d 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 peculiarly interested
in a man whose striking face and manner challenged my attention. I did
not hear him speak, but watched him going about with a silk hat,
much too large, pushed back on his head; his sharp eyes peering into
everything, curious about everything. 'Here,' said I to myself, 'is a
countryman who has got away from home, and intends to see all that is
going on'--such an alert, interested air! That evening a friend came to
me and in a voice full of awe and enthusiasm said, 'Emerson is in town!'
Then I knew who the alert, sharp-eyed stranger was. We went to the
meeting and met our hero, and the next day walked and talked with him.
He seemed glad to get away from those old fogies and talk with us young
men. I carried his valise to the boat-landing--I was in the seventh
heaven of delight."

"I saw him several years later," he continued, "soon after 'Wake-Robin'
was published; he mentioned it and said: 'Capital title, capital!' I
don't suppose he had read much besides the title."

"The last time I saw him," he said with a sigh, "was at Holmes's
seventieth-birthday breakfast, in Boston. But then his mind was like a
splendid bridge with one span missing; he had--what is it you doctors
call it?--_aphasia_, yes, that is it--he had to grope for his words. But
what a serene, godlike air! He was like a plucked eagle tarrying in the
midst of a group of lesser birds. He would sweep the assembly with
that searching glance, as much as to say, 'What is all this buzzing
and chirping about?' Holmes was as brilliant and scintillating as ever;
sparks of wit would greet every newcomer, flying out as the sparks fly
from that log. Whittier was there, too, looking nervous and uneasy and
very much out of his element. But he stood next to Emerson, prompting
his memory a