expect to be so well content again." Then, musing, he added: "It
is a comfortable, indolent life I lead here; I read a little, write
a little, and dream a good deal. Here the sun does not rise so
early as it does down at Riverby. 'Tired nature's sweet restorer'
is not put to rout so soon by the screaming whistles, the thundering
trains, and the necessary rules and regulations of well-ordered
domestic machinery. Here I really 'loaf and invite my soul.' Yes,
I am often melancholy, and hungry for companionship--not in the
summer months, no, but in the quiet evenings before the fire, with
only Silly Sally to share my long, long thoughts; she is very
attentive, but I doubt if she notices when I sigh. She doesn't even
heed me when I tell her that ornithology is a first-rate pursuit for
men, but a bad one for cats. I suspect that she studies the birds
with greater care than I do; for now I can get all I want of a bird
and let him remain in the bush, but Silly Sally is a thorough-going
ornithologist; she must engage in all the feather-splittings that
the ornithologists do, and she isn't satisfied until she has
thoroughly dissected and digested her material, and has all the
dry bones of the subject laid bare."

We sat before the fire while Mr. Burroughs talked of nature, of
books, of men and women whose lives or books, or both, have closely
touched his own. He talked chiefly of Emerson and Whitman, the
men to whom he seems to owe the most, the two whom most his soul
has loved.

"I remember the first time I saw Emerson," he said musingly; "it
was at West Point during the June examinations of the cadets. Emerson
had been appointed by President Lincoln as one of the board of
visitors. I had been around there in the afternoon, and had been