ot so much a history as an interpretation. It interested me at the
time and so--I wasted a week!

Life at camp was very pleasant, but as my brother wrote me that he must
return to New York I felt it my duty to go home and see that my mother
"attended" the County Fair, which was a most important event to her.
"Mother's life retains so few interests," I explained to Zulime, "that
to miss the Fair would be to her a great deprivation. You can stay here
but I must go home and take her down to the old settlers' picnic in
Floral Hall."

Zulime understood. Loyally cutting short her pleasant companionship with
her fellow artists she returned with me to West Salem a few days before
the fair opened.

Fuller, who timed his visit to be with us during the exhibition,
professed a keen interest in every department of it. His attitude was
comically that of a serious-minded European tourist. He not only
purchased a catalogue, he treated it precisely as if it were the
hand-book of the Autumn Salon in Paris. Carrying it in his hand, he
spent busy hours minutely studying "Spatter Work," and carefully
inspecting decorated bedspreads. He tasted the prize bread, sampled the
honey, and twirled the contesting apples. Nothing escaped his notice. He
was as alert, and (apparently) as vitally concerned as any of the
"judges," but I, knowing his highly-critical mind, could only smile at
his reports.

He was a constant joy, not only to Zulime and to me, but to our friends,
the Eastons. One day as we were digging potatoes he gave me a lecture on
my duty as a Wisconsin novelist. "You should do for this country what
Thomas Hardy has done for Wessex," he said. "You have made a good start
in _Main Traveled Roads_, and _Rose of Dutcher's Coolly_, but you should
do more with it. It is a noble background."

"Why not do something with it yourself?" I retorted.

"You are almost as much a part of Wisconsin as I am. I've done my part
and moved on. My keenest interests now are in the Mountain West--a
larger field. There's no use saying 'Make more of this material!' I can
only do what I feel. Just now I am full of Montana. Why don't you
celebrate Eagle's Nest? If you weren't so myopic you'd perceive in that
little artist colony something quite as literary as the life which
Hawthorne lived at Brook Farm."

"I'm no Hawthorne," he replied. "I'm not even Margaret Fuller. I don't
want to write about Camp--in fact I don't want to write about anything.
I'd rather