eeling
no surprise when, one morning, Hindlegs was found dead. After so many
years, I will not bring against the owner of Hindlegs a verdict of
positive guilt; but I suspect him. Hindlegs, at all events, achieved
an immortality which can belong to few of his brethren; for my father,
after pooh-poohing the imbecile little bundle of fur for a day or two,
conceived an involuntary affection for him, and reported his character
and habits in his journal in a manner which is likely to keep his memory
alive long after the hand that (perhaps) slew him is dust.

In default of dogs and Hindlegs, we had abundant cats. My father was
always fond of these mysterious deities of ancient Egypt, and they were
never turned away from our doors; but how so many of them happened
to find us out in this remote region I cannot explain. It seems as if
goodwill towards cats spontaneously generated them. They appeared, one
after another, to the number of five; but when the time came for us to
leave the red house forever, the cats would not and could not be packed
up, and they were left behind. In my mind's eye I still see them,
squatting abreast, silhouetted against the sky, on the brow of the hill
as we drove down the road; for they had scampered after our carry-all
when we drove away. Cats teach Americans what they are slow to
learn--the sanctity and permanence of home.

But Lenox could not be a home for us. It was, indeed, a paradise for
the children; but the children's father was never well there. He had a
succession of colds--as those affections are called; it was ascribed to
the variations of temperature during the summers; but the temperature
would not have troubled him had he not been hard hit before he went
to Berkshire. He got out of patience with the climate, and was wont
to anathematize it with humorous extravagance, as his way was: "It is
horrible. One knows not for ten minutes together whether he is too cool
or too warm. I detest it! I hate Berkshire with my whole soul. Here,
where I had hoped for perfect health, I have for the first time been
made sensible that I cannot with impunity encounter nature in all her
moods." It was the summers that disagreed with him. "Upon the whole,"
he said, "I think that the best time for living in the country is the
winter." It was during the winter that he did most of his writing. The
House of the Seven Gables was written between September of 1850 and
January or February of 1851.

But composition