n
the estate, I think. The new creature calls it Niagara Falls--why, I
am sure I do not know. Says it LOOKS like Niagara Falls. That is not a
reason, it is mere waywardness and imbecility. I get no chance to name
anything myself. The new creature names everything that comes along,
before I can get in a protest. And always that same pretext is
offered--it LOOKS like the thing. There is a dodo, for instance. Says
the moment one looks at it one sees at a glance that it "looks like a
dodo." It will have to keep that name, no doubt. It wearies me to fret
about it, and it does no good, anyway. Dodo! It looks no more like a
dodo than I do.

WEDNESDAY.--Built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have it
to myself in peace. The new creature intruded. When I tried to put it
out it shed water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it away with
the back of its paws, and made a noise such as some of the other animals
make when they are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is always
talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at the poor creature, a slur;
but I do not mean it so. I have never heard the human voice before, and
any new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of
these dreaming solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note. And this
new sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my
ear, first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only to
sounds that are more or less distant from me.

FRIDAY. The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do.
I had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and
pretty--GARDEN OF EDEN. Privately, I continue to call it that, but not
any longer publicly. The new creature says it is all woods and rocks
and scenery, and therefore has no resemblance to a garden. Says it LOOKS
like a park, and does not look like anything BUT a park. Consequently,
without consulting me, it has been new-named NIAGARA FALLS PARK. This
is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to me. And already there is a sign
up:

KEEP OFF

THE GRASS

My life is not as happy as it was.

SATURDAY.--The new creature eats too much fruit. We are going to run
short, most likely. "We" again--that is ITS word; mine, too, now, from
hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this morning. I do not go out in
the fog myself. This new creature does. It goes out in all weathers,
and stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks. It used to be so
pleasant