262 AUDUBON, THE NATURALIST 



The books are to be found in New York and Philadelphia, 

 but are expensive. I would not have you buy them ; but could 

 you not copy for me such articles as we need? 



I enclose my plan. I wish always, a month before the time, 

 that you would give me notice of the species you intend to put 

 into the hands of the engraver, and send me, at the same 

 time, the specimen. I cannot describe without it ; I will guess at 

 nothing. 



I find the labor greater than I expected, and fear that I 

 may break down and, therefore, cry in time, "Help me Cas- 

 sius or I sink!" Writing descriptions is slow and fatiguing 

 work. I cannot, in the careful manner that I am doing them 

 write more than three in a week. My son-in-law, Haskell, has 

 copied forty-two closely written pages for me. I cannot 

 shorten the articles, many of them I ought rather to lengthen. 

 With patience and the help of all, I hope, however, to get on 

 the work may be lighter as we proceed. 



The following is my daily practice: I am up at 4 A. M., 

 and work till breakfast, and recently, when parochial duties 

 would permit, have kept on until 3 P. M. 



The brush of my old friend, Audubon, is a truth-teller. I 

 regard his drawings as the best in the world. Let us be very 

 careful to correct any errors of description that have crept in 

 on the plates I see a few in the lettering they can be cor- 

 rected in the letter-press ; and let us be so cautious as to have 

 nothing in the future to correct. There is but one principle 

 on which a just man can act; that is, always to seek the truth 

 and to abide by it. 



Bachman wrote again on the 29th of that month: 



About the little mouse I cannot see a needle in a haystack ; 

 or give it a name without knowing what it is. Friend, descrip- 

 tions cannot be written, as a man works at making Jews-harps 

 so many a dozen in a given time. My credit, as well as your 

 father's, is so deeply concerned, that / mil not publish a day 

 before I am ready. . . . 



