The Tar Baby and the Tomahawk: Race and Ethnic Images in American Children's Literature, 1880-1939


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Dear Mr. Howells:

The scheme set forth in the prospectus and advertising matter enclosed in your letter attracts me by its picturesqueness. There is an "octopus" twang about it that charms [?] and satisfies even a Southern socialist democrat. I have known all along that if I ever cross my legs in the seats of the mighty, I shall have to be lifted there by main strength: and Mr. Clark's derrick seems to be the thing I have been looking for.

But the question arises—comes in fact as the eclipse did, swiftly and darkly: Do you propose to edit this scheme in the interest of literature? If so, you can count me out. I am wondering all the time how it is that my name has been included in a list of Eminent Persons. I hope I know myself by this time, and a part of this knowledge clings mournfully about the fact that the stuff I turn out in my leisure moments is not literature and has no claim to distinction. I am literary in the meaning one gives to the word when we see the country correspondent of a weekly newspaper announce that Miss Nannie Goodwin Ketchum, of Greene County, Georgia, has a fine literary talent.

Still, if you think you can give a cornfield hand a showing, and you are not afraid to fish a cold dumpling out of the pot-liquor with your fingers, perhaps I can meet your wishes. I have two stories in prospect. One I have called (in my mind) "One Mile to Shady Dale." It is a story of Georgia folk about the time of the beginning of the Civil War. The other is "Qua: A Romance of the Revolution," Qua being the name of an African prince who was brought to this country about 1760. He died
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in Augusta less than fifty years ago. According to tradition, he cut quite a figure in that horrible [?]cyclone of war, rapine, and murder which was centered in what is now Wilkes County, and which historians have refused to [?]investigate. My great-grandmother and my grandmother were in the midst of this disturbance, and [?] when a lad, I have heard them tell of their experiences by the hour. Both of them knew Qua, and [?] Saleth, the son of an Arcadian mother, and >Daniel McGirth, the cruelest and bloodiest Tory that ever lived. You know, of course, that so far as literary art is concerned, I am poverty-stricken; and you know too, that my style and methods will cause you to pull your hair. You knew all about that before you invited me into the scheme.

Therefore, if I can send you something, which shall it be? You will never know which is the worst until you have [?]seen both. It is a question whether I can send the M.J. by Christmas. I can't promise.[?]to Europe, and I can't work on the story till he returns in September.

Yours faithfully
Joel Chandler Harris