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Crowning Laurel Is Needed for the Memory of “Uncle Remus”
Though Joel Chandler Harris Has Left His Own Monument in Undying
Literature, an Intimate, Comprehensive Volume Would Tell the Whole
World of the Gentle Georgia Genius Himself—lt Is a Noble Task.
THE suggestion of a suitable memorial to
Joel Chandler Harris, that dear old
friend of little and “grown-up" children
alike, always is immediately interesting.
It is difficult to imagine how anybody could
forget “Uncle Remus.” or fail to love and cher
ish his memory as an ever sweet and fragrant
thing, and few people of this day and time
will do either, of course.
Only yesterday —or was it the day before? —
"Cncle Remus” lived and breathed, and had his
gentle being among Atlantans and Georgians,
and most folks with whom he moved can see
him now. merely by shutting their eyes and let
ting their imaginations run riot a fleeting mo
ment or two—run riot along the ways of Shady
Dale and the Snap Bean Farm, where still play
and dispense their wise philosophy those very
dear and thoroughly likable animals and
things, personified as “Br’er” Rabbit,” “Br’er
Fox" and “Sis Cow.” and brethren and sistren
galore of like persuasion, not necessarily cata-
“Wren’s Nest,” with its distinguished proprietor on the lawn. Mr. Harris appears in the center picture also, beside .James
Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet
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logued here. I
And walking among them, in perfect under
standing with them, to be sure, still are the ■
Little Boy, the kindly old negro man, and all
those other characters “Uncle Remus” made so i
precious to the days of a childhood not to be too 1
precisely circumscribed.
The Uncle Remus Memorial Association of '
Atlanta is undertaking a brave and noble work 1
to the end that the genuine and gentle great
ness of Mr. Harris may be fittingly perpetuated,
in so far as the usual forms of such endeavors
are concerned. 1
Very appropriately, his home. “The Wren's
Nest,” on “Snap Bean Farm,” has been made
a memorial to him —a hallowed shrine to which 1
the few may journey, time and agatfr in
clination moves them.
Everybody who knew “Uncle Remus” in the 1
flesh was, and still is, intimately acquainted
with “Snap Bean Farm,” in West End, that
charming section of Atlanta made doubly de
lightful evermore In that It was for many years
the home of Mr. Harris. Everybody else who
knew “Uncle Remus” through hearsay, or by
reason of his wonderful stories, also is ac
quainted with Snap Bean Farm. •
And so, whether one visit the shrine In per
son or through mental processes only, ail who
knew Mr. Harris as friend and companion, re
joice to-day that Snap Bean Fann, with its
home and its recollections, Its byways and
Legend of the Fairy Stone :: :: :* :: By Lollie Belle Wylie
They say, and I'm sure they are truthful.
That far, in the ages unknown,
The symbol of Christ’s crucifixion.
H’m carved from a brown Fairy-Stone.
The wee folk, who knelt by the waters
That flow from the fountain of Truth.
Had never a sorrow to grieve them,
Nor age ever withered their. youth.
IN Patrick County, in Southern Virginia, at
the foot of Bear Mountain, stretches a mile
and a half of ground belonging to J. S. Tay
lor that has become famous the world over.
At a first glance, nothing is disclosed that is
unusual and yet, it is the only spot in the world
where the Fairy-Stone Is found. This insig
nificant looking little stone embodies the most
inspiring and sweetest legend that ever descend
ed through the ages, telling of the Bloody Sac
rifice that was made for the ransom of man.
Always within the cradle surrounded by
blue hills and patriarchal tl-ees is a wonderful
fragrance of flowers, and a blue sky. It is a
By JAMES B. NEVIN.
■ hedges made sacred through personal contact
with that fine old gentleman and enchanting
writer of the fairy-folks and the fairyland, is
being made over Into a sort of national park,
to be forevermore a place of growing flowers,
of laughing children —of elfins, fays and gentle
goblins, and all of that!
■ First and foremost of all memorials to “Un
cle Remus” stand, of course, his own writings
—his charming animal stories, combining the
1 lore and the legend of the Old South so con
, vlncingly, and yet so elusively, with the truth
! and the fact of “befo de wah” life in Dixie that
one is lost ere he realizes it far In the twilight
zone somewhere In which he divides the two!
r Whether there Is more fact than fiction in
r the “Uncle Remus” stories one never ceases to
wonder—and If there were not really many
I “Uncle Remuses” once upon a time in the laud
of cotton and sunshine, there surely ought to
1 have been, for he was the dearest old negro
ever, and everybody loves his memory to this
good day. and nobody has forgotten him I
Then there are Mr. Harris’ other marvelous
stories —"Free Joe,” “Mingo,” “Trouble on Lost
Mountain.” There are his amusing and whim
sically philosophical "Billy Sanders” skits, his
occasional and never commonplace verse and
bits of verse—these are the public things known
of all men concerning “Uncle Remus” and Joel
Chandler Harris, the author.
They will live forever, whatever mere man
may do in the meantime, and to that extent
the fame of the man is secure against the
assaults of time and custom's always progress
ing and Infinite variety.
Then, too, there Is that dainty and alto
gether delightful little memorial booklet issued
a few days ago!
It Is the loving product of the pen of one
of Atlanta's sweetest and most accomplished
women —Mrs. Myrta Lockett Avery—intimate
friend of the dead, who knew him heart to
heart, In his home, among his loved ones, and
just as he was, day in and day out.
Into this booklet, which Is designed to raise
a small sum yet due upon the purchase price
of “The Wren's Nest,” and which sells for 50
cents —and may its sale be large!—Mrs. Avery
has written very much of "Uncle Remus” him
self. Fortunately, too, Mrs. Harris, who sur
vives her husband, was able to give Mrs. Avery
very great and very material assistance in
preparing this unique booklet, particularly In
fitting place in which to store the treasure of
the Fairy-Stone.
The Fairy-Stone Is a small cross, varying in
shades of brown with an occasional black one.
The black crosses are the exception. In va
rious sizes the stones are found, and take on a
high polish when prepared for mounting. There
are St. Andrew, Maltese and Roman shapes.
In the rough, the shape is distinct. A peculiar
feature of this strange product is the Mother-
Stone which grows above the soil covered with
small protuberances that grow into perfect
crosses unless detached from the stone; then
they become imperfect, which proves that the
Fairy-Stone has some sort of organic life. The
stone draws its life from the sunshine and air.
When found in perfection, it lies a little be
neath the soil ami lies in clusters or singly.
The constituent parts of the stone are
titanite, mourmaliive. garnet, aluminum and
steolite. They are hard and resemble the dull
old stones spoken of in the Bible. The scien
tints have investigated the little stones and
wondered over them.
HEARST’S SUNDAY AMERICAN. ATLANTA. GA., SUNDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1913.
providing for It a number of heretofore unpub
lished photographs of Mr. Harris, and of per
sons and tilings near to him and more or less
part of his daily life. It may be had of all
newsdealers and book stores in Atlanta.
Here, then, is a small literary production that
everybody should be glad to have in his li
brary. It is very well worth while, indeed!
And It is most intelligently and attractively pre
pared.
There will come a day. however —and therein
dwells the pathos and the vanity of most me
morials erected by loving friends to departed
souls- when Snap Bean Farm with the “Wren’s
Nest” will pass away ami become as a tale that
is told and a chord of lieautlful music that has
vibrated into the nevermore!
Monuments all about are crumbling into dust
and decay. There are efligies in Westminster
Abbey to-day—as relatively modern as all
things within Westminster are —that man lias
lost all track of.
There are kings and queens memorialized in
Westminster that attract no attention what
ever from the passing throng, because no guide
is able to say why, in truth, they are there
and what they ever did to entitle them to hop
orable position in that Valhalla of the eminent.
Shakespeare, that greatest of all students of
human nature, and history’s foremost play
wright -who was Shakespeare, and what of him
as a man in the everyday walks of life?
There sere memorials to Shakespeare tin
world over—in marble and bronze, in oils ami
in the hearts of men—but the most devoted
lover of his unparalleled art Is unable to say
with any degree of certainty to-day whether he
was personally a cheat and a fraud or truly
the first of English writers!
Was Shakespeare Shakespeare, or was he
Sir Francis Bacon, masquerading because he
was ashamed to let his identity be known, the
while unwittingly he wrote for all time the
glory of a marvelous intellect athwart the
heavens?-
And thus it goes, and thus it has gone with
far too pathetic frequency tn the past—the
masters and the lowlier lights in this world's
progress have suffered indiscriminately in the
fame of the afterwhile, because of unfortunate
ami far reaching carelessness in seemingly
minor things of the present.
A writer somewhere recently penned these
prophetic words of “Uncle Remus";
The fairies as blythe as the robins,
When Love thrills the pulses of May.
Dwelt there till the Veil in the Temple
Has r< nt on that Sorrowful Day.
Then heard they, to hear through the ages.
His "Lama Sabaehtani," Then
Saw they the Patient One yielding
His life for the ransom of men.
Many years ago. before the hill of Golgotha
reflected the shadow of the Cross, there dwelt
in Patrick, a band of fairies who were joyous
ami happy. They did nothing but dance in the
sunshine that filtered through the trees, and
wander beside the waters that flowed through
beds of flowers, in the moonlight But there
came a time of unrest to one of the fairies and
he announced that he was going away beyond
the hills of Patrick to learn for himself what
lay in the great world outside. And so he be
gan his travels For many months he journey
ed into strange ami beautiful places until he
came to the Hill of Golgotha. Then suddenly,
he returned to Patrick. For days he sat among
his fairy brothers with an apparent great grief
Joel Chandler Harris and his conception of “Uncle
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“No time-honored legends are there to hand
down to posterity—no marvelous stories of his
early precocity and boyhood genius. No doubt
that his old black ’mammy,’ if she were
alive and questioned ? • • • But such
and kindred assurances are lost, and the pres
ent generation can only accept the matter of
fact, prosaic story of his achievements, which
landed him eventually on the topmost pinnacle
of his endeavor I”
It is rather a curious, and yet commonplace
in his heart. He would weep and gaze sadly
upon the clear skies above Idm and when finally
importuned by his fairy fellows to give ex
pression to his sorrow so that they could help
him bear it, he recounted to them the story of
the crucifixion which he had seen. Then all
the little fairies begged him to describe the
cross upon which the Blessed Lord was hung,
and taking up a little brown stone that lay at
his feet, he carved a cross. Then all the fairies
in Patrick began carving a cross for himself,
and from that day to this the fairies in that
county have been carving crosses and hiding
them under the soil for those who love the
story and have faith.
For said they, "We’ll carve by our fountain.
A cross like the one on the Hill.’’
And all th< wee fairies of Patrick
Are earring the brown crosses still
And if you but cherish this symbol.
And hold it with lore in your breast.
The. ages unfathomed will open
Tin way to Earths Highest and llest.
if the i'airy-blone is carried by those who
circumstance that the fame of “Uncle Remus”
spread throughout England before it did in this
country.
True. American publications. t»oth magazines
and newspapers, found him out and seized upon
him as a precious find of the moment, perhaps
but it was in England, that cradle always of
the best in literature, that Joel Chandler Har
ris first was recognized as a really great writer,
who had come to stay, and whose writings were
destined to bs'ome genuine classics.
And gradually his fame worked across the
walers toward home —and all too soon he pass
ed away, here in Atlanta, among the people he
loved best of all, knew best of all, and amid
whose environments he loved the best of all
to work'.
While, therefore, loving friends and sincere
admirers are fashioning Snap Bean Farm and
the "Wren’s Nest” into a fitting memorial of
the dear old man who is dead and gone, while
these people are generously filling the home
of “Uncle Remus” with this, that, and the other
to remind coming generations of the fame ami
glory righteously his. while there is being as
sembled so worthily and so commendably an
exhibit made impartially of the simpler and
the more notable things connected with his
life, what of the real story of Joel Chandler
Harris himself the imperishably recorded per
sonal history of the man?
Somebody has here a possible task that
should challenge the best and noblest that is
in him!
Not that it will fall to him personally to
write the truth of “Uncle Remus” —the human
living but that it will fall to him to assemble
the truth, from the lips and pens of living
witnesses, all too soon to pass away themselves.
There is, for Instance, his wife. Who in all
the world knew him as she knew him? There
are his children. There are his contempora
ries.
Who will gather together from them and
their kind authentic information about Joel
Chandler Harris, while yet those who know
may testify, and shape it into an indisputable
and forever authentic story of the man as he
actually and truly was but yesterday—or was
it the day before?
Such a book might be Issued in the form of
an edition de luxe, not only to the everlasting
truth of literary history, but to the genuine
and substantial profit of the Memorial Asso
ciation now working so splendidly to make of
believe in its efficacy it is said that good luck
and happiness will follow. It will ward off
danger, and enable the wearer to overcome ene
mies ami live in a world of stormless breath,
where neither wrong nor wretchedness can en
ter. A Fairy-Stone as an anting-anting Insures
health, and prosperity. Among the Moonshiners
of North Carolina, just over the border line of
Virginia, there is a superstition that qvil can
not penetrate into the fastnesses of the moun
tains as loug as the owner holds with bls very
life, Ills precious Fairy-Stone.
Many of the great men and women of the
world have been presented with Fairy-Stones.
Francis Joseph was given one by an American
admirer. Just before his nomination. Grover
Cleveland was presented with a Fairy-Stone.
Theodore Roosevelt had one sent him just be
fore he was made President of the United
States, and it is safe to say that could the pri
vate belongings of manj illustrious people lie
searched, a little charm of this kind would be
found.
in Atlanta there axe several Fairy Stones.
e Remus.”
.
Snap Bean Farm a shrine such as Joel Chand
ler Harris’ memory unquestionably deserves!
Theodore Roosevelt know “I’ncle Remus.” A
contribution to such a volume from this for
mer President of the United States would stand
as a periM'tual bar to misunderstanding and
misinformation.
James Whitcomb Riley, “the Hoosier Poet”
ta man much after “Uncle Remus'” own heart,
too) knew him long and well. Riley would
liecome nn altogether willing witness, capaci
tated to speak authoritatively of the man.
Andrew Carnegie knew him, and esteemed
him beyond expression; Henry Watterson held
him very close to his big Kentucky heart They
would speak a word of Intimacy in the pres
ent that would be very precious in the after
while. John M. Slaton knew him; Sam Small
knew him; Hoke Smith knew him.
Do you not think that a book, made up of
testimony from these people, qualified to speak
all the way from the privacy and close com
munion of tlie hearth and the fireside to the
more open Intercourse of the street, the draw
ing room, the dining hall, and the office, round
ed out with carefully selected and more char
acteristic portions of Mr. Harris’ work, would
find an eager and widespread market through
out the world?
And do you not think that such a book would
go far toward establishing the particular truth
nowadays that will lie so hard to establish in
later years?
Why, there were letters —intimate, private,
simply sweet, and sweetly simple—-published
in "Uncle Remus’ ” Magazine a short time ago,
letters from Mr. Harris, the father, to his chil
dren In school, that serve to tell unerringly
more of the gentle and always pure and fra
grant personality of this remarkable man
than one possibly might reason’out a hundred
years from now with that particular data miss
ing!
One book of the comprehensive kind sug
gested distributed throughout the world, as It
likely would be, would do much toward per
petuating the name and fame of “Uncle Re
mus,” and thus would serve a noble and help
ful purpose to the Memorial Association hav
ing now in hand the fashioning of Snap Bean
Farm into sueh a memorial as Mr. Harris de
serves and must have.
Who, then, will undertake the work of as
sembling this edition de luxe —this everlasting
evidence of “Uncle Remus” in reality, in per
son. as a man—that forever there may be re
corded the truth of him as his contemporaries
knew him?
Who will "gather this nosegay of other men’s
flowers,” even if “naught but the string that
binds them Is his own?”
Who will do this much for Dixie and her
favorite son in the world of really worthy lit
erary endeavor? *
Someone has here the precious opportunity
of crowning and climaxing gloriously the splen
did work already done, and yet to be done, by
the Uncle Remus Memorial Association.
Miss May Orchard has a beautiful chain made
of the little crosses. Mrs. Genie Orchard
Stovall possesses a number of the three varie
ties of cross. The late Colonel William L.
Scruggs owned one of the eharms. There are
a few others belonging to Atlantans.
In th» neighborhood where the Fairy-Stones
are found. General Mumford, of Virginia, was
walking one day, and picked up a stone which
Tiffany declared was the only one of its kind
in existence as far as the firm knew. The
stone was an oblong stone two inches long and
of deep ruby color. It holds Imprisoned in its
heart a- group of gold stars. The family of
General Mumford still have the stone among
their cherished possessions.
And he who is kind and courageous.
And he who is patient and strong.
Will kin.iv hu his cross that the Father
Will guard and protect hint from wrong.
And hi who is yentie and tender,
II ho carries his cross till Life's done.
H ill feci the weight slip from his shoulders
When Heaven by Faith has boon won,
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