our pleasantest book-acquaintances, inter- 

 esting for the very reasons given by the 

 "scientists" of to-day for not liking him. 



For my part, frankly, I dote upon him, 

 because he liked birds in a sensible and 

 natural way, which led him to write about 

 them with enthusiasm as beings of beauty 

 worthy of a good deal of poetry. What- 

 ever may be his merits or demerits as a 

 general naturalist, and however open to 

 criticism this or that dry-as-dust specialist 

 may find him, I select from his works the 

 nine volumes devoted to birds, and ask 

 nobody for advice while I enjoy them. 



The comic part of science appears when 

 the professor of our day trembles at 

 sight of a well-turned phrase. An Indian 

 out West would have a good name for 

 Professor Dry-as-Dust; he would dub him 

 " Old-Man-Afraid-of-his- Imagination.*' 

 As for Buffon, he was a well-rounded man, 

 both physically and intellectually, robust 

 enough to be independent, and natural 

 enough to regard his imagination with 

 simple favor. Nor did the poetry in him 

 shorten his life ; he died at eighty-one, 

 119 



