distress. I wish it would
not talk; it is always talking. That sounds like a cheap fling
at the poor creature, a slur; but I do not mean it so. I have never
heard the human voice before, and any new and strange sound
intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of these dreaming
solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note. And this new
sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at my
ear, first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only
to sounds that are more or less distant from me.

Friday

The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything I can do. I
had a very good name for the estate, and it was musical and pretty
--GARDEN-OF-EDEN. Privately, I continue to call it that, but not
any longer publicly. The new creature says it is all woods and
rocks and scenery, and therefore has no resemblance to a garden.
Says it looks like a park, and does not look like anything but a
park. Consequently, without consulting me, it has been new-named
--NIAGARA FALLS PARK. This is sufficiently high-handed, it seems to
me. And already there is a sign up:

KEEP OFF
THE GRASS

My life is not as happy as it was.

Saturday

The new creature eats too much fruit. We are going to run short,
most likely. "We" again--that is its word; mine too, now, from
hearing it so much. Good deal of fog this morning. I do not go
out in the fog myself. The new creature does. It goes out in
all weathers, and stumps right in with its muddy feet. And talks.
It used to be so pleasant and quiet here.

Sunday

Pulled through. This day is getting to be more and more trying.
It was selected and set apart last November as a day of rest. I
already had six of them per week, before. This morning found the
new creature trying to clod apples out of that forbidden tree.

Monday

The new creature says its name is Eve. That is all right, I have
no objections. Says it is to call it by when I want it to come.
I said it was superfluous, then. The word evidently raised me in
its respect; and indeed it is a large, good word, and will bear
repetition. It says it is not an It, it is a She. This is probably
doubtful; yet it is all one to me; what she is were nothing to me
if she would but go by herself and not talk.

Tuesday

She has littered the whole estate with execrable names and offensive
signs:

THIS WAY TO THE WHIRLPOOL.

THIS WAY TO GOAT ISLAND.