st tributes that an author can receive. As with "Mr. Dooley" of our
day, he came, himself, to be affectionately referred to by the name of
the chief character in his works. "Uncle Remus" he was, and "Uncle
Remus" he will always be. Mr. Harris's eldest son, Julian, widely known
as a journalist, is said to have been the little boy to whom "Uncle
Remus" told his tales.

Though there is, as yet, no public monument in Atlanta to Joel Chandler
Harris, the "Wren's Nest," his former home, at 214 Gordon Street, is
fittingly preserved as a memorial. Visitors may see the old letter box
fastened to a tree by the gate--that box in which a wren built her nest,
giving the house its name. It is a simple old house with the air of a
home about it, and the intimate possessions of the author lie about as
he left them. His bed is made up, his umbrella hangs upon the
mantelshelf, his old felt hat rests upon the rack, the photograph of his
friend James Whitcomb Riley looks down from the bedroom wall, and on the
table, by the window, stands his typewriter--the confidant first to know
his new productions.

The presence of these personal belongings keeps alive the illusion that
"Uncle Remus" has merely stepped out for a little while--is hiding in
the garden, waiting for us to go away. It would be like him, for he was
among the most modest and retiring of men, as there are many amusing
anecdotes to indicate. Once when some one had persuaded him to attend a
large dinner in New York, they say, he got as far as New York, but as
the dinner hour approached could not bear to face the adulation awaiting
him, and incontinently fled back to Atlanta.

Frank L. Stanton, poet laureate of Georgia, and of the "Constitution,"
joined the "Constitution" staff through the efforts of Mr. Harris, one
of whose closest intimates he was. Speaking of Mr. Harris's gift for
negro dialect, Mr. Stanton told me that there was one negro exclamation
which "Uncle Remus" always wished to reproduce, but which he never quite
felt could be expressed, in writing, to those unfamiliar with the negro
at first hand: that is the exclamation of amazement, which has the
sound, "mmm--_mh!_"--the first syllable being long and the last sharp
and exclamatory.

Mr. Stanton has for years conducted a column of verse and humorous
paragraphic comment, under the heading "Just from Georgia," on the
editorial page of the "Constitution." Some idea of the high estimation
in which he is held in his S