At last the time came when there was nothing left but the Oxford books of English and French verse. The one of English verse he had always disliked. He said that if there were to be any American poetry included, it should be at any rate a good selection. The choice from Longfellow’s poems appealed to him as particularly poor, and I think that it was for this reason that he disapproved of the whole collection. Be that as it may, I realized how hard up for something to read father must be when he asked me for my Oxford book of English verse. For French verse father had never cared. He said it didn’t sing sufficiently. “The Song of Roland” was the one exception he granted. It was, therefore, a still greater proof of distress when he borrowed the Oxford book of French verse. He always loved to tell afterward that when he first borrowed it he started criticising and I had threatened to take it away if he continued to assail my favorites. In spite of all this he found it infinitely preferable to _Epictetus_ and _Marcus Aurelius_, and, indeed, became very fond of some of the selections. Villon and Ronsard particularly interested him.
When riding along through the wilderness father would often repeat poetry to himself. To learn a poem he had only to read it through a few times, and he seemed never to forget it. Sometimes we would repeat the poem together. It might be parts of the “Saga of King Olaf,” or Kipling’s “Rhyme of the Three Sealers,” or “Grave of a Hundred Head,” or, perhaps, “The Bell Buoy”--or again it might be something from Swinburne or Shelley or Keats--or the “Ballad of Judas Iscariot.” He was above all fond of the poetry of the open, and I think we children got much of our love for the outdoor life, not only from actual example, but from the poetry that father taught us.
There was an indissoluble bond between him and any of his old hunting companions, and in no matter what part of the world he met them, all else was temporarily forgotten in the eager exchange of reminiscences of old days. On the return from Africa, Seth Bullock, of Deadwood, met us in London. How delighted father was to see him, and how he enjoyed the captain’s comments on England and things English! One of the captain’s first remarks on reaching London was to the effect that he was so glad to see father that he felt like hanging his hat on the dome of Saint Paul’s and shooting it off. We were reminded of Artemus Ward’s classic reply to the guard who found him tapping, with his cane, an inscription in Westminster Abbey: “Come, come, sir, you mustn’t do that. It isn’t permitted, you know!” Whereupon Artemus Ward turned upon him: “What, mustn’t do it? If I like it, I’ll buy it!” It was never difficult to trail the captain. When my sister and I were going through Edinburgh Castle, the local guide showed us an ancient gun, firing a cluster of five or six barrels. With great amusement he told us how an American to whom he was showing the piece a few days previously had remarked that to be shot at with that gun must be like taking a shower-bath. A few questions served to justify the conclusion we had immediately formed as to the identity of our predecessor. Father had him invited to the dinner given by the donors of the Holland & Holland elephant rifle.