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Updated: May 27, 2025
His father turned involuntarily and looked into the sty. There stood all the pigs in a row, gazing after the boy, and looking as sorry as their thick skins and bony snouts would let them. Their mother rose in a ridge behind them, gazing too. Mr. Skymer always spoke of pigs as about the most intelligent animals in the world.
The little house, a two-story frame cottage, painted dark brown, is numbered 330. A small sign, in English and Italian, says: Thomas A. Skymer, Automobiles to Hire on Occasions. It was with something of a thrill that I entered the little front parlor where Walt used to sit, surrounded by his litter of papers and holding forth to faithful listeners.
Suddenly we were "clothed upon" with a house which, though it came indeed from the earth, might well have come direct from heaven: a great uprush of water spread above us a tent-like dome, through which the sun came with a cool, broken, almost frosty glitter. We seemed in the heart of a huge soap-bubble. I exclaimed with delight. "I thought you would enjoy my sun-shade!" said Mr. Skymer.
"Where did the good people who gave you their name find you?" "Sitting on my mother my own mother. The angels fell down on her, and when they went up again, she had got mixed with them, and went up too." Some people thought my friend Skymer "a little queer, you know!" I leave my reader to his own thought: he will judge after his kind. Clare's father no longer doubted his perfect faculty.
Surely to our citizens of the coming generation the battles of the Marne will be more important than the scuffle at Salamis. My errand in Camden was to visit the house on Mickle Street where Walt Whitman lived his last years. It is now occupied by Mrs. Thomas Skymer, a friendly Italian woman, and her family. Mrs. Skymer graciously allowed me to go through the downstairs rooms.
There seemed nothing, however, in his behaviour or appearance to suggest such a conclusion: a man could hardly be counted beside himself because he was on terms of friendship with his horse. It took me but a moment to recall his name Skymer one odd enough to assist the memory. I caught it ere he had done mingling fresh caresses with those of his long-tailed friend.
He is forty." "Is it possible!" "I know and can prove his age as certainly as my own. He is the son of an Arab mare and an English thoroughbred. Come here, Memnon!" The horse, who had been standing behind like a servant in waiting, put his beautiful head over his master's shoulder. "Memnon," said Mr. Skymer, "go home and tell Mrs. Waterhouse I hope to bring a gentleman with me to lunch."
He did once say to his mother, and neither of them again alluded to the matter, that he was sure the rabbit had forgiven him. "Little ones are so forgiving, you know, mother!" he added. Is it any wonder that my friend Clare Skymer should have been no sportsman? Clare and his human brothers Another anecdote of him, that has no furtherance of the story in it, I must yet tell.
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