asked me how, considering my antecedents and youthful
environment, I accounted for myself; what sent me to Nature, and to
writing about her, and to literature generally. I wish I could answer
you satisfactorily, but I fear I cannot. I do not know, myself; I can
only guess at it.

I have always looked upon myself as a kind of sport; I came out of
the air quite as much as out of my family. All my weaknesses and
insufficiencies--and there are a lot of them--are inherited, but of
my intellectual qualities, there is not much trace in my immediate
forbears. No scholars or thinkers or lovers of books, or men of
intellectual pursuits for several generations back of me--all obscure
farmers or laborers in humble fields, rather grave, religiously inclined
men, I gather, sober, industrious, good citizens, good neighbors,
correct livers, but with no very shining qualities. My four brothers
were of this stamp--home-bodies, rather timid, non-aggressive men,
somewhat below the average in those qualities and powers that insure
worldly success--the kind of men that are so often crowded to the
wall. I can see myself in some of them, especially in Hiram, who had
daydreams, who was always going West, but never went; who always wanted
some plaything--fancy sheep or pigs or poultry; who was a great lover of
bees and always kept them; who was curious about strange lands, but who
lost heart and hope as soon as he got beyond the sight of his native
hills; and who usually got cheated in every bargain he made. Perhaps
it is because I see myself in him that Hiram always seemed nearer to me
than any of the rest. I have at times his vagueness, his indefiniteness,
his irresolution, and his want of spirit when imposed upon.

Poor Hiram! One fall in his simplicity he took his fancy Cotswold sheep
to the State Fair at Syracuse, never dreaming but that a farmer entirely
outside of all the rings and cliques, and quite unknown, could get the
prize if his stock was the best. I can see him now, hanging about the
sheep-pens, homesick, insignificant, unnoticed, living on cake and pie,
and wondering why a prize label was not put upon his sheep. Poor Hiram!
Well, he marched up the hill with his sheep, and then he marched down
again, a sadder and, I hope, a wiser man.

Once he ordered a fancy rifle, costing upwards of a hundred dollars, of
a gunsmith in Utica. When the rifle came, it did not suit him, was not
according to specifications; so he sent it back. Not