he letter "r" gave me assurance that I was approaching my
native place. The reapers at work in the fields filled my mind with
visions of the past. The very weeds at the roadside had a magical appeal
and yet, eager as I was to reach old friends, I found in Chicago a new
friend whose sympathy was so stimulating, so helpful that I delayed my
journey for two days in order that I might profit by his critical
comment.

This meeting came about in a literary way. Some months earlier, in May,
to be exact, Hurd of the _Transcript_ had placed in my hands a novel
called _Zury_ and my review of it had drawn from its author, a western
man, a letter of thanks and a cordial invitation to visit him as I
passed through Chicago, on my way to my old home. This I had gladly
accepted, and now with keen interest, I was on my way to his home.

Joseph Kirkland was at this time nearly sixty years of age, a small,
alert, dark-eyed man, a lawyer, who lived in what seemed to me at the
time, plutocratic grandeur, but in spite of all this, and
notwithstanding the difference in our ages, I liked him and we formed an
immediate friendship. "Mrs. Kirkland and my daughters are in Michigan
for the summer," he explained, "and I am camping in my study." I was
rather glad of this arrangement for, having the house entirely to
ourselves, we could discuss realism, Howells and the land-question with
full vigor and all night if we felt like it.

Kirkland had read some of my western sketches and in the midst of his
praise of them suddenly asked, "Why don't you write fiction?"

To this I replied, "I can't manage the dialogue."

"Nonsense!" said he. "You're lazy, that's all. You use the narrative
form because it's easier. Buckle to it--you can write stories as well as
I can--but you must sweat!"

This so surprised me that I was unable to make any denial of his charge.
The fact is he was right. To compose a page of conversation, wherein
each actor uses his own accent and speaks from his own point of view,
was not easy. I had dodged the hard spots.

The older man's bluntness and humor, and his almost wistful appreciation
of my youth and capacity for being moved, troubled me, absorbed my mind
even during our talk. Some of his words stuck like burrs, because they
seemed so absurd. "When your name is known all over the West," he said
in parting, "remember what I say. You can go far if you'll only work. I
began too late. I can't emotionalize present day western life