He disclaimed any originality for the stories, adding, “I understand that my relations toward Uncle Remus are similar to those that exist between an almanac maker and the calendar.”  He had not heard the “Golden Arm” story and asked for the outlines; also for some publishing advice, out of Mark Twain’s long experience.

To Joel Chandler Harris, in Atlanta: 

Elmira, N.Y., Aug. 10.  My dear Mr. Harris,—­You can argue yourself into the delusion that the principle of life is in the stories themselves and not in their setting; but you will save labor by stopping with that solitary convert, for he is the only intelligent one you will bag.  In reality the stories are only alligator pears—­one merely eats them for the sake of the salad-dressing.  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 high and fine literature, and worthy to live, for their own sakes; and certainly the stories are not to be credited with them.  But enough of this; I seem to be proving to the man that made the multiplication table that twice one are two.

I have been thinking, yesterday and to-day (plenty of chance to think, as I am abed with lumbago at our little summering farm among the solitudes of the Mountaintops,) and I have concluded that I can answer one of your questions with full confidence—­thus:  Make it a subscription book.  Mighty few books that come strictly under the head of literature will sell by subscription; but if Uncle Remus won’t, the gift of prophecy has departed out of me.  When a book will sell by subscription, it will sell two or three times as many copies as it would in the trade; and the profit is bulkier because the retail price is greater.....

You didn’t ask me for a subscription-publisher.  If you had, I should have recommended Osgood to you.  He inaugurates his subscription department with my new book in the fall.....

Now the doctor has been here and tried to interrupt my yarn about “The Golden Arm,” but I’ve got through, anyway.

Of course I tell it in the negro dialect—­that is necessary; but I have not written it so, for I can’t spell it in your matchless way.  It is marvelous the way you and Cable spell the negro and creole dialects.

Two grand features are lost in print:  the weird wailing, the rising and falling cadences of the wind, so easily mimicked with one’s mouth; and the impressive pauses and eloquent silences, and subdued utterances, toward the end of the yarn (which chain the attention of the children hand and foot, and they sit with parted lips and breathless, to be wrenched limb from limb with the sudden and appalling “You got it").

Old Uncle Dan’l, a slave of my uncle’s’ aged 60, used to tell us children yarns every night by the kitchen fire (no other light;) and the last yarn demanded, every night, was this one.  By this time there was but a ghastly blaze or two flickering about the back-log.  We would huddle close about the old man, and begin to shudder with the first familiar words; and under the spell of his impressive delivery we always fell a prey to that climax at the end when the rigid black shape in the twilight sprang at us with a shout.