"When it is too late"--how he understood, how broad were his sympathies! What anguish those words must cost all of us at some time! Father understood, I did not--and now it is too late. West Park, N. Y., Nov. 7, 1897. MY DEAR JULIAN, If you will look westward now across New England about seven o'clock in the evening you will see a light again in my study window--a dim light there on the bank of the great river--dim even to the eye of faith. If your eye is sharp enough you will see me sitting there by my lamp, nibbling at books or papers or dozing in my chair wrapped in deep meditation. If you could penetrate my mind you would see that I am often thinking of you and wondering how your life is going there at Harvard and what the future has in store for you. I found my path from the study grass grown, nearly obliterated. It made me sad. Soon, soon, I said, all the paths I have made in this world will be overgrown and neglected. I hope you may keep some of them open. The paths I have made in literature, I hope you may keep open and make others of your own. Your affectionate father, J. B. It was always a source of disappointment to Father that I did not write more, that I could not carry on his work--but this was more than he should have expected. He was an essayist, fired with a literary ambition that never faltered or grew dim for over sixty years. Once I wrote a brief introduction to a hunting story that won a prize in a sporting journal and I can never forget how pleased Father was with it--"It filled me with emotion," he said, "it brought tears to my eyes--write a whole piece like that and I'll send it to the _Atlantic_."