Livy and I had two long talks with Ward yesterday evening.  He spoke strongly.  He said, “if any stranger had told me that this apprentice did not model that thing from plaster casts, I would not have believed it.”  He said “it is full of crudities, but it is full of genius, too.  It is such a statue as the man of average talent would achieve after two years training in the schools.  And the boldness of the fellow, in going straight to nature!  He is an apprentice—­his work shows that, all over; but the stuff is in him, sure.  Hartford must send him to Paris—­two years; then if the promise holds good, keep him there three more—­and warn him to study, study, work, work, and keep his name out of the papers, and neither ask for orders nor accept them when offered.”

Well, you see, that’s all we wanted.  After Ward was gone Livy came out with the thing that was in her mind.  She said, “Go privately and start the Gerhardts off to Paris, and say nothing about it to any one else.”

So I tramped down this morning in the snow-storm—­and there was a stirring time.  They will sail a week or ten days from now.

As I was starting out at the front door, with Gerhardt beside me and the young wife dancing and jubilating behind, this latter cried out impulsively, “Tell Mrs. Clemens I want to hug her—­I want to hug you both!”

I gave them my old French book and they were going to tackle the language, straight off.

Now this letter is a secret—­keep it quiet—­I don’t think Livy would mind
my telling you these things, but then she might, you know, for she is a
queer girl. 
                              Yrs ever,
          
                              mark.

     Champney was J. Wells Champney, a portrait-painter of distinction;
     Ward was the sculptor, J. Q. A. Ward.

     The Gerhardts were presently off to Paris, well provided with means
     to make their dreams reality; in due time the letters will report
     them again.

The Uncle Remus tales of Joel Chandler Harris gave Mark Twain great pleasure.  He frequently read them aloud, not only at home but in public.  Finally, he wrote Harris, expressing his warm appreciation, and mentioning one of the negro stories of his own childhood, “The Golden Arm,” which he urged Harris to look up and add to his collection.

     “You have pinned a proud feather in Uncle-Remus’s cap,” replied
     Harris.  “I do not know what higher honor he could have than to
     appear before the Hartford public arm in arm with Mark Twain.”

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: