Turning over for my pencil, which I ever keep, together with a writing
pad, at my bedside, to catch the fleeting poetic inspiration, I indited
a sonnet to Baxter (all copies of which I have unfortunately lost or I
would give it here) in which I sang his praises as a great man of the
same rank as Rousseau and Shelley.
In spite of the fact that I was fully aware of all his absurdities and
peccadilloes, the true greatness of the man remained, and still remains,
undimmed in my mind.
* * * * *
High day. I walked along the path, past the little house where Baxter
sequestered himself when he wished to be alone to think or write; it was
close to my tent, around a corner of trees. I tiptoed religiously by it,
went on up to the big house where the three women slept, as if drawn to
their abode by a sort of heliotropism.
The whole house stood in quiet, the embodiment of slumber.
* * * * *
A lank, flat-chested woman came up the path from the opposite direction
... dressed drab in one long, undistinguished gown like a Hicksite or
Quaker, without the hood ... her head was bare ... her fine, brown hair
plaited flat.
"Good morning!"
"Good morning," she replied, a query in her voice.
"I am John Gregory, the poet," I explained. "I arrived yesterday on a
visit to the Baxters.
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