DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0256
2o4 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE
distinguished people. Although not being very strong my-
self, and my husband being a worker, our life had seemed
to us very quiet and busy. Among them were Joseph H.
Choate, Lord Reading, Edith Wharton, Henry James,
Zangwill, Hobson, John Burroughs, Paul Manship, and
all the other American artists who were, of course, our
friends. I remember one day I remarked to Mr. French
that I had been to see Mrs. Henry Fairfield Osborn, and
that she had told me a wonderful story about having a
dinner, with Peary on her right and Amundsen on her left.
‘Shouldn’t you think she would have been excited?’
‘I should indeed,’ said Mr. French. ‘I should think she
would have felt like the Equator.’
Abbott Thayer’s and my husband’s mutual friend Wil-
liam Brewster, the ornithologist, spent long weeks at our
house, almost living in the woods, and educating the
young people as to the birds and the trees and the flowers.
He and Mr. French had begun their career in bird-lore as
little boys together, at that time more attractive than art
or book-learning of any kind. It had been somewhat of a
disappointment to Mr. French’s family that their son Dan
had shown no interest in college, living in the shadow of
college towns and of learning. He had cared nothing about
studying of any kind or about anything outside of his
home except to get away to the outdoor life, to collect
birds and to stuff them, an art in which his father had
given the two boys lessons.
One night we were sitting on the porch listening to the
alluring calls of Natuije when we heard the hooting of an
owl upon the hill back of the studio. Mr. Brewster said,
‘Wait a minute, and we’ll call him down.’ He stepped out
distinguished people. Although not being very strong my-
self, and my husband being a worker, our life had seemed
to us very quiet and busy. Among them were Joseph H.
Choate, Lord Reading, Edith Wharton, Henry James,
Zangwill, Hobson, John Burroughs, Paul Manship, and
all the other American artists who were, of course, our
friends. I remember one day I remarked to Mr. French
that I had been to see Mrs. Henry Fairfield Osborn, and
that she had told me a wonderful story about having a
dinner, with Peary on her right and Amundsen on her left.
‘Shouldn’t you think she would have been excited?’
‘I should indeed,’ said Mr. French. ‘I should think she
would have felt like the Equator.’
Abbott Thayer’s and my husband’s mutual friend Wil-
liam Brewster, the ornithologist, spent long weeks at our
house, almost living in the woods, and educating the
young people as to the birds and the trees and the flowers.
He and Mr. French had begun their career in bird-lore as
little boys together, at that time more attractive than art
or book-learning of any kind. It had been somewhat of a
disappointment to Mr. French’s family that their son Dan
had shown no interest in college, living in the shadow of
college towns and of learning. He had cared nothing about
studying of any kind or about anything outside of his
home except to get away to the outdoor life, to collect
birds and to stuff them, an art in which his father had
given the two boys lessons.
One night we were sitting on the porch listening to the
alluring calls of Natuije when we heard the hooting of an
owl upon the hill back of the studio. Mr. Brewster said,
‘Wait a minute, and we’ll call him down.’ He stepped out