disappearing in the distance, so I considered myself fortunate. I told
him that I had called up by telephone that morning to speak to him.

"I never talk through the telephone," he said. "I do not like to talk
in a hole. I look into a man's eyes when I talk to him."

When Uncle Remus was fairly run to earth and could not escape, he was
quite human in his attitude toward his caller; his only fault being
that he was prone to talk of his visitor's work rather than his own,
and a question that would seem to lead up to any personal revelation
on his part would result in so strong an indication of a desire for
flight that the conversation would be directed long distances away
from Br'er Rabbit and the Tar Baby. He was a born story-teller, and
had not the made author's owl-like propensity to perch upon high
places and hoot his wisdom to the passing crowd. The expression
"literary" as applied to him filled him with surprise. He called
himself an "accidental author"; said he had never had an opportunity
of acquiring style, and probably should not have taken advantage of it
if he had. He was always as much astonished by his success as other
people are by their failures.

* * * * *

I met him once at a Confederate reunion in Atlanta, where I took my
little grand-children, who had been brought up on Uncle Remus, to see
him. Having heard their beauty praised, he cautioned them not to think
too much of their looks, telling them that appearance was of little
consequence. He gave each of them a coin, saying, "I don't believe in
giving money to boys; I believe in their working for it."