My attention being thus called to the subject, I fell to
thinking of it the other night as I sat by the fire, Harriet not far
away rocking and sewing, and my dog sleeping on the rug near me (his
tail stirring whenever I made a motion to leave my place). And whether I
would or no my friends came trooping into my mind. I thought of our
neighbour Horace, the dryly practical and sufficient farmer, and of our
much loved Scotch Preacher; I thought of the Shy Bee-man and of his
boisterous double, the Bold Bee-man; I thought of the Old Maid, and how
she talks, for all the world like a rabbit running in a furrow (all on
the same line until you startle her out, when she slips quickly into the
next furrow and goes on running as ardently as before). And I thought of
John Starkweather, our rich man; and of the life of the girl Anna. And
it was good to think of them all living around me, not far away,
connected with me through darkness and space by a certain mysterious
human cord. (Oh, there are mysteries still left upon this scientific
earth!) As I sat there by the fire I told them over one by one,
remembering with warmth or amusement or concern this or that
characteristic thing about each of them. It was the next best thing to
hearing the tramp of feet on my porch, to seeing the door fly open
(letting in a gust of the fresh cool air!), to crying a hearty greeting,
to drawing up an easy chair to the open fire, to watching with eagerness
while my friend unwraps (exclaiming all the while of the state of the
weather: "Cold, Grayson, mighty cold!") and finally sits down beside me,
not too far away.
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