he street lamp on the corner. He stopped an
instant to salute the poet cheerily as he passed. The man sitting on the
doorstep, across the street, smoking, knocked the ashes out of his pipe
on his boot-heel and went indoors. Women called their children, who did
not respond, but still played on. Then the creepers were carried in, to
be fed their bread-and-milk and put to bed; and, shortly, shrill feminine
voices ordered the other children indoors, and some obeyed.

The night crept slowly on.

I heard Old Walt chuckle behind me, talking incoherently to himself, and
then he said, "You are wondering why I live in such a place as this?"

"Yes; that is exactly what I was thinking of!"

"You think I belong in the country, in some quiet, shady place. But all I
have to do is to shut my eyes and go there. No man loves the woods more
than I--I was born within sound of the sea--down on Long Island, and I
know all the songs that the seashell sings. But this babble and babel of
voices pleases me better, especially since my legs went on a strike, for
although I can't walk, you see I can still mix with the throng, so I
suffer no loss.

"In the woods, a man must be all hands and feet. I like the folks, the
plain, ignorant, unpretentious folks; and the youngsters that come and
slide on my cellar-door do not disturb me a bit. I'm different from
Carlyle--you know he had a noise-proof room where he locked himself in.
Now, when a huckster goes by, crying his wares, I open the blinds, and
often wrangle with the fellow over the price of things. But the rogues
have got into a way lately of leaving truck for me and refusing pay.
Today an Irishman passed in three quarts of berries and walked off
pretending to be mad because I offered to pay. When he was gone, I
beckoned to the babies over the way--they came over and we had a feast.

"Yes, I like the folks around here; I like the women, and I like the men,
and I like the babies, and I like the youngsters that play in the alley
and make mud pies on my steps. I expect to stay here until I die."

"You speak of death as a matter of course--you are not afraid to die?"

"Oh, no, my boy; death is as natural as life, and a deal kinder. But it
is all good--I accept it all and give thanks--you have not forgotten my
chant to death?"

"Not I!"

I repeated a few lines from "Drum-Taps."

He followed me, rapping gently with his cane on the floor, and with
little interjectory remarks of "That's so!" "V