CHAPTER I 



Confessions of a Naturalist 



JLO USE a witty simile of William Morton Wheeler's 

 in a sense in which he did not use it, I may say that in the 

 home I am a poor Peruna-soaked Methodist, but in the 

 Museum I am a High Church port-wine-drinking Epis- 

 copalian. I came to Boston a little too late in life really to 

 enjoy the iteration and reiteration of Back Bay society gos- 

 sip. I am inclined to creep off by myself when Vincent 

 Club politics hold the floor. To be sure, I supply a presi- 

 dent and vice-president to the Club. These are daughters 

 whom I see occasionally at eventide. I am old-fashioned and 

 eat my breakfast early; also, I have insomnia and go to bed 

 early. My more socially-minded housemates arise for a cup 

 of black coffee and a cigarette, timed so as not to spoil the 

 appetite for luncheon. (I'll confess this was written before 

 the war changed many habits.) 



I recall once taking a distinguished Southern Bishop of 

 my Church to a meeting of the Saturday Club. As we 

 walked away, he said, "The talk at that table has canceled 

 out an awful lot of banality." I have also enjoyed the 

 Wednesday Evening Club and the Wintersnight. Being 

 the only male in a household composed of singularly mas- 

 terful women, I have, for the sake of peace, apologized 

 and confessed to about everything from mayhem to men- 

 dacity—perhaps most often to intemperance. My trans- 

 gressions along the latter line, however, have been pitifully 



