Those Happy, Golden Years

Roger Ailes--the one that is not going to hell--gives us a sample of one of the children's books the National Review is peddling to its gullible audience. Most of the books are reprints of stories over a century old and a number of the stories are racist, which National Review assures us is merely an expression of respect for African American culture.

Isn't it just like liberals to diminish genuine racial and cultural diversity in the name of respecting it? That's what they've done with Huckleberry Finn, perhaps the greatest anti-slavery novel ever written, now tarred as "racist." And that's what they did with the tales of "Uncle Remus" -- a collection of African American folktales, many with roots in Africa itself, adapted and compiled by Joel Chandler Harris in the 1880s. Beloved by generations of Americans, black and white, these funny but pointedly moral stories about Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox, Brer B'ar and Brer Wolf were akin to - and on a par with -- Aesop's fables. The problem, as modern liberals saw it, was the use of black dialect, and the fact that the title character and fictional narrator of the stories, Uncle Remus himself, was a kindly old slave. So "politically incorrect" have these stories come to be seen that a hugely popular 1946 film version, Disney's Song of the South, has never been released on video -- though many consider it one of that studio's animation masterpieces. As for the stories themselves, they were banned from most schools and libraries in the 1960s, becoming almost unobtainable.

But, the National Review assures us, these stories are not watered to down to make them less offensive to the people being stereotyped as imbiciles.

All 185 stories from the 8 original "Uncle Remus" books exactly as Joel Chandler Harris wrote them (no "PC" fixes, like in some other editions)

Just to make sure that other famous classics of children's literature don't disappear from the earth, the National Review is also selling lavish editions of Thornton Burgess's timeless tales of woodland creatures. And guess what you'll find in these stories as well?

Unc' Billy Possum sat at the foot of the great hollow tree in which his
home is. Unc' Billy felt very fine that morning. He had had a good
breakfast, and you know a good breakfast is one of the best things in the
world to make one feel fine. Then Unc' Billy's worries were at an end, for
Farmer Brown's boy no longer hunted with his dreadful gun through the Green
forest or on the Green Meadows. Then, too, old Granny Fox and Reddy Fox had
moved way, way off to the Old Pasture on the edge of the mountain, and so
Unc' Billy felt that his eight little Possums could play about without
danger.

So he sat with his back to the great hollow tree, wondering if it wouldn't
be perfectly safe for him to slip up to Farmer Brown's hen-house in the
dark of the next night for some fresh eggs. He could hear old Mrs. Possum
cleaning house and scolding the little Possums who kept climbing up on her
back. As he listened, Unc' Billy grinned and began to sing in a queer
cracked voice:

"Mah ol' woman am a plain ol' dame--
'Deed she am! 'Deed she am!
Quick with her broom, with her tongue the same--
'Deed she am! 'Deed she am!
But she keeps mah house all spick and span;
She has good vittles fo' her ol' man;
She spanks the chillun, but she loves 'em, too;
She sho' am sharp, but she's good and true--
'Deed she am! 'Deed she am!"

"You'all better stop lazing and hustle about fo' something fo' dinner,"
said old Mrs. Possum, sticking her sharp little face out of the doorway.

"Yas'm, yas'm, Ah was just aiming to do that very thing," replied Unc'
Billy meekly, as he scrambled to his feet.

Just then out tumbled his eight children, making such a racket that Unc'
Billy clapped both hands over his ears. "Mah goodness gracious sakes
alive!" he exclaimed. One pulled Unc' Billy's tail. Two scrambled up on
his back. In two minutes Unc' Billy was down on the ground, rolling and
tumbling in the maddest kind of a frolic with his eight children.

Right in the midst of it Unc' Billy sprang to his feet. His eyes were
shining, and his funny little ears were pricked up. "Hush, yo'alls!" he
commanded. "How do yo'alls think Ah can hear anything with yo'alls making
such a racket?" He boxed the ears of one and shook another, and then, when
all were still, he stood with his right hand behind his right ear,
listening and listening.

"Ah cert'nly thought Ah heard the voice of an ol' friend from way down
Souf! Ah cert'nly did!" he muttered, and without another word he started
off into the Green Forest, more excited than he had been since his family
came up from "Ol' Virginny."

It's good to know that National Review is scouring the earth to reprint and preserve for all time the true classics of the Golden Age of America from before the age of political correctness. Thanks to those damn liberals you can barely find books now that teach your children how shiftless, lazy, thieving and mush-mouthed African Americans are. No doubt Michael Steele has already picked up a few copies for his kids.