned
others.

He and some of his fellow workers on the Constitution
were sitting in the office one day talking about book titles,
and they remarked that some of the greatest and most

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

popular works in English literature just had the name of
their principal characters for their titles.

"There's David Coppcrfidd by Dickens, Ivanhoe by Sir
Walter Scott, Pendennis by Thackeray "

"Adam Bcde by George Eliot," put in another.

A third man picked up a directory of the state of Georgia
and opened it at random. A smile came to his face.

"Now, here's a queer name," he said, "Teague Poteet!
Could anybody's imagination beat that? If you were to
make that the tide, people would read the yarn just to find
out what the queer words meant."

"Sounds as if it might be the name of a moonshiner,"
was another's remark, "like the old fellow those deputies
killed the ones they're trying now." This was a celebrated
case in Atlanta and everybody knew about it.

Already the seed was taking root in Joel's brain. Slowly
the story shaped itself. When he sent it under the tide,
"At Teague Poteet's," to Mr. Gilder, the editor of the
Century, he wrote, "Enclosed you will find a sort of
whatshisname. I'm afraid it is too episodical. . . . Perhaps
something else is the matter. If you don't find it available,
you can at least give me some helpful suggestion."

But Mr. Gilder liked it, and bought it. Two years later
this story together with "Mingo" and two others appeared
in book form under the title Mingo. The author, sending
a copy to a friend, wrote:

I have no right to attack you in this manner, but you arc
not defenseless you are not bound to read it. Indeed it is
not a book for young men. It is intended to please the aged
and the half wits of our time those who are suffering from
want of sleep.

BY THE LIVING-ROOM FIRE

In 1885 Major J. B. Pond, noted lecture promoter,
thought it would be a great idea for Uncle Remus to go on
the lecture platform and read some of his own stories.

"The people, including the children, are calling for you,"
he wrote, "and that has not happened to any other author
of recent years. No will not do for an answer."

Thomas Nelson Page, the Virginia novelist, also made
the suggestion that he and Mr. Harris tour together. But
neither proposal interested him. Later Major Pond tele-
graphed him:

Will give you ten thousand for season tour with James
Whitcomb Riley and Mark Twain.

Again the answer was no. To an Atlantic friend he re-
marked, "I would not even put on a dress suit every night
in the winter for ten thousand dollars, much less go on a
stage and make a fool of myself."

It was about this time that he wrote a short story which
wonderful to tell ! even he thought was good. He called
it "Free Joe and the Rest of the World." It is the story of a
Negro in Georgia before the war, one who had been freed
by his master and whose condition was even worse than
that of the slaves; it moves rapidly to a tragic end. The
story is told tersely and without sentimentality, and yet it
is one of the most poignant and pathetic of all stories. Its
author always thought it the best thing he had ever done,
and he was right. It is one of the great short stories of Eng-
lish literature. President Theodore Roosevelt more than
once remarked, "In my opinion, the two finest American
stories *are Tree Joe* and 'The Man Without a Country/ "

This story was published in 1887 along with four others

240 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

in a volume under the title F-ree Joe and Other Georgia
Sketches a little book which contains some of his finest
work. "Trouble on Lost Mountain" was the best fiction he
ever wrote about the north Georgia hill folk. The other two,
"Little Compton" and "Aunt Fountain's Prisoner" were
fine examples of Joel Harris's efforts to heal ill feeling be-
tween the North and the South.

There was an incident back of "Little Compton," too.
One day late in 1885 t ^ ie telegraph editor handed Joel a
slip of paper with the remark, "Something from your old
home town." Joel's face grew sad as he read it:

Sidney C. Prudden, for forty years postmaster at Eatonton,
died suddenly last night, at midnight of the day on which
his term of office expired. He had just been displaced by
President Cleveland in favor of ...

The rest of the dispatch didn't matter. Joel stared through
a window at the distant blue hump of Stone Mountain, but
he did not see it. He was looking back through the years
to the time when kindly Postmaster Prudden, violating the
postal laws and regulations, let a poor little redheaded boy
read newspapers addressed to other people and thereby
gave him a start on his career.

And now Mr. Prudden had collapsed and died because
the post office, which, through forty years, had come to be
the very breath of life to him, had been taken away from
him. Most of the people in Putnam County had been his
good friends, but there had been a few who cherished a
grudge at him, simply because he was born in New Eng-
land. A woman whose husband had been killed in the
Civil War used to tell her only child, a boy, "When you git

BY THE LIVING-ROOM FIRE 241

old enough, I want you to take your daddy's gun and go to
town and kill the first Yankee you see; and e you don't
see no others, go in that thar post office and shoot old Sid
Prudden."

But he never did. Passions slowly subsided after the war,
and Mr. Prudden lived on, in the country and among the
people he had made his own.

Slowly an idea was being born in the storyteller's brain:
A Yankee merchant in Georgia during the Civil War . . .

"Little Compton" was the result. Something of Mr.
Prudden's character went into .that of Compton, but,^of
course, a romantic story had to be built up, and Joel had
trouble in shaping it.

"For several months," he wrote to the Century editors,
"I have been suffering with fatty degeneration of the mind
and local politics." He was referring to a hot editorial
campaign in Atlanta which kept him editorially busy, for
he was still on the Constitution and doing his other writing
in the evening.

When the first draft of "Little Compton" was sent to
Mr. Gilder, he suggested some revisions in it, which its
author very humbly carried out.

"Your letter in regard to its weak points paralyzed me/'
he wrote, "but I have tried hard to profit by every sug-
gestion you made. I know that it is much better now, but
I do not know T hether you will find it available."

But on another story in this book, entitled "Azalea," the
modest writer for once rose up and did battle with the
editors in behalf of his own ideas, and won. He could be
very firm when he thought he was right

242 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

In 1889 another book came from the press Daddy ]a\e
the Runaway and Short Stories Told After Dar\. Some of
the stories in the volume had been appearing in the Youths
Companion and Saint 'Nicholas, the two favorite magazines
for young people in those years.

The quantity of work that he was able to do in those
evenings at home is astonishing. Yet there was nothing
hurried or slipshod about it. He once showed an inter-
viewer sixteen attempts all discarded to write the first
paragraph of a certain story in a way that would satisfy
himself. Even after a story was written and praised by
editors, critics, and the public, he frequently continued to
be dissatisfied with it. "If it isn't trash from the word go,
then I don't know what trash is," he said of one successful
story.

Now he had a happy inspiration. He began writing the
story of his three years at Turnwold, but began it with a
little of his life at Eatonton. He called himself Joe Maxwell
in the story, and put in just enough fiction, as he thought,
to make the thing more interesting. Mr. Turner, his first
great teacher and inspirer, appeared in it under his real
name and just as he was. The book was entitled On the
Plantation. A syndicate of newspapers paid $2,500 for the
serial rights, and then it appeared in book form. Some
critics said it was one of the most delightful of Mr. Harris's
works.

Just after the title page of the volume came its significant
dedication:

TO THE MEMORY OF

JOSEPH ADDISON TURNER

LAWYER, EDITOR, SCHOLAR, PLANTER AND PHILANTHROPIST

BY THE LIVING-ROOM FIRE 243

His gratitude to Mr. Turner was lifelong. Once, when
he was at Savannah, the editor of the Messenger a little
paper which Eatonton had finally mustered up sufficient
enterprise to publish asked to be permitted to write a
sketch of his life. The editor happened to be a brother
of J. A. Turner, then six or seven years dead.

Joel agreed to the write-up, saying, "You know me better
than I know myself." But he added, "Your brother's great
kindness to me must be dwelt upon. I don't think his
own children lament him more or will remember him
longer. . * ."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Wren's Nest

"N THE early years at Snap-Bean Farm, Joel always
went home to lunch or dinner, as it was called in
those days and for long afterward in the South. He
could have afforded to buy a snack downtown, and it
would have taken less time, but he hated to stay away from
his family all day, and he much preferred the food he got
at home. So he jogged out on the little car line to West
End, oh which he knew all the drivers "Dutch" Reynolds,
"Grandpa" Bennett, and the rest.

The driver had to eat his noon lunch out of a basket at
the end of the line, and there were only a few minutes to
do it in. So the distinguished passenger who did not con-
sider himself at all distinguished would take the lines
and drive the team the last few blocks, while the driver sat
inside and ate a bit less hurriedly. If he had not finished his
meal by the time they had reached the end of the line, the
author would unfasten the doubletrees and, carrying them
in one hand, would drive the mules around to the other
end of the car, hook them up again, wind the reins around
the brake handle, and start home.

244

Mr. HamV would come in muffled tones from
inside the car.

246 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"Much 'bliged, Mr. Harris/ 5 would come in muffled
tones from inside the car, through a mouthful of cabbage,
corn bread, and coflfee.

Two more children were born at Snap-Bean Farm
Mildred in 1885 and Joel Chandler Harris, Jr., in 1888.
Three of the children having died, there remained four
boys and two girls. When the little "J. G," as they usually
called him later he became "Jake" to the other children
was born, Julian, the eldest, was fourteen. As may be
imagined, what with the children and the sunny-disposi-
tioned Negro employees and their children, the place was
a beehive of activity, a very genial beehive, where there was
much laughter.

Oh yes ! and one should add to the turmoil the cows and
their calves, the chickens, the ducks, the bees, and the
numerous pets always two or three dogs, cats, a donkey,
canaries, pigeons, guinea pigs, rabbits. There was just one
hard-and-fast rule about these pets: they must be taken
care of kindly and fully. If one was neglected, it could not
be kept longer.

Little J. C., as he grew older, took an especial interest
in chickens, plain and fancy, and other feathered things.
His father in a letter to one of the girls who was away
at boarding school, once remarked that "J. C. has an old
Langshan rooster that crows 3,431 times a day and his voice
can be heard a mile or more.' 5

He very frequently gave news of the animals in letters to
the youngsters when they were at school. One of his many
playful letters to Lillian known variously to the family
as "Bill," "Billy; 5 "Billy-Ann/ 5 and "Miss Pods 55 (her
grandmother's nickname for her) opened thus:

THE WREN'S NEST 247

Dear Miss Billy-Ann:

"Weather cold; wind blowing a gale from the nor'west,
thrashing out the roses, and making thin-skinned people
feel as if they had lost home and friends and country; old
Annabel ailing; calf so poor that it falls down when it tries
to bleat; hens deserting their nests, and allowing their eggs
to get cold; birds pecking at the strawberries; bucket falling
in the well; J. C. cutting a hole in the toe of his Sunday-
go-to-meeting shoes; donkey trying to climb the wire fence;
pigeons gobbling up the chicken food; apples rotting; stove
smoking; drygoods bill heavy; bonnet bill heavier; street-
cars behind time; Chloe trying to get in the stove to cook;
Rufus dropping plates from the ceiling; milk bill growing;
cow-doctor's bill coming in; dust blowing everywhere;
kitten getting its tail under the rocking-chair; Brader with
his hair soaped smooth on each side; the pony wallowing
himself black; planks falling off the fence; Lizzie helping
Chloe to harden the biscuit

Now, how do you suppose I can find any news to write
while all this is going on?

The family lost one of its important members in 1891
when Grandmother Harris died. The tie between Joel and
his mother had been strong, and he felt her loss very
keenly.

As Julian and Lucien and later Evelyn grew up into
their middle teens and began to go away to academies, and
then to visit their grandparents in Canada, their father
wrote them long, brotherly letters, usually signing himself
'Tour affectionate Dad," telling all the news of home and
family, giving them advice, but trying hard not to lecture.

248 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

These letters and the replies were more intimate and under-
standing than one usually finds passing between father
and sons.

Before he was sixteen, Julian had gotten the idea that
he wanted to write either as an author or as a journalist.
He took up the study of shorthand. During a visit of nearly
a year to his grandparents in Canada, he attended the
Freres Maristes College to improve his French. He began
writing descriptions of what he saw in French Canada and
sending them to his father, who criticized the pieces and
showed him how to improve them. When one of them
was finally published in the Constitution and praised by the
editors, Julian himself could not have been any prouder
than his father. The youth came home and found a place
on the Atlanta News as a cub reporter at seventeen, later
going to the Constitution.

The father's letters to his sons were full of wisdom.
When Lucien, too, went to Canada for a visit, he was in
the throes of a love affair with a fine girl in his home
neighborhood. His father, who saw the girl frequently,
gave him news of her, praised her highly, and exchanged
confidences with Lucien about her. The son was so close
to his father in spirit that he told him all his hopes and
fears, and the father gave him advice and comfort. This
love story had a happy ending; three years later Lucien
married the young lady.

Along with real home news, his letters to the boys fre-
quently contained bits of the nonsensical gossip which he
liked to write to his children, as when he wrote to Lucien
of affairs in West End: "The Grigsbys swarming across
the lot at meal-time and Mrs. Richardson shooing at your
bantam roosters, and J. C. rolling down the woodpile, and

THE WREN'S NEST 249

the ducks nibbling at the young turnips, and Malsby's
baby howling like a freight engine."

A friend of the family said that the Harris children all
seemed to an outsider to do as they pleased, and yet there
was a sort of order, too, and they all grew up with a very
definite sense of duty. Father was indulgent he believed
in having a good time and yet on points of order he was
firm. "This is thusly" he would say when he was laying
down the law, and when he said that, it meant business.
But he wouldn't curb the children's fun, when it was kept
within the bounds of reason. A letter to Lillian gives a
comic hint of this:

You will find it very much like home when you return,
with Mama crying out every quarter of an hour "I'll call
your papa if you don't behave!" or "Joel, can't you come to
these children?" and then if I make no response, "Your
papa says I spoil you, but he's the one that does the spoil-
ing." This last all in one word, as it were. And so we go on
raising our children, at a loss whether to pet them or bump
their heads together.

Perhaps the pageant of children his own and others
through his home caused him to think more of children's
stories. Anyhow, he now wrote a series of books of a new
sort for him; more like fairy stories than anything he had
done before, and yet with a lot of the fun and satire of
Uncle Remus, too, though they were not told in Negro
dialect.

The first of these was Little Mr. Thimble-finger and his
Queer Country, which appeared in 1894. It seems that
Buster John and his sister, Sweetest Susan, were two little

THE WREN'S NEST 251

from the rainy season so touchingly that Uncle Rain had
to wipe his eyes on a corner of the fog which hung on the
towel rack behind the door.

Three more books in this series followed at short in-
tervals: Aaron in the Wildwoods, "Plantation Pageants of
which its author wrote, "Glancing back over its pages, it
seems to be but a patchwork of memories and fancies, a con-
fused dream of old times" and Watty Wanderoon. Wally
was a new character in the series, one who was always
looking for the good old times. He finally found a relic of
those times, an "old-fashioned" story telling machine. He
set it going for Buster John and Susan and Drusilla, and
it ground out some delightful tales.

Meanwhile, great and momentous events were taking
place in the Harris family. In December 1895 Lucien was
married to Alleen, the charming girl about whose attitude
he had been so worried when he was in Canada three years
before. It was the first wedding among the children; and
"children," indeed, these two seemed to Papa and Mama
Harris, for Lucien was only twenty, though already a very
capable young businessman. Papa suffered the usual agony
of embarrassment at the wedding because of having to dress
up and be stared at by so many people. He vanished im-
mediately after the ceremony, and was later found sitting
contentedly in an alcove, hidden by portieres.

Out of the southwestern corner of the little "farm" he
cut a lot and gave it to Lucien, and the son built his home
there. In the following year, Julian was married, and he
was given a lot on the northwest corner. And so the process
went on* Evelyn and J. G as they married, settled on lots
between their two older brothers the system continued,
even after the father's death and the two daughters, upon

252 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

their marriage, received lots on the front edge of the prop-
erty, alongside the parental home. Thus was completed a
family group the like which it would be hard to find else-
where. But the last few gifts had to be made by Mother,
for before the younger children married, beloved Daddy
was gone.

A year after Lucien's marriage came another exciting
event the birth of the first grandchild. "He seems to be
about 8 1 years old," wrote his grandfather to Lillian, "but
he will get considerably younger in a few days.'*

In another letter he said:

You remember I told you he is very old. Well, it's a fact.
He is bald-headed and all his teeth have dropped out, and
his head is wobbly and he's too decrepit to walk. And he's
irritable, too, just like an old man. He sleeps most of the
time and that is another sign of extreme old age; he can
hold nothing in his hands. He may grow younger as he
grows older, and I hope he will. You said something about
my being a grandpa. But the way I look at it, this baby is
too small and wrinkled to count. If I'm to be a grandpa,
I want to be one, sure enough. I want to be the grandpa of
something that you can find without hunting through a
bundle of shawls and blankets. . . .

And so, as other babies came to Lucien's and Julian's
homes, he continued his joking references to them in his
letters to Lillian and Mildred (usually known in the family
as "Tommy"). "The kid continues to weep copiously," he
wrote of another infant, "from which I conclude that he
is of a melancholy, if not despairing disposition. This he
must inherit from

THE WREN'S NEST 253

In 1900, when the South African war was being waged
between the British and the Boer republic, and the news-
paper reports were full of Dutch words, he began a letter
to Mildred thus:

My Dear Dr. Delion:

Your esteemed favor of open date and current month has
been received at the Laager now occupied by those notorious
Boers, the Harrises. The Kopje on which the Laager is
situated is the same as ever. People who reach it by the
nearest route still have to trek across three Veldts and climb
three terraced Kopjes. The various and sundry Kleiner
Kidjs of the Harris tribe were alive and kicking and also
squalling at last account. . , *

But his letters to the girls were not all fun. There were
streaks of serious advice and wisdom in them. Once when
Lillian was vexed because the convent school authorities
would not let her exchange letters with a fine boy, so well
known in the Harris home that he was, as her father said,
"almost like one of the family," he wrote her that "You
know perfectly well that we have no objection to your cor-
responding with him. Yet at the school it is a different
matter. We as well as you must be governed by the rules."
So if the Sisters thought it advisable that her mind be not
diverted by correspondence with a young man, that, he
decreed, must be the last word on the subject.

Another important Snap-Bean event of the middle 1890'$
must not be overlooked. Someone went to the mail box at
the gate one spring morning and found that a pair of wrens
had decided to set up housekeeping there. They had al-
ready brought in some hay as a foundation.

254 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

"We must make other arrangements for mail/* said
Father at once to the family and to the postman. "We must
not break up a home."

He wrote a little magazine piece about the incident a
year or two later. After that, he liked to speak of the home,
not as Snap-Bean Farm, but "At the Sign of the Wren's
Nest." And so it remains to this day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A Path to His Door

NEARLY every evening his pencil was busy, at the
living-room table, or at the little one in his bed-
room, so small that it could barely hold the big
sheets of copy paper. Collections of his short stories which
had been appearing in newspapers and magazines appeared
between cloth covers at frequent intervals. Balaam and His
Master, a volume containing six tales of Georgia, before
and during the Civil War, was one of these.

A year later, in 1892, appeared Uncle Remus and His
Friends, some more fables and a number of poems in Negro
dialect, which he had been writing more and more fre-
quently. In his brief introduction to this volume, he said
that he was going to leave the question of the origins of the
tales "to those who think they know something about it.
My own utter ignorance I confess without a pang."

For Nights With Uncle Remus, which had appeared
only six years before, he had written a forty-three page in-
troduction, all about folklore. He now laughed rather
sheepishly at its "enterprising inconsequence" and "uncon-
scious humor-" "I knew a good deal more about folklore
then," he said, "than I know now. To know that you are

255

256 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

ignorant is a valuable form of knowledge, and I am grad-
ually accumulating a vast store of it."

With this volume of 1892, the author declared that Uncle
Remus was saying farewell to his public; he would speak
no more. Which simply meant that his creator had so
many other ideas buzzing in his brain that he didn't want
to be bothered with the old man any more. But how little
he knew of the future! Uncle Remus wouldn't be
squelched, and the public wouldn't permit it. They kept
calling for him, and he insisted on being heard now and
then.

But during the Nineties some of those other ideas came
pouring from the press; the first novel, for example, Sister
Jane. In 1878 he had written a novel. The Romance of
Rocfyille, and it ran serially in the Constitution. It wasn't
a good novel, and no one knew this better than its author.
It was never even offered to a book publisher. Now he took
some threads from it and wove them into a new fabric. He
made the central character a strong-minded, true-souled
woman, with a tongue sometimes sharp, but a heart full
of loving kindness. It was to some extent a picture of his
mother, who had died five years before.

Sister Jane in the story had a timid brother, into whom
the author put something of himself. Writing to a friend,
he said:

Sister Jane is still selling, but it's poor stuff. No doubt
that's because the brother represents my inner my inner
oh, well! my inner spezerinktum; I can't think of the other
word. It isn't self, and it isn't oh, yes! it's the other fellow
inside of me, the fellow who does all my literary work while
I get the reputation, being really nothing but a corn-field

A PATH TO HIS DOOR 257

journalist. ... I wish I could trot the other fellow out when
company comes. But he shrinks to nothing, and is gone.

Another volume of short stories, Tales of the Home Folfc
in Peace and War, quickly followed this. Here was one
author who never had to seek a market. The market sought
him. Meanwhile, a new character, Aunt Minervy Ann,
had been born one quite as distinct and delightful as
Uncle Remus. The stories about her appeared in Scribner's
Magazine, and were published in book form in 1899 as
The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann. Vigorous and even
violent with her tongue yes, and with her hands, too,
when it seemed necessary to her, but true-hearted and loyal
to her "white folks," she had some fascinating tales to tell
of life in middle Georgia before and after the war.

There were evident traces of Chloe, long a faithful serv-
ant at the Wren's Nest, in Aunt Minervy Ann. But old
Forsyth acquaintances insisted that she was Aunt Sallie,
the Harrisons* cook, who had later gone with them to
Atlanta, and who called on "Marse Joe" at the Constitution
office now and then, to swap reminiscences with him and
laugh so loudly that she could be heard all over the place.

Maybe he was talking about one of Sallie's calls when he
said to a friend one day, "Aunt Minervy Ann's getting
mighty restless. She came in here just now and sat down
in that chair and began telling me a story about Mis' Jones's
pa'sol I've got to be writing something about Aunt Minervy
Ann," But it is more likely that he was just talking about
the imaginary Aunt Minervy. His dream characters became
very real to him- This is seen in a memorandum which he
once began to write why or for whom we do not know.v

258 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Sister Jane was written

1. To get rid of a number of people critics call them
characters, but to me they are people who were caper-
ing about in my mind.

2. To take out of the mouth of my mind the bad taste
of some pessimistic books I had re

There it breaks off. But it has told what we already know,
that he disliked pessimism and dirt in literature.

All his life he continued to be the most modest, even
bashful, author in history. Once when he was in New York
on a business trip, lie called at the office of the Century
Magazine, which was publishing his stories frequently, to
see Mr. Johnson, the associate editor. In fact, that was a
part of his errand to New York. But two bright young men
in the outer office evidently did not know who Mr. J. C.
Harris was, and this mild, pudgy, freckled, sleepy-eyed
man in the broad-brimmed black felt hat must have looked
countrified and unimportant to them. So they told him
curtly that Mr. Johnson was busy and could not see him.
At that, he meekly bowed himself out and went back to
Georgia.

"I know how things are," he wrote later, when Mr.
Johnson was apologizing for the error. "I don't want to be
bothered when I am busy, and I know how to sympathize
with others who live in the channels of botheration."

Once when he and Henry Grady were in New York
together, a dinner was arranged for them by the literary
folk. The thought of it threw J. C. H. into a perspiration,
for he had become such a literary lion that all eyes were
upon him whenever he entered a public gathering. As he

A PATH TO HIS DOOR 259

had done once before, he gave Grady the slip and returned
to Atlanta.

His wife, who was not expecting to see him for several
days, was riding downtown on a street car when she was
startled by a glimpse of a familiar face passing her on an
outbound car.

"If I didn't know he was in New York/' she told her-
self, "I'd be sure that was Joel"

So strongly was she impressed by this that she went to
the Constitution office. "What do you know of my hus-
band's whereabouts?" she asked of Mr. Finch, the manag-
ing editor.

"Why, don't you know he is in town?" returned Mr.
Finch, surprised, "Haven't you seen him? He came by here
a while ago, and went on home."

She hurried home and found her husband contentedly
inspecting the flowers on the lawn.

"Joel, why are you back so soon?" she asked, as soon as
she caught sight of him.

<c Why, aren't you glad to see me?" he asked in mock
reproach.

"Of course I am," She kissed him. "But you came back
so much sooner than I expected."

"I got so homesick I couldn't stand New York any
longer," he told her. "I just had to come home as soon as
I could get here."

That was probably as near being the real reason as the
other. He always left home reluctantly, and he could never
stay away long. Good friends like James Whitcomb Riley
and others begged him to come and visit them, but he
never went. He received tempting invitations to come to

260 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Europe, where his works were well known, but he turned
them down.

"Too far from home," was his reason. "Georgia's good
enough for me."

In 1889, when two members of the Constitution staff
were married to each other at a small town east of Atlanta,
the bridegroom persuaded his friend Harris by what
magic or hypnotism no one can guess to this day to serve
as best man. Perhaps it was because this was a small town,
and he was at home with small-town folks.

But even in a small town he could not make a speech.
No, not even at Eatonton, where Miss Fannie Lee Lever-
ette, daughter of his old neighbor, raised money and or-
ganized the first school library that the town had had,
naming it in his honor. They thought they had him cor-
nered once, when he was down there at a public affair,
sitting on the rostrum with Henry Grady. Grady, who was
even a better orator than he was an editor, made the prin-
cipal address of the evening. Then there were shouts of
"Harris! Harris!"

He was appalled terror-stricken! But desperation gave
him strength and wit to rise to the occasion.

"I'm c-coming," he stammered, as he rose to his feet
"I've n-never b-been able to make a public speech without
wetting my throat," he continued, as he descended the steps
from the rostrum, and started down the aisle among them.
"So you must excuse me until I get a drink." They laughed
and applauded, but watched him uncertainly as he passed
out through the rear door. Then it began to dawn upon
them that he had escaped he was gone for good !

Those were the only remarks he ever made to a public
gathering.

A PATH TO HIS DOOR 261

In Atlanta he was even shyer. He was persuaded to go
to a party once, and he wrote to one of the girls, "When
I got out, I panted right heartily, and felt as if I had
done a day's ploughing."

When the silver wedding anniversary of Captain Howell
and his wife approached, they planned a reception. But the
captain said to his old friend, "J oe ? we have decided that
we can't have this affair unless you come to it."

"Oh, I can't do it! I can't!" he protested. "You know
I never go to parties " But Howell was equally deter-
mined.

"Why, man, this is our silver wedding," he urged. "It's
a great occasion. We'll never have another one. All our
best friends must be there. . . ."

But he was making no progress at all until Mrs. Howell
took a hand. "Surely you wouldn't refuse me, would you
Joe?" she asked pleadingly. "I couldn't feel happy if you
weren't there."

He looked at her beseechingly, but his resistance weak-
ened. At last he gave in. "Yes, I'll come."

It was such an unusual distinction that the Howells
couldn't resist telling everybody that Joe Harris was com-
ing to the reception* That promised to increase the at-
tendance. The whole town was agog. On the afternoon
of the eventful day, Captain Howell, just to make sure,
dropped around to check up on him. Yes, his wife said,
he was going to go through with it. And there were his
best clothes, all ready and laid out on the bed.

He put them on after supper, and he and Essie walked
through the vacant lots and clumps of trees to the Howell
home. It was brilliantly lighted, and as they neared it,
they heard the murmur of voices and laughter. Joel's cour-

262 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

age oozed out of him. He simply couldn't go in, to be
gazed at and fussed over as the chief guest of the evening.
"You go in," he told his wife. "I just can't"
She did not argue much with him; she knew him too
well. "But how am I to get home?" she finally asked.
"I'll come back in a couple of hours and whistle for you."
And that was that. She watched the clock, donned her
wraps at the appointed time, went outside and found her
faithful swain hovering in the shadows, waiting for her.
But with a few friends of long standing, who treated
him as one of themselves, he was the merriest of compan-
ions. By the middle Nineties, the West End streetcar line
had been extended past his place and electrified. As he
wrote, "The cars run gaily and frequently until the com-
pany is scared by a thunderstorm." But still they ran so
far apart that patrons knew their schedule, and it was
disastrous to miss one. Author Harris, Captain Howell,
Frank L. Stanton, and three or four other close friends in
the neighborhood would go downtown on the same car
every morning, and to other passengers within earshot it
sounded like a session of the Gridiron Club- Many a man
along the line gulped the last of his breakfast coffee stand-
ing and ran two or three blocks, rather than miss "Joe
Harris's car" and the jokes and stories which kept it in a
roar all the way downtown.

This different writer was also at his best with a close
friend or two on a winter evening before the living-room
fire, which he loved to poke and stir, or on the broad porch
on a summer night, while tree toads chirruped and mock-
ingbirds sang in the tulip tree by the steps. It was thus
that he sat through a memorable fortnight with James
Whitcomb Riley in 1900.

A PATH TO HIS DOOR 263

Nearly twenty years before that, the Indiana poet, then
a young journalist, had first written of his admiration for
Uncle Remus who, in turn, became an admirer of Mr.
Riley's poetry. But it was not until 1900 that they met.
Then Mr. Riley came down for a two weeks' visit to the
Wren's Nest, and endeared himself to the whole family.
He and Joel Harris were natural cronies from the start.
They went to the post office together, went out to the parks
and to vaudeville shows, but many afternoons and eve-
nings they just sat on the porch, trading literary opinions,
or preferably stories and laughter, or sometimes, as "Jim"
put it, just "shut clean to, a sayin' nothin' 'cause we don't
haf to." When the guest departed, he left such a void be-
hind him that his host wrote to Mildred, "Your Unc.
Jeems has done gone and went, and the house feels as if
all the furniture had been taken out."

Now the host of the Wren's Nest had become so famous
that many of the great ones of earth were writing to him
or beating a path to his door. Joaquin Miller, "the Poet of
the Sierras," Dr, Lyman Abbott, Walter Hines Page, And-
rew Carnegie, and many other noted folk were among the
visitors to the unpretentious home at West End. Mr. Car-
negie's first words, as he shook hands with Uncle Remus,
were, "How's Sis' Cow?"

"Poly," was the reply.

With these people, who knew how to meet him on his
own ground, he unbent and was his real self. But when
some "lion hunter" journeyed out to his home to rhapso-
dize over him and have the honor of shaking his hand,
the caller might not get a dozen words out of him during
the whole interview*

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Uncle Remus Tells His Last Story

|Y 1899 there were Harris stories appearing in The
Saturday Evening Post; some of them famous ones.
"Why the Confederacy Failed" and "The Kid-
napping of President Lincoln" were probably the two best.
Their author also wrote editorials for the Post. A collection
of the stories appeared in book form in 1900 under the title,
On the Wing of Occasions.

In some of these stories a noted character, Billy Sanders,
a rustic philosopher supposed to be from Shady Dale,
Georgia, made his appearance, and his homely wit and wis-
dom were so popular that his creator was asked to write a
series of Billy Sanders opinions on life 'and current events
for the new magazine, The World's Wor\. Billy continued
to talk for the next eight years. Once he even changed the
name of a town!

It was a funny little instance of small-town sensitiveness.
An imaginary hamlet called Harmony Grove was described
in one of the articles as a quiet, unpretentious little place,
but there was no thought of reproach in the description,
for Joel Harris loved that sort of community.

It happened, however, that there was really a town of

264

o

/otf tf /A<r Constitution office to swap
stories with him.

266 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

that name in Georgia, and it was enormously offended. "A
casual reader," wrote one indignant citizen, "would think
Harmony Grove a regular Sleepy Hollow, or a little cross-
roads town with no get-up-and-get-about it, instead of being
as it is to-day the best town of its size in Georgia." Shortly
after that, the town even changed its name to Commerce,
much to the distress of the gentle soul back of Billy Sanders.
Offers were now coming thick and fast. In 1900 Mr.
Harris was asked to accept the editorship of Everybody's
Magazine, and two book publishing houses wanted to put
him on an annual salary and take all his output. He rejected
the magazine offer and accepted one of the others, a con-
tract with McClure, Phillips & Company. And with that,
he gave up his job on the Constitution, after twenty-four
years of service.

There had been great changes at the office in that time.
His dear friend, Henry Grady, had died eleven years be-
fore, and Captain Howell had recently sold out his interest.
But there were still close ties with the paper. Son Julian had
become at the age of twenty-four managing editor, and
a little later Evelyn worked up to the job of city editor,
though he eventually left journalism to go into the tele-
phone business. Frank L. Stanton, who had been an office
boy with the Savannah News when young Joel first went
to work there, had developed into a poet, and was brought
by his old friend up to the Constitution, with which he had
a connection for the rest of his days.

Twenty-four years of habit cannot be broken off all at
once. For a long time, ex-columnist Harris could not resist
going down to the Constitution's morning editorial confer-
ence every day, just as if he belonged there. He even went
down on Sundays and holidays and puttered around.

UNCLE REMUS TELLS HIS LAST STORY 267

However, he rejoiced in the freedom from routine. "If
the greatest position on the round earth were to be offered
me/' he told a friend, "I wouldn't take it. The responsi-
bility would kill me in two weeks. Now I haven't any care
or any trouble, and I have resolved not to worry any more."

With the increased leisure now gained, he wrote his sec-
ond novel, Gabriel Tolliver, into which, he confessed, he
put a great deal of himself and he dedicated it to his good
friend, James Whitcomb Riley. He was greatly pleased
when "Jaraesy," as the poet often signed letters to him,
dedicated a new volume of poems to him. These two had
another jolly two weeks together at Lithia Springs, Georgia,
in 1902*

For worries would come whether he wanted them or
not. That visit to the springs was made after a series of ill-
nesses which had attacked him during the previous year,
and which left him looking older. He stooped a little more
now, which made him seem shorter than ever and more
roly-poly, and the red of his hair had dulled a bit

Evelyn, despite his newspaper responsibilities, was a de-
voted and efficient secretary during his illness. But even
after he was up and about, his hand was so shaky for a time
that he gave up writing with pen or pencil and began to tap
out his letters and manuscript on a typewriter, using the
one-finger-and-hunt system, and now coming down to
sheets of paper of ordinary business size.

Because of these periods when he could not write, he in-
sisted upon giving up the contract with McClure, Phillips
& Company. He said they should not be compelled to pay
him for time when he was too ill to work. But he let them
retain the right to publish his books.

Famous visitors continued to tread the trail to the Wren's

268 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Nest, as the nestlings departed one by one. Evelyn was mar-
ried in 1903, and before long was building his home on the
lot carved out of the western edge of the so-called farm
though the neighborhood around it was no longer rural

A photographer who went down to Atlanta about this
time to make some news pictures of the author found in
him not only some of the traits of Uncle Remus, "but a
good deal of Br'er Rabbit, a pinch of Br'er Fox, more than
a suspicion of Br'er 'Possum, a faint trace of Br'er B'ar, and
in particular, all of the little boy."

He was now becoming somewhat accustomed to this sort
of thing and to being interviewed by professional journal-
ists. When Ray Stannard Baker came in one day and said,
"Mr. Harris, I want to write you up for the Outlool^" he
laughed, and said:

"That reminds me of Simon Sugg, a queer old chap
downstate who was put into fiction by an old acquaintance.
I knew him when I was a boy. One day a friend met him
and said:

" 'Simon, do you remember Jim Hooper, that went to
school with us down at Monticello?'

" c Oh, Jim Hooper of co'se I remember Jim. Little slim
feller, wa'n't he?'

" 'That's him. Well, Jim's gone and noveled you/

"'Noveled me! Has he?' says Simon. Well ding his
hide!'

"Simon hadn't the faintest idea what Jim had done to
him, but he was properly indignant, anyhow/'

There had been many requests for more Uncle Remus
stories, and from time to time, while he was writing other
stories or Billy Sanders articles, he had turned out an Uncle
Remus tale for a magazine or put another into rhyme. A

UNCLE REMUS TELLS HIS LAST STORY 269

volume of the verses, Tar Baby and Other Rhymes of Uncle
Remus, appeared in 1904, and another volume of the prose
stories, Told by Uncle Remus, in the following year.
"Jamesy" Riley, was so delighted by the appearance of the
verses that he wrote a jingle about them, beginning:

Indianapolis, Indiana
Leventeen-Hundred-an*-

Full-er-Fleas.

Hit's mighty good news er new OP Uncle Remus Rhymes,
Which I done prophesyin' 'bout forty-levm times-
All de whole kit-an-bilin* er de jingles an' de chimes
OF Uncle orter sing us ef he 'spectin* to redeem us
Remus

OF Uncle Remus an' his new-ol' rhymes.
O, it's "Hi> my rinktum," he low one day
When I tel him dat a ne'r batch er oP rhymes pay
En it's "Ho, my Riley! youer leadin' me erstray.
I taste my last er singin* an' I gwine ter stay absteemus.
Remus
OP Uncle Remus tetchin* no mo' rhymes."

One of the greatest admirers of all of the Harris writings
was President Theodore Roosevelt, He wrote frequently,
expressing his appreciation. He said that when he was a
boy, an aunt from Georgia had told him some of the Br'er
Rabbit stories. The Roosevelt children, one by one, all ac-
quired autographed copies of Uncle Remus books.

When the President and Mrs, Roosevelt planned to visit
Atlanta in 1905, he wrote to Clark Howell, then editor of
the Constitution, saying that Mrs. Roosevelt could remain

270 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

in Atlanta only two hours, and asking if it would be pos-
sible for her to meet the great author.

"As you know/* he concluded, "our entire household is
devoted to Joel Chandler Harris. 5 *

The request was too important to be refused, but the
bashful man's agony as the dread October day approached
may be faintly imagined. Just to make sure that there was
no slip-up, a committee of prominent citizens escorted him
to the railway station. The train arrived, and the beaming
Teddy was introduced all around. As they were entering the
carriages, he turned to a member of the committee and said,
"I'd like for Mr. Harris to ride in the carriage with Mrs.
Roosevelt."

"Certainly!" said the committeeman, and turned to look
for the author. He had vanished!

"Where is he?" asked the gentleman excitedly. Then
someone caught sight of him escaping through the crowd.

"There he goes !" cried a voice.

"Catch him!" shouted another.

There was a rush after him, and the fugitive was hustled
back to the carriage, making little resistance now that he
was discovered, but redder than any lobster. A little later,
the amazing spectacle was presented to Adantans of Joel
Chandler Harris on the balcony of the governor's mansion,
along with the governor and President and Mrs. Roosevelt,
reviewing a military parade.

He was then compelled to violate another rule; he went
to a luncheon given for the visitors. There was no escape.
There were speeches afterward, of course, and during his
talk the President said:

"I am going ... to, cause for a minute or two acute dis-

i> JTHAT MAN/nv\l *** ,/O*^4J5*So'

<^VSAlO?/ ^^ARo'j^^(^!f^

UNCLE

Cartoou ln%v

\ AT THE WHITE HOUSE!

"vOiwtitutioa/* November 19, 1907

272 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

comfort to a man o whom I am very fond. . . . Georgia has
done a great many things for the Union, but has never done
more than when she gave Joel Chandler Harris to Amer-
ican literature "

It was secretly very gratifying to the blushing, suffering
man, who sat with his eyes on his plate; he loved it. The
only question was whether he would be able to live through
the embarrassment of it.

Next, the Roosevelts wanted him to visit the White
House. Not until two years later was this accomplished,
and even then only with the aid of Julian, who went along
as moral support. The Roosevelt children greeted him first,
and that put him more at ease. There was only one other
guest at dinner, another Southerner, General Fitzhugh
Lee. With these understanding people the bashful man was
soon at home, and the evening was a lively one. When he
departed next morning, the family agreed that they had
never had a more delightful guest.

He put some of his impressions of the White House and
its occupants into the mouth of Billy Sanders, who was
supposed to have made a call there.

"It's a home," said Billy. "It'll come over you like a sweet
dream the minnit you git in the door. ... To make it all
more natchal, a little boy was in the peazzer, waitin' to see
me, an' what more could you ax than that a little boy should
be waitin' for to see you before he was tucked in bed."

The little boy was Quentin Roosevelt, who, as an Amer-
ican aviator, gave his life eleven years later in the first
World War.

The acclaim of the Roosevelts was only a small part of
a world-wide chorus. When Rudyard Kipling learned in
1895 that one of his Jungle Boo\s had been praised by the

UNCLE REMUS TELLS HIS LAST STORY 273

Harris whom he admired so much, he wrote to him, "This
makes me feel some inches taller in my boots; for my debt
to you is of long standing."

He went on to tell how "Uncle Remus and the sayings
of the noble beasties ran like wildfire through an English
public school when I was about fifteen. . . . And six years
ago in India, meeting an old schoolmate of those days, we
found ourselves quoting whole pages of 'Uncle Remus' that
had got mixed in with the fabric of the old school life."

A group of Southerners were dining in a club in London
with some English acquaintances, including a few noble-
men, when some one of the Americans mentioned Atlanta.

"Atlanta ! " came a quick chorus from the Englishmen.
"That's where Uncle Remus lives."

An English critic wrote that the Uncle Remus stories
were as well known in England as Aesop's Fables. Punch
and other English papers adapted the tales to political cari-
cature. In Australia, the volumes were always in stock in
the bookstores. And back they went to the English-speak-
ing colonies in Africa, from which great continent they had
come. A tourist in Egypt told of seeing a group of children
around a story teller, who was relating the Uncle Remus
tales to them in their own language. The stories were trans-
lated and published in France and Germany, and into
Bengali for use in India. A Chinese ambassador who had
enjoyed them sent a "smoke tree" to be planted in the yard
of the Wren's Nest

The University of Pennsylvania wanted to confer a doc-
tor's degree on the author, but the thought of standing on a
rostrum before hundreds of people, togged out in a long
gown and listening to a eulogy of himself, was too much
for him. This university is one which stipulates that to re-

274 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

ceive such a degree, you must come to get it and so bashful
Uncle Remus did not get it. A Georgia college, Emory,
gave him the degree of Doctor of Literature, however, and
was good enough to confer it in his absence and send the
diploma to him.

It was in 1905 that Julian conceived the idea of a South-
ern magazine, with his father as editor in chief. Some At-
lanta men connected with the Constitution and others were
interested, but they had difficulty in persuading the elder
Harris to like the idea of a publication called Uncle
Remus' s Magazine, to be edited by himself. At last he gave
in. But the preparations dragged along over several months,
and it was not until March 1907 that the first number ap-
peared. President Roosevelt was one of the first subscribers,
and, of course, old comrade Riley was asked to be one of
the first contributors.

Julian was managing editor, and there was a young man
on the staff named Don Marquis, later one of the most
famous of New York columnists, but who wrote articles
both grave and gay, and some amusing poetry for Uncle
Remus' s Magazine.

The editor in chief wrote a long editorial for each num-
ber, always referring to himself as "the Farmer"; and there
were frequent musings by Billy Sanders, occasional poems,
and now and then an Uncle Remus story. One of the last
things he wrote starts off with a charming picture of the
home life of Br'er Bar:

"He had a son name' Simmon an 5 a gal name' Sue, not
countin' his oF 'ooman, an' dey all live wid one an'er day
atter day and night atter night; an' when one on 'em went
abroad, dey'd be 'spected home 'bout meal-time if not bef o' ;
an' dey segashuated right along f m day to day, washin' der

UNCLE REMUS TELLS HIS LAST STORY 275

face an' han's in de same wash-pan on de back po'ch an'
wipin' on de same towel, same as all happy f amblies allers
does. . . ."

The magazine dhiove greatly from the start. But its editor
was now failing. Even when it was being organized, he
confessed to his friends that he was feeling his age. In the
spring of 1908 his wife noticed that he seemed to be losing
interest in the flowers and the vegetable garden. He spent
less time at his office, and frequently lay upon the couch
in the living room for an hour or so a thing unusual with
him. He ended a two-year correspondence, one of the sort
he loved, with a little schoolgirl in Wisconsin whom he had
never seen, but who wrote so well that he had suggested
that she write something for the magazine.

For a long time he would not see a doctor, but at last
consented to have one called in. By that time, even an oper-
ation proved to be of no avail. He himself decided that this
illness was his last. Although he was not an irreligious man,
yet he had never been a member of any church. He had
for some years past thought of entering the Catholic
Church, in which his children had been reared. One day
during his illness a priest, Father Jackson, an old friend
of the family* called at the house. The sick man sent for
him and asked that he be baptized and confirmed, which
was speedily done.

He grew steadily worse. All America was concerned over
his illness, and letters and telegrams were pouring in.
Among those who wrote most anxiously was President
Roosevelt. Only two or three days before the end, one of
the letters from Teddy was read to the dying man. He
smiled faintly and said, "The President has been very

276 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

On the night of July 2, 1908, while the tree toads and
mockingbirds, all unconscious of the impending tragedy,
sang in the trees about the house, Atlanta was already
mourning, for it was believed that the end was at hand.
During the following forenoon, one of his sons came in and
said, "How do you feel now, Father?"

With a flicker of his old humor, he murmured, "Just
about the tenth part of a gnat's eyebrow better."

Then he lost consciousness, and never spoke again. Just
as the sun was setting, Buster John and Sweetest Susan and
Drusilla and his other dream children took him by the
hand and led him into the country beyond the spring.

Over his grave has been placed an enormous boulder of
Georgia granite, and upon a bronze tablet let into its side
you may read a part of his foreword to a special edition of
Uncle Remus tales, issued during his latter years, when ill-
ness and sorrow had begun to have their effect upon his
blithe spirit:

/ seem to see before me the smiling faces of thousands of
children some young and fresh and some wearing the
friendly marfa of age but all children at heart, and not an
unfriendly face among them. And while 1 am trying hard
to sfea\ the right word, 1 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 bac\ into the
obscurity that suits me best.

o :

Afterword

N A MEMORABLE afternoon I went out to the
Wren's Nest, now maintained as a memorial to
Joel Chandler Harris; I saw the trees he planted
the fine magnolia, the big tulip tree by the steps, of which
he once said, "I'd like this tree to be my monument" ; the
giant wistaria vine sheltering the old boxed-in well, over
which hangs the pulley whereby the water used to be
raised; saw his rocking chair on the broad porch, the living
room, once so merry, the tables there and in the bedroom
where he worked, his old Hammond typewriter with the
wooden case on the one in the bedroom, his broad-
brimmed black felt hat, the last one he wore, beside it; the
dining room with all the original furnishings, where there
must have been some jolly mealtimes forty or fifty years
ago; the fringe of cottages around two rims of the farm,
which were the children's first homes when they married,
and from which they have all long since flown.

And there in the visitors' book were the names not only
of prominent Americans, but of others, such as Charles
Laughton, English motion-picture star, who wrote that
"Uncle Remus" had been a favorite of his childhood and
a bedside book in later years.

One thing which was a surprise, and which seemed to

277

278 AFTERWORD

bring back the past with peculiar vividness, was about a
hundred feet of old zigzag rail fence from Turnwold; the
rails, like elderly men and women, worn thin and frail by
seventy-five years of storm and stress, for many of them
were there when young Joel was setting type in the printing
shop, and he may have scrambled over them when he went
hunting with Jim-Poke Gaither.

Out at Emory University there are still older relics: the
old blank book whose pages contain his first literary efforts;
his little school composition on "The Elephant/' written at
the age of nine, his first book, the Life of General Taylor,
given to him when he was five. And there are a file of The
Countryman, the silver watch given to him by Papa La
Rose at the time of his wedding, the Japanese netsuke
charm added to it by Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, his pencil,
pen, and typewritten manuscripts, letters, and many other
things.

I am greatly indebted to Mr. Lucien Harris and his
brothers and sisters for aid in the preparation of this book;
also to Dr. Thomas H. English, curator of the Joel Chand-
ler Harris Collection at Emory University for information,
assistance, and counsel; to Miss Margaret Jemison, the Uni-
versity librarian; to Miss Fannie Lee Leverette, daughter
of those kindly neighbors of litde Joel and his mother at
Eatonton; to Mrs. Hazelle A. Champlin, hostess of the
Wren's Nest; and to others. Acknowledgment should also
be made to the D. Appleton-Century Company for per-
mission to lean heavily on Mr. Harris's book, On the Plan-
tation, in depicting his boyhood.