After a while he took a chicken from the
market-basket, spread it on a toaster, and broiled it over the
coals; he put the dishes on the hearth to warm, washed the celery,
parched some grated corn over the coals while the chicken was
broiling, talking the while of Tolstoy and of Maeterlinck, of
orioles and vireos, of whatever we happened to touch upon. He
avowed that he was envious of Maeterlinck on account of his poetic
"Life of the Bee." "I ought to have written that," he said; "I know
the bee well enough, but I could never do anything so exquisite."
Parts of Maeterlinck's "Treasures of the Humble," and "Wisdom and
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.
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