Destiny," he "couldn't stand." I timorously mentioned his chapter
on "Silence."

"'Silence'? Oh, yes; silence is very well--some kinds of it; but
/why make such a noise about silence/?" he asked with a twinkle in
his eyes.

When the chicken was nearly ready, I moved toward the dining-table,
on which some dishes were piled. As though in answer to my thought,
he said:

"Yes, if there's anything you can do there, you may." So I began
arranging the table.

"Where are /my/ knife and fork?" "In the cupboard," he answered
without ceremony.

We brought the good things from the hearth, hot and delicious, and
sat down to a dinner that would have done credit to an Adirondack
guide,--and when one has said this, what more need one say?

In helping myself to the celery I took an outside piece. Mine host
reached over and, putting a big white centre of celery on my plate,
said: "What's the use taking the outside of things when one can
have the heart?" This is typical of John Burroughs's life as well
as his art--he has let extraneous things, conventionalities, and
non-essentials go; has gone to the heart of things. It is this that
has made his work so vital.

As we arose from the table, I began picking up the dishes.