he thinks the sun rises and sets with her.

It is a good cook that makes an appetizing dish out of poor material,
and when a woman makes a delicious husband out of little or nothing she
may rank as a _chef_.

II

You may say all I have been describing belongs more properly to little
Mrs. Thrush, on my right. Bless you! that woman doesn't have to think
and plan to make things comfortable. Were she set down in the desert of
Sahara, she would sweep it up, spread a rug; hang a few draperies, and
lo! it would be cosy and home-like. She can't help being and doing just
right, wherever she is put, and her husband is just like her, as good as
gold. Why, that man would bore a woman of ingenuity--a woman who had a
genius for contriving and managing. He doesn't need any cooking; he's
ready to serve just as he is, couldn't be improved. There's absolutely
nothing to be done. Mrs. Owl would get a divorce from him inside of a
month, on the ground of insipidity. Her fine capabilities for making
much out of nothing, would turn saffron for lack of use. Mr. Owl is the
mate for her. To every man according to his taste; to every woman
according to her need.

I am lying in the hammock, under the soft maple tree in my side yard,
speculating on all these matters. Summer is now upon us, for we are in
the midst of June. Yesterday was one of Lowell's rare days, but this
morning the thermometer took offense, and rose in fury. I can see the
quivering air as it radiates from the dusty, sun-beaten road, and a
certain drowsy hum in the atmosphere, palpable only to the trained ear,
tells of the great heat. Some of my neighbors are sitting on their
galleries, reading or sewing; some, like myself, are lolling in
hammocks; even the voices of the children have a certain monotonous
tone, in harmony with the stupid heaviness of the day. Only the birds
and squirrels show any life or spirit; the former are twittering above
my head, courting, it may be, or possibly discussing some detail of
household economy. They hop from bough to bough, touch up their plumage,
and chirp in a cheerful, happy sort of fashion, as if this was their
especial weather, as indeed it is. Up yonder tree, a squirrel is racing
about, in the exuberance of his glee. He has done up his work, no doubt,
and now is off for a frolic. I lie here, not a stone's throw from him,
watching his merry antics, and rejoicing to think how free from fear he
is,