Mrs. Burroughs makes capital pancakes, and
Walt was very fond of them; but he was always late to breakfast.
The coffee would boil over, the griddle would smoke, car after car
would go jingling by, and no Walt. Sometimes it got to be a little
trying to have domestic arrangements so interfered with; but a car
would stop at last, Walt would roll off it, and saunter up to the
door--cheery, vigorous, serene, putting every one in good humor. And
how he ate! He radiated health and hopefulness. This is what made
his work among the sick soldiers in Washington of such inestimable
value. Every one that came into personal relations with him felt
his rare compelling charm."
It was all very well, this talk about the poets, but climbing
"break-neck stairs" on our way thither had given the guest an
appetite, and the host as well; and these appetites had to be
appeased by something less transcendental than a feast of reason.
Scarcely interrupting his engaging monologue, Mr. Burroughs went
about his preparations for dinner, doing things deftly and quietly,
all unconscious that there was anything peculiar in this sight to
the spectator. Potatoes and onions were brought in with the earth
still on them, their bed was made under the ashes, and we sat
down to more talk.
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