eresting afternoons when, dropping his pen, he plunged into
music as a strong confident swimmer plunges into the stream which
he especially loves, interpreting with warm feeling Mendelssohn and
Beethoven, wandering unlost in the vocal labyrinths of Dvorak and
Wagner, but never happier than when interpreting the emotions of
simple folk-songs, or some noble Shakespearian lyrics like "Who
is Sylvia, what is she, that all the swains commend her?" Music
stimulated him to vivacity and in the pauses would come outbursts of
abandon. One day the pet dog of a daughter of mine ensconced himself
unawares under the sofa and was disrespectfully napping while
John Fiske sang. In a pause the philosopher broke into an animated
declamation over some matter while standing near the sofa, whereat
the pug thinking himself challenged tore out to the front with sudden
violent barks. The two confronted each other, the pug frantically
vindicating his dignity while the philosopher on his side fixing his
eye upon the interrupter declaimed and gesticulated. As to volubility
and sonorousness they stood about equal. I am bound to say the pug
prevailed. John Fiske retired in discomfiture while the pug was
carried off in triumph in the arms of his little mistress. He had
fairly barked the great man down. I once shared with him the misery
of being a butt. In St. Louis in those days the symposium was held in
honour, and particularly N.O. Nelson, the well-known profit-sharing
captain of industry, was the entertainer of select groups whose
geniality was stimulated by modest potations of Anheuser-Bush, in St.
Louis always the Castor and Pollux in every convivial firmament.
Such a symposium was once held in special honour of Dr. Edward Waldo
Emerson, a transient visitor. "Dr. Emerson," said a guest, "in the
diary of your father just edited by you occurs a passage which needs
illumination. 'Edward and I tried this morning for three quarters of
an hour to get the calf into the barn without success. The Irish girl
stuck her finger into his mouth and got the calf in in two minutes.
I like folks that can do things.' Now," said the guest, "we all know
what became of Emerson, we all know what became of Edward, for you are
here to-night, but what became of the Irish girl and the calf?" Dr.
Emerson laughingly explained the probable fate of the girl and the
calf, and in the hilarity that followed, the question arose as to why
the Irish girl's finger had been so persuas