ased 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.
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. 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.

"You are going to help, are you?"

"Of course," I replied; "where is your dish-cloth? "--a natural
question, as any woman will agree, but what a consternation it evoked!
A just perceptible delay,