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Coming On Strong
JUNIPER FALLS SERIES
KELSIE CALLOWAY
Copyright © 2022 Kelsie Calloway
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from
the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact
Kelsie Calloway at kelsiecalloway@gmail.com.
Exceptions: Reviewers may quote brief passages for reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 Contents

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1. Amaia
2. Nash
3. Amaia
4. Nash
5. Amaia
6. Nash
7. Amaia
8. Nash
9. Amaia
10. Nash
11. Amaia
12. Nash
13. Amaia
14. Nash
15. Amaia
Epilogue
Also By Kelsie Calloway
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Chapter 1
 Amaia

T here are seven things on my desk that have to be completed

before noon. I’m late for a meeting that started at 9:30 and I
plan to skip my ten o’clock. There are a dozen emails sitting in my
inbox that are begging to be read, none of which I will get to today.
Two interns stand anxiously outside of my door bobbing up and
down on the tips of their toes wondering how they can help me. My
assistant is pounding her third cup of coffee and trying not to lose
her mind. The morning is chugging along chaotically.
But while the entire office hinges on whether or not I’ll get off
my ass and make it to my meetings and finish my tasks, my door is
shut and I’m pacing across the floor in patent black leather stilettos
wearing a hole in the rug.
“No, Benning,” I wring my hands together for what feels like the
millionth time, “explain it again.” If this were a DC problem, I’d have
a stack of paperwork in front of me outlining everything from the
first complaint to the final injunction. I could peruse it at my leisure
in front of my electric fireplace with a bottle of wine and my reading
glasses. I wouldn’t be asking my younger brother to go over the
details; I’d have them all in front of me.
Benning huffs angrily on the other end of the phone. “Amaia, are
you even listening to me?” He has the audacity to raise his voice at
me as though he’s not the one calling me first thing on a Monday
begging for help. “I’ve told you the story three times now.”
 I bend my nail back so far it snaps right off. A frisson of pain
shoots through my body as air races across the newly bared skin.
The Lord is testing me. I’ve never taken an anger management class
a day in my life, but I know the key to not blowing your top is deep
breaths and reminding yourself that murder results in a life
sentence. “I’m trying to find legal precedence to stop this,” I reply
through gritted teeth. “God forbid I only listen to the story once,
miss something, and then the shelter shuts down because I didn’t
have all the facts.”
He sarcastically asks, “Why don’t I just write it all down for you
then?” Benning doesn’t miss a beat.
That would be more helpful, honestly. But I love my brother, so I
don’t say that. Sometimes when you love people, you don’t say the
unpleasant things that will hurt their feelings even if they’re driving
you nuts. “Tell me one more time, Benning, please.” I try to inject a
little more concern into my tone so that he knows I care. And I do,
but this call has thrown me into work mode. My business brain is
turned on and the empathy sector is smaller, making more room for
getting the job done.
I can almost hear Benning roll his eyes. “James Bishop has been
running the numbers on the animal shelter for the last few months.
As it turns out, his family owns the land and the property. Since the
animal shelter is a non-profit and largely dependent upon donations
to make their rent, he is raising the rent and requesting that they
pay the next five years in advance due to several late and missed
payments.”
It’s ridiculous and exorbitant. It has to be illegal. “And proper
notice was given?” I know it was; he’s told me three times already.
“He gave them three months’ notice before their lease expired.
The Director tried to fight it, but he followed the law. They’ve failed
to pay their rent on time on more than one occasion. For James, it’s
a concern that if he isn’t paid in advance, due to their decrease in
donations over the years, he could be stuck footing the bill for their
usage for months while going through the proper eviction channels.”
Benning’s tone turns to soured milk.
 I can’t get over James Bishop’s downright evil streak. He’s going
to evict a bunch of animals because he’s not making any money?
Boo-freaking-hoo. “Who peed in James’ Cheerios, Ben? Seriously.
Why’s he doing this?” There’s a telling sigh that makes my heart
drop and I know that whatever comes next, I’m not going to like it.
Benning has always been the more sensitive of the Daulton
siblings. One look at his face or casually watching his body language
and you’ll know immediately what he’s thinking. “We all know that
Aspen has been looking for a building for her art museum for God
knows how long,” he starts. “Well, a few weeks ago she called James
and bitched him out. He’s been taking a very conservative role
helping her, right? He’s been showing her a lot of crap, he keeps
telling her she can’t afford the good places, basically, he’s been very
James Bishop about it. You know that he’s always had feelings about
us Daultons. His family is rich, but God forbid our family has a little
money too.”
Not this old rivalry again. Nobody ever compares the Daulton and
the Bishop family except James. He’s the only one who thinks there’s
a competition between the two of us. “He’s going to give Aspen the
animal shelter,” I deadpan. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that
James is cashing in his debts and making new enemies for the sole
purpose of revenge. “Does she know?”
“He told her that he’s got the perfect place for her on Main
Street. It wasn’t until we heard that the animal shelter had a month
left on their lease before he kicked them out that we realized what
he was doing.” Benning makes a few groaning sounds and shifts on
what sounds like the leather seat of his truck. “If Aspen takes the
animal shelter, people are going to hate her, Amaia. If we can’t stop
this, all of Juniper Falls is going to hate us. What are we going to
do?”
There’s a knock on my office door and my assistant pokes her
head around to peer at me through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. I
wave her away and glance at the clock. The big hand is sitting
prominently on the three, a reminder that my 10:30 meeting is
approaching quickly. Do I risk skipping a third meeting this morning?
“Okay, listen carefully because this is going to be quick.”
 The leather squeaks as Benning sits at full attention. “You’ve got
a plan?”
I don’t have a plan, per se, but there’s something brewing
beneath the surface. “I’m coming to the mountain. Not today,” I
have about a dozen people to apologize to and a hundred things to
parcel off to the staff in my absence, “but Wednesday, probably. Tell
James I want to talk to him first thing Wednesday morning. I want
an 8:00 am meeting. I don’t care if it’s at his kitchen table,
Eleanor’s, or on the porch of the damn animal shelter; I want to see
him.”
Benning claps his hands together and I hear a giddy little chuckle
escape his lips; he sure does wear his heart on his sleeve. “Mai,
you’re really coming to Juniper?”
A smile tugs at my lips and I check my watch impatiently. It’s
been a while since I’ve been to the Falls. Two, maybe three years, if
I remember correctly. My job keeps me busy and as much I love my
siblings, I don’t have time to travel back and forth for the holidays.
Capitol Hill might shut down, but the world’s environmental problems
don’t. “I guess I am, Benny boy. Listen, don’t tell Broderick or
Aspen. I don’t know if I’ll have time to—”
“Oh,” he cuts me off, “shit.”
I pause in my pacing and glare at the phone even though
Benning can’t see me. “You already told them,” I accuse.
If he were standing in front of me right now, he’d be wearing a
guilty grin. “Come on, Mai. It’s been too long. They’re going to want
to see you, even if it’s only for dinner,” Benning begs.
I guess I wouldn’t go all the way back to Juniper Falls without
seeing my family. It’s not like I wouldn’t stay overnight anyway. I
guess I can begrudgingly accept that the group text is going to blow
up now that the three of them know I’m returning. “Fine. But this is
a business trip, Benning,” I remind him sternly, “I’m coming to
Juniper Falls on business only. I’m going to save the animal shelter
and then I’ve got to get back to D.C. As it is, I’m already three days
behind just from taking your call this morning.” That’s an
exaggeration, but there’s no harm in playing the sympathy card.
“You work too hard, Amaia.”
 Maybe that’s true. I haven’t had a vacation since the last time I
went to Juniper Falls. Maybe this is exactly what I need.
“Whatever,” I shrug off his sentiments, “I’ll see you in a couple of
days. And you tell that prick, James Bishop, that I’m coming.” I want
him to be afraid. If he thinks it’s a competition between the Daultons
and the Bishops, I’ll give him exactly that.
Chapter 2
 Nash

I don’t sit in parking lots with a radar gun waiting for people to
break the law. In a sleepy little town like Juniper Falls, some days
I don’t even get in my patrol car. It helps me save on gas and I get
my daily steps in for the day. My doctor says walking around town
keeps my heart healthy and my body in peak physical condition.
After a scare with my heart a few years ago, my health is of the
utmost importance to me. I wonder what my doctor would say when
I tell him I almost got run over.
I was in the middle of an empty intersection when a blue Sedan
came barreling around a corner. If my knees had been giving me
trouble, who knows if I’d have been able to jump out of the way in
time. As it was, I skinned up my arms quite a bit and my uniform
looks like it’s going to need some patching.
A teary-eyed Savannah McIntyre leans against the driver’s side
door of her car mumbling gibberish at me. After coming around a
corner at what seemed like the speed of light and missing me by a
mere few inches, you’d think I’d be the one entitled to a mental
breakdown. But somehow I’m doing just fine compared to the poor
little blonde in front of me.
If I listen hard enough, I can just barely make out a few words
that sound like ‘bad day’ and ‘what will the church say?’ I want to
tell her that it’s a little speeding and possibly a reckless driving
charge. It’s not she drove through the middle of the St. Patrick’s Day
parade while drunk. “Savannah, could you take a few deep breaths
for me, please?” I ask politely. “I’m going to need you to calm
down.”
I like Savannah. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve seen her
around town. She’s a little younger than me and quite pretty.
Somehow she’s attached to the World’s Biggest Asshole, but I don’t
hold that against her. I’ve never seen James Bishop raise his voice
around Savannah, let alone his fists. I think if she were being
mistreated, she’d get herself out of a situation like that.
Savannah wipes away a fistful of tears and with it comes a few
streaks of mascara across her porcelain skin. She looks up at me
with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen and says, “Sheriff, you have to
know what he’s doing.” She says it in a stage whisper. If anyone
were walking by, they’d be able to hear her with uncharacteristic
clarity. “Everybody’s talking, especially at the church. I just feel so
overwhelmed. I had to get away.”
When she takes the time to breathe and explain it to me, I get it.
At least a little bit. Savannah is engaged to the town villain. James
didn’t start out that way, but he’s slowly morphed into it over time. I
hear that he was obnoxious in school and as he’s gotten older, his
mean streak has gotten longer. There was also an incident where he
was caught dating two women at once, or at least that’s what I
heard. I don’t know about the validity of those rumors, but the
gossip at the diner was in full force when the story came out. “Have
you talked to James about it? Maybe you could—”
She abruptly shakes her head no and shuts me down before I
can finish my sentence. “He won’t listen to me, Sheriff. He loves me,
but he says I don’t understand finances and stuff.”
“Aren’t you the Business Administrator at the church?” That job
has to entail handling the finances of the church operations, right?
Savannah nods miserably. “And I teach a Sunday school class,
but James says—”
I don’t bother to listen to how that sentence ends. I grab my
ticket book out of my back pocket and start writing Savannah up. I
feel for her plight, but nobody is forcing her to stay with James. She
can leave him any time she wants. If this bothers her that much—as
it should, because his actions in this forced closure of the animal
shelter are, frankly, heinous—then she should speak up or leave him.
“I’m just going to ticket you for speeding. Okay? Going 45 in a 30.
Nothing too crazy.” It’s a cheaper fine than what she deserves, but I
take it easy on her because she’s going through so much.
Savannah sniffles a little bit, but eventually, nods that she
understands. “Thanks for listening, Sheriff. I know you don’t have to,
but you’re being very understanding.”
I wish that I could shake her and tell her that I don’t understand,
but as an officer of the law, I do what I can. Which is to write her a
ticket and tell her to drive safely. “I’m serious, Savannah. Head
home, maybe go for a walk or something. Walking always clears my
head.”
She shoves the ticket into her purse and keeps staring wistfully
down the road she just came from. “You don’t think the church is
going to be upset, right? When they see my name in the Juniper
Falls Press?”
Every day a reporter calls the police station to ask about the
previous day’s arrests and citations. They publish the information in
the afternoon paper with the name of the person, the address where
the crime took place, and information about the type of law broken.
Crimes with underage offenders or victims are reported but never
named. Sexual crimes are the same way. It keeps the public
informed about what’s going on in Juniper Falls. There is no doubt in
my mind that Savannah’s name will be emblazoned on tomorrow’s
short list of citations.
“I wouldn’t be too worried about it. Everybody gets speeding
tickets. The pastor got one a couple of years ago, I think,” I try to
console her. I don’t actually remember if the pastor got a speeding
ticket last year, but if it makes her feel better. To me, a little white lie
never hurt anyone. Besides, everybody gets speeding tickets is the
truth. It’s far from the most scandalous crime she could commit.
But Savannah’s thumbnail is already embedded between her
teeth. She chews anxiously while digesting the lie. “It’s not a big
deal,” she repeats quietly to herself.
She must be going through a lot if this is a big concern for her.
There might be chatter around town for a couple of days, but that
would happen to anyone.
With a quick little wave, Savannah departs at a much slower pace
than when she found me. I watch her go with a pang of sympathy
for her. Then I continue on my way down Main Street, this time
heading for the animal shelter.
I don’t need to check up on them, but seeing Savannah reminds
me to make sure that all the helpers are doing alright and that
everybody is staying calm in this tumultuous time. I have an
annoying little sister who happens to be the Director of the place
and I know this is hitting her hard especially. I might as well remind
her for the fiftieth time that she can’t castrate James if he shows up
on the property.
The animal shelter is quite a walk from where I’m currently at,
but the fresh air will do me some good. When winter comes around,
I won’t get to be out here as much. It’s harder to walk the streets
when they’re icy and covered in snow.
Chapter 3
 Amaia

A tIt’sthelikeassdriving
crack of dawn, I start my ascent of Wolf Head Mountain.
back in time.
I spent my entire childhood trying to escape the mountain. My
mom said I came out of the womb with track shoes on and the
endless determination to see the backside of Colorado. It wasn’t
until I was out in the real world that I missed the comforts of home.
People didn’t care about you in DC like they did in Juniper Falls.
On the Hill, they cared if you made a faux pas or a mistake. In
Juniper, they might have loved gossiping about the trouble you got
yourself into, but they picked you up off the ground and dusted you
off. Your office in DC might call itself a family, but in the Falls, you
really were a family.
I climbed off my red-eye a couple of hours ago and walked
straight to the car rental desk. Armed with a credit card and the
inherent desire to save a small piece of my hometown, I asked for
the largest SUV they could give me. It became my dressing room,
my vanity, and finally, my vehicle.
I changed out of sweats and an oversized t-shirt into a blazer
and a skirt that would scare the shit out of a small town jerk like
James Bishop. Or at least I hoped they would. I wore high heels like
armor and red lipstick like war paint. All with the hope that he’d take
one look at me and crap his pants. The Daultons had called in the
big guns; they brought in the big city politician. If my reputation
wasn’t enough, my thorough ass-kicking would finish the job.
 The clock shows 7:32 when I arrive in Juniper Falls. The town is
bustling as people head off to work and get their kids to school.
With a few minutes to spare before my meeting with James at the
animal shelter, I swing by the coffee shop to grab a latte.
I check my phone briefly only to see a dozen messages from my
siblings. Broderick says he’s coming into town at nine whether I’m
finished with my meeting or not. He asks if he should bring
Anneliese and there’s a flurry of responses about whether that will
help or hurt my case with James.
I remember Aspen telling us how James treated that girl before
she found Broderick and it makes my blood boil. Has this man
always been a tool or was that just something he grew into?
I type a quick text back before heading inside to grab my coffee.
Bring her. All’s fair in love and war.
James Bishop is already playing the game with an unfair
advantage. The least I can do is pull an ace out of my sleeve and
see if that evens up the score.
The Roasterie was Juniper’s attempt at a chain coffee shop, but
they failed up. Instead of charging minimum wage for a cup of
mediocre coffee, they charge you $2 for the best cup you’ll ever
have. When I walk through the doors, I’m hit straight in the face
with the scent of freshly ground Italian coffee beans. My stomach
turns over and I think that this is what being in love must feel like.
My whole body constricts and I close my eyes like I’m about to
orgasm on the spot.
“I come here five days a week and I still feel like that every time
I walk through the doors,” someone comments quietly behind me.
When I was younger, I scared easily. Someone walking into a
room too quietly would send me shooting off the couch into a
fighting stance. Being in DC didn’t help because you never know
when someone’s going to have an issue with your politics, see you
on the street, and decide to mug you. It’s not an often occurrence
by any means, but it happened to one of the women I was an intern
for my first month there and I’ve been terrified ever since.
But being back in Juniper Falls gives me a sense of peace.
Surrounded by all the usual sounds of a coffee shop helps. I don’t
jump when he talks, I just open my eyes and toss a smile over my
shoulder at the stranger. “So you can imagine how I feel after not
being here for a few years.”
The man is wearing a green and white plaid shirt tucked into a
pair of blue jeans. His eyes twinkle and I see a few sprouts of gray
in his neatly trimmed beard. “A few years? That’s criminal,” he winks.
I turn my body toward him. “I guess you’re just going to have to
make a citizen’s arrest then.” He’s very handsome. The longer I look
at him, the more familiar his face becomes.
“It’s a shame I have somewhere to be soon,” he responds
flirtatiously. “I’d like to see you in handcuffs.”
I’m not celibate by any means. I’ve chosen for almost twenty
years to put my career first, but I didn’t forgo having sex. I put aside
dating for a while and I sloughed off a few marriage proposals, but I
believe in a woman’s right to have sex with any man she wants. And
looking at this stranger, I see a man I wouldn’t mind adding to my
tally. “Amaia Daulton,” I introduce myself with a shove of my hand in
his direction.
Surprise lights up his face and the corner of his mouth twitches.
He takes my hand in his and shakes firmly. “Would you believe that
we’re going to wind up together?”
His question catches me off guard and my cheeks pinken. I can’t
say that nobody’s ever spoken to me like that, but usually, it’s after
dating for a while first. “Excuse me?”
The handsome stranger smiles but doesn’t release my hand. “At
eight,” he clarifies. “James Bishop called me a couple of days ago
and said that he received a threatening phone call from an Amaia
Daulton demanding to see him regarding his dispute with the animal
shelter. He asked that I be there for mediation. However, it’s my day
off. So I told him I’d swing by for a few minutes to make sure that
this Amaia Daulton character didn’t do anything nefarious.”
If it’s unladylike to snort, then don’t call me a lady. “What a
baby,” are the first words out of my mouth before I can stop them. I
realize instantly that I’ve shown my hand and I pull back. “I mean,” I
clear my throat, “I have respect for the Bishop family as a whole,
but I find what James Bishop is doing repulsive. Quite honestly, I’m
not sure what stake you have in this or why he called you, but your
support is kind of a kick in the balls to the people of Juniper Falls.” I
pull my hand out of his and place it on my hip, shooting him an
accusing stare as if asking what he has to say for himself.
“Ms. Daulton,” he stifles a laugh, “I’m Sheriff Nash Dickerson and
I assure you that I do not support what’s happening with the animal
shelter. In fact, I have a vested interest in the future of the business
because I know the Director on a very personal level.”
Great. A police officer with a girlfriend that runs the place I’m
trying to save; that’s exactly what I need to add to my plate today.
“Sheriff, with all due respect, you should pass this case on to
someone who doesn’t have a girlfriend working at the shelter.
Perhaps another police officer?”
To Nash’s credit, he doesn’t flare up angrily but stands his ground
with a pleasant smile. “Maybe you should pass this case on to
someone whose sister doesn’t stand to profit from the animals being
displaced.”
Tou-fucking-ché.
“How about we get some coffee?” I change the subject. If there’s
one thing I’ve learned from dealing with politics in DC, it’s that if you
can’t come together on a subject, there’s always coming together
over a meal. We aren’t necessarily doing that, but at least there’s
coffee to distract us from whatever this is.
Nash gestures toward the barista watching the two of us duke it
out by the front door. She smiles awkwardly and waves us forward.
“After you, Ms. Daulton,” he says politely.
My heels click against the tile. The well-ventilated coffee house
suddenly feels like a sauna. I’m not embarrassed, I tell myself. He
did not get under my skin.
But the first thing I text my siblings when I get back in the car is
‘Who the hell is Nash Dickerson?’
Chapter 4
 Nash

D espite leaving The Roasterie at the same time as Amaia, I make

it to the animal shelter first. I head inside and find James setting
up shop in the lobby by pacing back and forth and looking half-
deranged. Madilyn is watching him with daggers in her eyes from
behind the counter. “Good,” I greet with an air-cheers to the room,
“everybody’s having a great day.”
Madilyn turns to look at me and rolls her eyes. “What are you so
happy about? It’s your day off and you’re here defending him. And
you didn’t even bring me any coffee. You’re honestly the worst
brother ever.”
James is so nervous that he doesn’t even stop pacing to yell at
her for the little barb. They’ve been snapping at each other for
weeks, so this sudden change of pace catches me off guard.
“I’m just here to do a job.” I head over to stand beside her.
“Besides,” I tell her in a low whisper, “I met Amaia Daulton at the
coffee shop.”
My sister perks up at the news. “Oh, yeah?” She asks excitedly.
“Give it to me straight. Is she as badass as everyone says she is?”
On Monday when I got the call from James, I had no idea who
Amaia Daulton was. I knew the family name, it was spoken around
town just as often as Bishop’s, but I didn’t know the woman
personally. I asked Madilyn if she knew who Amaia was and she said
that she’d do some digging.
 We found out that Amaia Daulton was the black sheep of the
family, so to speak. While she was successful in her own right, she’d
left town years ago. On occasion, she was known to come back and
visit with family, but it was rare and she didn’t often make a big deal
out of meeting with the townsfolk.
“Well?” Madilyn nudges me.
I think about Amaia’s lips, outlined in red. The second I saw
them, I had thoughts about her that were so demeaning I needed to
go to confession. I recall her well-fitted navy blue blazer and
matching skirt. The black pumps highlighted the curve of her calf in
a way that made me think I should get on my knees and worship the
ground she walked on. “She’s going to eat him alive,” I decide.
As if on cue, Amaia walks through the door. She looks like she’s
stepped out of a legal office and she isn’t here to take any of James’
shit. “Bishop,” she greets formally. Rumor has it their relationship
goes back to the cradle, but Amaia treats him like an ex-husband
with a grudge to settle.
Before our very eyes, James transforms from nervous and sweaty
to confident and slick. He straightens his back, a smile appears on
his face, and he crosses the room in a flash. His arms are around
Amaia’s shoulders and he’s hugging her like they’re the best of
friends. “Mai,” he calls, “it’s so good to see you. How was the flight?”
“Don’t touch me,” she pushes him away.
James frowns and then shakes his head. A quick little chuckle fills
the air and then he shoots a wink in our direction before turning
back to meet Amaia’s gaze. “I forgot about your little ‘no touching’
rule. I thought you’d get over that as you got older. You’re what,
forty now?”
God, I wish I’d brought some popcorn. All I have is this cup of
coffee to sip on and it’s not enough when I watch the two of them
volley passive-aggressive remarks back and forth.
“Close,” Amaia smiles tightly, “I know it’s hard for you to do
math, but I’m actually younger than Broderick and he’s not even
forty yet.”
James’ face gets just as tight, but he grabs a sheath of papers off
a table emblazoned with his logo and holds them up. “I didn’t get
the math wrong on the financials for the animal shelter, I can tell
you that. They keep coming back in the negative for some reason.
How odd.” He pauses for a second before adding, “I must have
mistaken your age with how old you look. You’ll have to ask my
fiancé about her skincare routine. She looks a decade younger than
her thirty years. You remember what being young was like, don’t
you?”
Oh, god. I would have never forgiven myself if I’d have skipped
this to go fishing. Madilyn’s fingernails are digging into my arm as
she watches the opening statements. How did we luck into watching
the best show in Juniper Falls today?
“And yet you still cheated on her with Anneliese,” Amaia
chuckles. “How is Savannah doing, by the way? Is she enjoying all
the attention you’re getting with this frivolous case?”
The papers slowly fall to James’ side. His smile falters, but he still
has all his realtor charm. “She’ll enjoy the honeymoon funded by a
paying client. Your sister, actually. Where do you think her nude
photography will look best?”
The air is fraught with tension; you could cut it with a knife.
“They’ll look perfect wherever she puts them,” Amaia crosses her
arms over her chest defensively, “but that won’t be here. Aspen
won’t rent this building, James. Nobody will. If you evict the animal
shelter, you’ll be sitting on an empty lot for the rest of your life.”
If James thought about that ahead of time, he didn’t think it
through all the way. “And Aspen will be sitting on a pile of useless
work. Sorry,” he holds up his hands to correct himself before Amaia
can cut in, “a pile of useless artwork. It’s this building or nothing.”
James Bishop is far from the only realtor in town, he just
happens to be the best because of his family’s connections.
However, if his parents knew that he was running the family
business like this, they might feel a little differently about leaving
him in charge.
Fortunately, Amaia doesn’t bend to threats. She’s like a country
that doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. “You think we can’t buy land,
Bishop?” Amaia tosses her head back and laughs. In the echoing
lobby of the animal shelter, she sounds deranged. I think I’m in love
with her. “Hell, I’m sure that Broderick can even do something for
her at the resort. You don’t think tourists would like a tasteful nude
photograph? Or a painting of the sunset over Juniper Falls? The
resort could use a carefully curated art museum. Don’t think we
won’t go that route if we have to.”
When she takes a step toward James, it’s the first time I see his
confidence act fall. He doesn’t cower, but he hesitates. She’s only
5’3”, but in those heels, she’s four inches taller and she’s wearing a
set of brass balls that he can’t penetrate. “I don’t know what your
problem is, James, and I don’t know whom you have a problem
with. I don’t know if it’s me, or Aspen, or Broderick, or the animal
shelter, or what. Maybe you have a problem with everybody in
Juniper Falls. I don’t know who got your panties in a twist and I
don’t care.”
She takes another step and James puffs out his chest in a
menacing sort of way. I think about stepping in, but the look on
Amaia’s face tells me that she can handle it herself. I think if she had
to, she could put his ass on the ground. It doesn’t matter that he
probably has seventy-five pounds on her. “But if you shut this place
down, you better be ready for hellfire to rain down on top of you
because I will not sleep until you pay for what you’ve done.”
Okay, maybe now it’s time to step in. A few passive-aggressive
comments are alright, but when it turns to threats, I think I have to
do something whether I’m off duty or not. “Wow, well, this has been
fun, but I think you should leave.”
Amaia turns to look at me with an argument on her lips, but she
stops when she sees that I’m staring at James.
“Me?” He asks with a glare. “She’s the one—”
I shrug my shoulders at him. While I have a job to do, I only
have to separate them. I’m on the animal shelter’s side in all this
and it just so happens that that’s the side Amaia Daulton is on, too.
“Maybe we do this again tomorrow. Same time? Maybe a little
calmer though.”
James narrows his eyes and glares at Amaia. “You think that just
because you’re some Washington DC hotshot, you’re going to save
the day. But I’d rather sit on a piece of land that never makes
another dime than let the animal shelter stay open. I hope you rot in
hell.”
“Oh,” that seems like a drastic outburst, “it’s definitely time for
you to leave, James.”
Amaia walks over to where Madilyn is standing and leans against
the front counter. I can tell that she’s trying to suppress a shit-eating
grin, but she isn’t doing it well. “If I rot in hell, I’ll see you there,
Bishop. Can’t wait to do this again in the morning.”
I escort James out of the front door and try to calm him down as
we go. No, this isn’t a setback. Yes, I know this is technically his
building. Yes, I’ll be here tomorrow when he comes back. No, I
won’t let Amaia bully him… again.
When I come back inside, Madilyn and Amaia are fast friends.
Amaia tosses a look over her shoulder and smiles. “Nash, you didn’t
tell me your sister was the Director of the animal shelter.”
“Nash,” Madilyn is almost shouting even though we’re all within a
twenty-foot radius of one another, “Amaia and I are getting drinks
tonight and we’re going to talk strategy. I don’t trust that man as far
as I can throw him. I know it would be difficult to get a new
building, but Amaia and I are going to talk about our options.”
I have plenty on my hands without these two getting drunk and
coming up with ways to piss off James Bishop any further. “Maybe
we should wait until the two of you have cooled off,” I suggest to
Amaia. “If you have a civil conversation, maybe you can change his
mind.”
Amaia shoots me a carefully composed look and each of the
words that follow are chosen deliberately. “I’ve dealt with men like
him before, Sheriff Dickerson. He’s not going to change his mind.
He’s vindictive and he’s mean. He will tear down this animal shelter
out of spite. If we want to save this place, our best bet is to raise
the funds for a new location.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Juniper Falls isn’t full of
rich people. People aren’t sleeping on the streets, but we don’t have
a bunch of extra cash lying around either.
“That’s what the meeting is for later,” Amaia says grimly. “It’s a
strategic planning session. Invite everyone you know. We’re going to
save this place if it’s the last thing I do.”
I barely know her from Adam, or technically, Eve. We’ve only
exchanged a few dozen words and some of them were tense. But
the way she talks about saving this place inspires a confidence in me
that I haven’t felt in a long time. Maybe it’s the clothes or the way
she talks. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes. I don’t know for sure, but
there’s just something about Amaia Daulton. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I guess I
mean them.
Chapter 5
 Amaia

I have to brace myself for leaving the animal shelter. As the clock
ticks closer to nine, I text my siblings that the meeting ended
early. They await with bated breath on the decision of where to go
and ultimately we decide to meet at Taste Of Heaven.
Though we talk almost weekly, I haven’t seen them in years.
When I arrive at the diner, they’re standing in the parking lot waiting
for me. The outlier is the redheaded Anneliese Barlow, Broderick’s
new girlfriend, and even she looks excited to be here. But she
doesn’t swarm when I open the car door and step out.
I’m inundated with hugs and cheers. You’d think I just came back
from war, not Washington DC. Despite myself, I smile. I hate being
touched, but I can stand it when it’s my family.
“Alright, alright,” I grumble after a few moments, “enough.”
Benning is the last to detach himself and I swear I see tears in
his eyes. “I did this, guys,” he beams proudly. “I brought Amaia
Daulton back to Juniper Falls.”
I roll my eyes as I close my car door. “I wouldn’t be saying that
too loudly. James is pissed. Thinks I’m about to run around town
and stage a coup.”
Aspen claps her hands together conspiratorially. “Are you?”
I swish past the four of them with an air of superiority and a
wink, desperate to get a table and get some food in my belly. “I
think so.”
 When I walk through the front doors of Taste Of Heaven, it
smells amazing. I’m taken back to my childhood. Every Sunday
morning when my parents weren’t overwhelmed by the winter
season at the resort, they’d bring the four of us here and we’d sit at
the round booth in the corner and giggle our way through waffles
and French toast. While we could get the same meal at any of the
Daulton Resort restaurants, it was our parents’ way of getting away
from work for a few hours.
“Amaia Daulton? Honey, is that really you?” Eleanor Graves is in
the middle of running a tray of food, but she stops when she sees
me standing in the doorway.
“Mrs. Graves,” I smile at her, “You’re a sight for sore eyes; the
only person in Juniper worth seeing, in my opinion. Does that
husband of yours still work back in the kitchen?”
She starts walking away with a knowing grin on her lips. “He’s
working on his signature gumbo for dinner, honey. Want me to see if
he’ll make you a bowl real quick?”
My stomach starts growling just thinking about it. “No, ma’am. I’ll
be back later to grab a cup though.” I’m happy to settle for some
biscuits and gravy this morning. Nothing hits the right spot quite like
Taste Of Heaven’s homemade gravy.
I slide into a booth and I’m followed by Anneliese and Aspen.
The boys sandwich us in the round and we grab the menus to look
them over. Though I already know what I’m going to have, it’s
interesting to see what’s changed in my absence.
“I’m dying to know what happened at the shelter,” Aspen says
after a few moments. “Is that prick eating his words yet?”
Unfortunately not. I’ve inflamed his rage if anything. “Are the
skillets any good?” I ask over the top of the menu.
Broderick nods his head yes. “I like the Denver skillet with some
sriracha. It gives me pretty bad heartburn though.”
“I don’t think we brought any Tums either,” Anneliese frowns
beside me.
“I think I have some in one of my bags!” I announce. “I never
leave the house without it. I’ve had heartburn since I was fourteen,”
I explain to Anneliese.
 Aspen watches this exchange with a glare. She neatly folds up
her menu and sets it down on the table. “Amaia, what happened at
the animal shelter?” Her tone brokers no argument.
I know this is important to her for a lot of reasons. It means a lot
to the people of Juniper Falls, for starters. But more than that, I
think she feels responsible. If she hadn’t been so aggressive with
James, perhaps he wouldn’t be pursuing this feud. He wouldn’t be
displacing the helpless pets that make up the shelter in a spiteful
attempt to appease her.
“The good news is that I don’t think anyone is going to blame
you for what’s happening.” Where’s the waitress with a carafe of
coffee? I need to get some more caffeine, stat. If I don’t start
chugging coffee like I’m studying for the bar exam, I’m not going to
make it through today.
Benning sets down his menu, having decided what he’s going to
get. “What’s the bad news?”
I knew someone would get hung up on this. You start throwing
around words like ‘good’ and suddenly people think there’s a bad. I
mean, there is, but that’s not the point. “So, unfortunately, I don’t
think there’s any saving the shelter. I might have made matters
worse. In fact, I definitely made matters worse. It wasn’t
intentional,” I wince, “but James brings out the worst in me.
Something about that smug little look on his face when he thinks
he’s pulling one over on someone.” I have PTSD flashbacks just
thinking about it. “Anyway, Madilyn and I are going to have a
strategic planning session tonight at the resort. Broderick, we’re
going to need to book The Easton. Everybody, tell your friends. 7:00
pm. We’re going to brainstorm ways to save the shelter.”
The look on their combined faces makes me think I just info
dumped all over them. There’s shock and confusion and then
Broderick is pulling out his phone. His fingers fly across the screen in
the silence. “You should have asked first,” he mumbles.
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s a Wednesday.” In the middle of
September. What big event could they possibly have?
Anneliese wisely pulls her menu up higher to hide a smile. She’s
been with Broderick for a few weeks now and she’s quite aware of
his need to be in charge of everything regarding the resort. While I
have zero desire to have anything to do with the place, Broderick
doesn’t enjoy me coming into town for two hours and taking over
one of his prime bars without so much as a warning.
“I’m just saying. We could have had a party or a rehearsal dinner
or—”
“But you didn’t,” I point out. “And if you had, we could have just
gone to a different bar. It’s not a big deal. We just need a place with
booze to bring in the crowd and I’ll take care of the rest.” The rest
being a handful of ideas to raise money for the shelter that I haven’t
even begun to think about. Just add that to my to-do list.
Our conversation is paused only briefly by Eleanor’s arrival. She
takes our order and sticks around long enough to ask about my stay.
When I tell her that I’m here to help out the shelter the best I can,
she says that my breakfast is on the house. “All my dogs have come
from the shelter,” she waxes nostalgically, “ever since I was a kid. If
there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“As a matter of fact, Mrs. Graves, there’s a meeting tonight.
Maybe you can tell people about it.” I give her the details and
though she doesn’t write a single thing down, I know she’ll
remember them all. Eleanor Graves is a staple in this town, kind of
like the diner. If anyone will casually pass along the word about our
meeting, it’s her. She isn’t the biggest activist in town, but she cares.
All we need is a few people who care to show up.
Broderick yawns and tosses an arm behind Anneliese. She tucks
herself into the crook of his shoulder and nestles in perfectly. “So
what happens if the entire town shows up at my resort, Amaia?
What am I supposed to do then?”
“Get behind the bar,” I suggest. “If the entire town shows up,
you’re going to need more bartenders.”
Anneliese, who’s been relatively quiet this whole time, offers to
help in any way that she can. “In a past life, I was an event planner.
I can be a hostess, pour drinks, or bounce unruly guests if needed.
Just tell me what you need and I’m there.”
I don’t know what I need right now, except for some ideas to
bounce off people who show up, but knowing that I have my family
around me to help out when the going gets tough is a lifesaver.
“What can you guys tell me about Madilyn and Nash Dickerson? I
know they’re brother and sister, but if I’m going to help them out, I
need some insider information.” And, truth be told, Nash Dickerson
is an attractive man. I wouldn’t mind a small town fling while I’m
back in town.
Chapter 6
 Nash

T he Daulton Resort would be overwhelming if it wasn’t for the

guided tour straight to The Easton bar. From the second you step
through the doors, Amaia has signs and people waiting to greet you.
“Sheriff Dickerson,” Anneliese announces at the entrance of the
bar, “happy you could make it. Amaia wanted me to direct you and
Madilyn toward the hightop in the center. It’s reserved for the three
of you.”
I feel under-and-overdressed at the same time, especially when I
catch a glimpse of Amaia. She looks like a movie star with her curled
brunette locks and power red pantsuit. I’ve never seen a woman
wear higher heels with such grace. “I don’t think I dressed
appropriately for this occasion,” I mumble.
Madilyn claps me on the back and tells me to suck it up. “She’s
amazing, isn’t she? I want to be her when I grow up.”
I look back at my baby sister and frown. “You’re twenty-seven,
Madi. You’re already grown up.”
But she looks at Amaia with a sparkle of admiration in her eyes.
“Not like that,” she says wistfully. “I’ll never look like that.”
When I follow her gaze, I see what she means. Amaia moves
from person to person in a way that I haven’t seen before. I haven’t
lived in Juniper Falls all my life, but I’ve lived on Wolf Head
Mountain. I’ve been a small-town boy from the day I was born and
I’ve never met a high-powered woman who could make you feel like
you were the only person in the room that mattered. Yet somehow
that’s exactly what Amaia makes everybody feel like. Whether it’s
the little kid who got roped into coming to this event with his
parents or Samuel Zachary, an old man who spends more time on
his front steps yelling at people than he does anything else. “Come
on,” I mumble. “Let’s take our seats.”
I spent all day questioning whether or not it was my place to
come to this event. I’m not a politician and I don’t have to remain
impartial, but I do have to treat all the people of Juniper Falls fairly.
Tomorrow when Amaia and James meet up to chat again, I can’t
show Amaia favoritism because I came to her family’s resort and
enjoyed a few drinks at the bar.
But all day as I ran errands, I kept hearing about this meeting.
When I grabbed some lunch at Taste Of Heaven, one of the waiters
told me about it. When I was getting groceries, I heard a few people
talking about it in one of the aisles. When I was at Treasure Island,
Tucker Tyler mentioned that the Daultons were going to save the
animal shelter and if I wanted to help out, I’d swing by The Easton
tonight at seven.
I was honestly blown away that word had spread so fast. I knew
what gossip did in a small town, I’d moved here from one a decade
ago and my sister followed suit five years later, but Juniper Falls took
it to another level. By the time I made it home, I had three text
messages and a phone call asking me if I’d heard about this
strategic planning meeting for the animal shelter. It seemed like I
had no choice but to call Madilyn and ask her what one wears to a
meeting like this.
“What you’d usually wear to The Easton,” she scoffed at me.
That’s when I had to admit that I’d never been to the Daulton
Resort. Not to The Easton, to any of the coffee shops, not even to
the ski lifts during the winter. I know that many of the Juniper Falls
residents visited throughout the season and the Daultons offered the
town people a discount, but I never found the time.
Madilyn could barely conceive how I’d managed to avoid the
place for so long. “Half of my dates take me to the Daulton.”
That was a conversation for another time. How many dates was
Madilyn going on? And why were they always taking her to the
resort? Were my dates disappointed that I took them to the diner?
Or that I took the painstaking hour to drive down the mountain to
the nearest steakhouse? “Okay, but what do I wear tonight, Madi?
Seriously. I don’t want to look like the odd man out.”
She ultimately advised me that I couldn’t go wrong with a nice
pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. “That way you won’t be the
worst dressed person there. But you also won’t be the best dressed
either. You’re a happy medium.”
Madilyn was right. As we find our seats at the reserved hightop
in the middle of The Easton, we cross paths with people wearing
faded jeans and people wearing floor-length dresses. I reckon
there’s about seventy-five people here and several more coming by
the looks of the parking lot as we walked in.
It takes Amaia a few minutes to get back over to us, but when
she does, she wraps her arms around Madilyn like they’re old
friends. Despite the power pantsuit, the two of them squeal like little
girls. “This is an amazing turnout!”
“The second there’s booze on the table, people show up,” Amaia
beams.
I don’t want to bring their vibe down, but, “You know these
people have to drive home, right?” The two of them turn to look at
me with very different looks. Madilyn is annoyed but Amaia is still
smiling. “What? You’re plying them with alcohol and then setting
them loose on a mountain. I’m a police officer. It’s my job to worry
about these things.”
Amaia releases Madilyn and pats her arm gently in an I’ve got
this sort of way. I try to brace myself for what’s coming next. “I’m
not plying the good people of Juniper Falls with anything, Sheriff,
except good-spirited conversation. The Easton is serving drinks to
paying patrons. Each of these individuals is responsible for their own
alcohol and risk tolerance. It is no different than if they were to
come here on their own, have a drink, and then drive home.”
I want to find fault with her argument, but the truth is that she’s
right. These people came up here of their own volition. The Easton
isn’t offering $0.50 shots and drowning their customers in alcohol.
It’s an upscale bar and the drinks are actually quite pricy. If anyone
gets drunk here tonight and drives home, that’s a choice they made,
not one that she foisted upon them. “You should have been a lawyer,
Ms. Daulton.”
The pride on her face is evident as she grabs a glass of white
wine and holds it up in response. “That would have been too much
school for me. I’m happy where I’m at. Please, grab a drink at the
bar before the meeting starts. Put it on my tab. If something
happens and you’re unable to drive home,” Amaia smiles indulgently,
“I’m sure my brother can find you a room here at the resort. The
winter season doesn’t start for another few weeks, so there are
plenty of available rooms.”
Broderick slides into the conversation with narrowed eyes. He
wraps an arm around his little sister’s waist and gives the two of us
a look. “I’m about to hand over the reins to Amaia. She’s been here
less than a day and she’s already booked an event and she’s booking
rooms next. A little go-getter, this one.”
Amaia rolls her eyes at her brother’s good-natured ribbing.
“Excuse him. He’s a little testy at my ‘get shit done’ way of living.”
He ignores her. “Really though, Sheriff, if you need a room, let
me know. I’m happy to have you stay for the night. I’m not sure I’ve
seen you here before,” Broderick says with a frown.
I’m not sure I’ve had a lot of interactions with the Daulton family.
I see Benning around town quite a bit, but that’s about it. “I don’t
get out as often as I’d like. I spend a lot of my free time fishing,
hunting, and hiking. I’ve never been much of a skier.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Broderick cuts me off. “Sorry,” he
apologizes immediately, “but look who it is.”
I turn around to follow his line of sight and find myself staring at
Savannah McIntyre. She looks terrified standing at the entrance,
shaking like a leaf.
“Is that who I think it is?” Amaia asks, appropriately shocked.
Madilyn grabs my arm and for the second time today, leaves
moon-shaped fingernail prints in my skin. “It’s time to bring this
motherfucker down!”
I want to correct her, but she might be right. If his fiancé is here,
there’s no telling what we can do.
 “Get us an extra chair,” Amaia smacks Broderick in the arm.
“She’s sitting with us.” And as quick as a bunny, she snakes her way
through the crowd over to the scared blonde and befriends her.
Chapter 7
 Amaia

“S avannah McIntyre?” I’m seven years older than her. I wasn’t in

any of her classes. I only know her because I looked her up
online. “I’m Amaia Daulton. I’d love it if you sat with me for the
meeting.” I extend her a hand and a soft smile, suddenly wishing
that I hadn’t worn this pantsuit. If I’d have worn a dress like
Savannah, I might look less threatening.
But she takes one look at me and my olive branch handshake
and takes it like a life preserver. “Thank you,” she says hesitantly, “I
—I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to come.”
In my time on Capitol Hill, I’ve learned a lot about relationships.
Not from being in them, thank God, but from watching them unfold
at dinner parties, in the office, and behind closed doors that never
should have been opened. I can glean from her presence that
there’s been a shift in her engagement with James. “Everybody’s
welcome, Ms. McIntyre.”
“Please,” she blushes prettily, “call me Savannah.”
I release her hand and direct her back through the crowd. In my
absence, Broderick has made a chair appear. Madilyn wears a
pinched look on her face. Nash is serene and unphased with a bottle
of Guinness in front of him. I can hear the whispers around us, but I
brazen forward. I’ve never been shaken by a rumor before. I won’t
start now.
I pat the unoccupied space at our head table and offer it to our
new guest. Savannah looks around hesitantly. “Are you sure?” I can
see her going over the argument she’s going to have with James
later. “This is very,” she pauses, “central.”
I wouldn’t have it any other way. I bred myself to be the kind of
woman who thrives in the spotlight. “It’s our meeting,” I nod my
head toward Madilyn, “so this is kind of where we need to be. If
that’s a problem, you’re welcome to find another seat. But we’d
really like it if you joined us. It’s not a show of support or anything,”
I hastily clarify, “you just seemed really alone back there and I know
what it’s like to feel out of place here in Juniper Falls.”
Those are just the right words. They strike a chord with
Savannah and I see her entire body unclench. “You know, I really
only know Benning,” she confides in a voice that’s barely above a
whisper, “because I see him around town so much. But you’re very
nice, Amaia. Everybody always says the Daultons are nice. I guess I
haven’t spent much time around your family.”
My watch buzzes on my wrist and I quickly motion for it to stop.
“We’ll talk after, okay?” I smile warmly at her; having the fiancé on
our side is critical. But even if it weren’t, she seems like a nice girl.
She deserves to be treated well. “Grab a drink at the bar if you get a
chance.”
Out of nowhere, Broderick appears with a mic. “You sure you
don’t want to use the stage?” He offers. “It’s very effective on
karaoke night.”
This is small-town USA. If I were giving a speech in DC, a stage
would elevate me above everybody else. It would give me the
illusion of power. But here in Juniper Falls, I just want to fit in with
everyone else. “No, I’m okay down here. Thanks for your help,
Broderick. Tell Anneliese thanks, too. In case I don’t catch her later
tonight.”
I tap the mic a couple of times to get everybody’s attention. The
room slowly quiets down and heads turn in my direction. I see
smiling faces punch drunk from an evening of conversation with
friends. I see solemn looks from people questioning if I have what it
takes. I wish I could tell them that I’m wondering that, too. “Thank
you all for coming this evening. I’m sure most of you know me, but
if not, I’m Amaia Daulton. I’m a former resident of Juniper Falls,
which means that I love everything about this town that you guys
do. I love the Christmas pageant the kids put on at Elevate every
year and walking down Main Street afterward to see the displays put
on by the shops. I love spending a cold afternoon at The Roasterie
in front of the fireplace with a hot chocolate and a good book. And I
love the care and consideration our staff at the animal shelter gives
to families and pets in need. They put on spay and neuter clinics,
they do discounted vaccines, they educate the town, and they take
in strays and abandoned animals that are dumped in Juniper every
week. This is not a business, this is a necessity to our community.”
I didn’t spend all afternoon practicing this speech, but I wrote
down a few points to highlight. The key to a cash grab is tugging at
the heartstrings. “James Bishop has every right to evict the animal
shelter and turn his building into a profitable establishment.
However, it’s our turn to step up and take care of the animals and
the staff and volunteers who’ve worked tirelessly for this town for
years. We need to figure out how to relocate to a new building. We
need to figure out funding. Most importantly, we need to figure out
long-term sustainability. This won’t be something that we figure out
in one meeting or even overnight, trust me. But with all the brains
we have here, we can at least start brainstorming. The animal
shelter must mean something to some of us or else you wouldn’t be
here, right?”
My question is met with silence. All I can hear is my heart
beating in my chest and the sound of people bringing their glasses
to their lips. A nervous energy suddenly fills me and I want to grab
my wine and chug it.
But Nash jumps in to save me. I don’t know why, but he does.
“When I first arrived in Juniper Falls a decade ago, I had this old
hunting dog, Bo. Just the cutest golden lab you’ve ever seen. I had
him since he was a puppy.” He grabs the long neck of his Guinness
and brings it to his lips. “There was an incident when we were out
hunting. Bo and I came across a cougar, except I didn’t see it until it
was too late. My rifle was down and the cougar was on top of us. Bo
came to my rescue, you know? He was a good boy. By the time the
shock wore off and I grabbed my gun, Bo was hurt pretty bad. It
Another random document with
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 If man could change the universe
By force of epigrams in verse,
He’d smash some idols, I allow,
But who would alter Mrs. Howe?

Robert Grant.

Lady who lovest and who livest Peace,

And yet didst write Earth’s noblest battle song
At Freedom’s bidding,—may thy fame increase
Till dawns the warless age for which we long!

Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

Dot oldt Fader Time must be cutting some dricks,

Vhen he calls our goot Bresident’s age eighty-six.
An octogeranium! Who would suppose?
My dear Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, der time goes!

Yawcob Strauss (Charles Follen Adams).

You, who are of the spring,

To whom Youth’s joys must cling,
May all that Love can give
Beguile you long to live—
Our Queen of Hearts.

Louise Chandler Moulton.

H ere, on this joyous day of days,

O deign to list my skill-less praise.
W hate’er be said with tongue or pen
E xtolling thee, I cry “Amen.”

Beulah Marie Dix.

Mrs. Howe was not apprised of the project in advance, and

certainly had not seen the verses; but was, at any rate, ready as
usual, and this sketch may well close with her cheery answer:—

MRS. HOWE’S REPLY

Why, bless you, I ain’t nothing, nor nobody, nor much,

If you look in your Directory you’ll find a thousand such.
I walk upon the level ground, I breathe upon the air,
I study at a table and reflect upon a chair.

I know a casual mixture of the Latin and the Greek,

I know the Frenchman’s parlez-vous, and how the Germans
speak;
Well can I add, and well subtract, and say twice two is four,
But of those direful sums and proofs remember nothing
more.

I wrote a poetry book one time, and then I wrote a play,

And a friend who went to see it said she fainted right away.
Then I got up high to speculate upon the Universe,
And folks who heard me found themselves no better and no
worse.

Yes, I’ve had a lot of birthdays and I’m growing very old,
That’s why they make so much of me, if once the truth were
told.
And I love the shade in summer, and in winter love the sun,
And I’m just learning how to live, my wisdom’s just begun.

Don’t trouble more to celebrate this natal day of mine,

But keep the grasp of fellowship which warms us more than
wine.
Let us thank the lavish hand that gives world beauty to our
eyes,
And bless the days that saw us young, and years that make
us wise.
 XXI
WILLIAM JAMES ROLFE
 WILLIAM JAMES ROLFE
The “man of one book” (homo unius libri) whom St. Thomas
Aquinas praised has now pretty nearly vanished from the world; and
those men are rare, especially in our versatile America, who have
deliberately chosen one department of literary work and pursued it
without essential variation up to old age. Of these, Francis Parkman
was the most conspicuous representative, and William James Rolfe
is perhaps the most noticeable successor,—a man who, upon a
somewhat lower plane than Parkman, has made for himself a
permanent mark in a high region of editorship, akin to that of
Furnivall and a few compeers in England. A teacher by profession all
his life, his especial sphere has been the English department, a
department which he may indeed be said to have created in our
public schools, and thus indirectly in our colleges.
William James Rolfe, son of John and Lydia Davis (Moulton) Rolfe,
was born on December 10, 1827, in Newburyport, Massachusetts, a
rural city which has been the home at different times of a number of
literary and public men, and is still, by its wide, elm-shaded chief
avenue and ocean outlook, found attractive by all visitors. Rolfe’s
boyhood, however, was passed mainly in Lowell, Massachusetts,
where he was fitted for college in the high school. He spent three
years at Amherst College, but found himself unable to afford to
remain any longer, and engaged in school-teaching as a means of
immediate support. A bankrupt country academy at Wrentham, about
twenty-five miles from Boston, was offered to him rent free if he
would keep a school in it, and, for want of anything better, he took it.
He had to teach all the grammar and high school branches, including
the fitting of boys for college, and his pupils ranged from ten years
old to those two or three years older than himself. He was the only
teacher, and heard from sixteen to twenty classes a day. Besides
these, which included classes in Latin, French, Greek, and German,
he had pupils out of school in Spanish and Italian, adding to all this
the enterprise, then wholly new, of systematically teaching English
with the study of standard writers. This was apparently a thing never
done before that time in the whole United States.
So marked was the impression made by his mode of teaching that
it led to his appointment as principal of the pioneer public high
schools at Dorchester, Massachusetts. He there required work in
English of all his pupils, boys and girls alike, including those who had
collegiate aims. At this time no English, as such, was required at any
American college, and it was only since 1846 that Harvard had
introduced even a preliminary examination, in which Worcester’s
“Elements of History and Elements of Geography” were added to the
original departments of Latin, Greek, and mathematics. Rolfe’s boys
enjoyed the studies in English literature, but feared lest they might
fail in the required work in classics unless they were excused from
English. To relieve their anxiety and his own, their teacher wrote to
Professor Felton, afterwards President of Harvard, telling him what
his boys were doing in English, and asking permission to omit some
portion of his Greek Reader then required for admission. Professor
Felton replied, in substance, “Go ahead with the English and let the
Greek take care of itself.” As a result, all four of the boys entered
Harvard without conditions, and it is worth noticing that they all
testified that no part of their preparatory training was more valuable
to them in college than this in English. It is also noticeable that the
late Henry A. Clapp, of Boston, long eminent as a lecturer on
Shakespeare, was one of these boys.
In the summer of 1857 Mr. Rolfe was invited to take charge of the
high school at Lawrence, Massachusetts, on a larger scale than the
Dorchester institution, and was again promoted after four years to
Salem, and the next year to be principal of the Cambridge high
school, where he remained until 1868. Since that time he has
continued to reside in Cambridge, and has devoted himself to
editorial and literary work. His literary labors from 1869 to the
present day have been vast and varied. He has been one of the
editors of the “Popular Science News” (formerly the Boston “Journal
of Chemistry”), and for nearly twenty years has had charge of the
department of Shakespeareana in the “Literary World” and the
“Critic,” to which he has also added “Poet-Lore.” He has written
casual articles for other periodicals. In 1865 he published a
handbook of Latin poetry with J. H. Hanson, A. M., of Waterville,
Maine. In 1867 he followed this by an American edition of Craik’s
“English of Shakespeare.” Between 1867 and 1869, in connection
with J. A. Gillet, he brought out the “Cambridge course” in physics, in
six volumes. In 1870 he edited Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice”
with such success that by 1883 he had completed an edition of all
the plays in forty volumes. It has long been accepted as a standard
critical authority, being quoted as such by leading English and
German editors. He was lately engaged in a thorough revision of this
edition, doing this task after he had reached the age of seventy-five.
He has also edited Scott’s complete poems, as well as (separately)
“The Lady of the Lake” and “The Lay of the Last Minstrel”; an édition
de luxe of Tennyson’s works in twelve volumes, and another, the
Cambridge Edition, in one volume. He has edited volumes of
selections from Milton, Gray, Goldsmith, Wordsworth, and Browning,
with Mrs. Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” He is also the
author of “Shakespeare the Boy,” with sketches of youthful life of that
period; “The Satchel Guide to Europe,” published anonymously for
twenty-eight years; and a book on the “Elementary Study of English.”
With his son, John C. Rolfe, Ph. D., Professor of Latin in the
University of Pennsylvania, he has edited Macaulay’s “Lays of
Ancient Rome.” He has published a series of elementary English
classics in six volumes. He has also supervised the publication of the
“New Century édition de luxe” of Shakespeare in twenty-four
volumes, besides writing for it a “Life of Shakespeare” which fills a
volume of five hundred and fifty pages, now published separately. It
is safe to say that no other American, and probably no Englishman,
has rivaled him for the extent, variety, and accuracy of his services
as an editor.
This work may be justly divided into two parts: that dealing mainly
with Shakespeare, and that with single minor authors whose
complete or partial work he has reprinted. In Shakespeare he has, of
course, the highest theme to dwell on, but also that in which he has
been preceded by a vast series of workmen. In these his function
has not been so much that of original and individual criticism as of
judiciously compiling the work of predecessors, this last fact being
especially true since the printing of the Furness edition. It is in
dealing with the minor authors that he has been led to the discovery,
at first seeming almost incredible, that the poems which most
claimed the attention of the world have for that very reason been
gradually most changed and perverted in printing. Gray’s “Elegy in a
Country Churchyard,” for instance, has appeared in polyglot editions;
it has been translated fifteen times into French, thirteen into Italian,
twelve times into Latin, and so on down through Greek, German,
Portuguese, and Hebrew. No one poem in the English language,
even by Longfellow, equals it in this respect. The editions which
appeared in Gray’s own time were kept correct through his own
careful supervision; and the changes in successive editions were at
first those made by himself, usually improvements, as where he
changed “some village Cato” to “some village Hampden,” and
substituted in the same verse “Milton” for “Tully” and “Cromwell” for
“Cæsar.” But there are many errors in Pickering’s edition, and these
have been followed by most American copies. It may perhaps be
doubted whether Dr. Rolfe is quite correct in his opinion where he
says in his preface to this ode, “No vicissitudes of taste or fashion
have affected its popularity”; it is pretty certain that young people do
not know it by heart so generally as they once did, and Wordsworth
pronounced its dialect often “unintelligible”; but we are all under
obligation to Dr. Rolfe for his careful revision of this text.
Turning now to Scott’s “Lady of the Lake,” which would seem next
in familiarity to Gray’s “Elegy,” we find scores of corrections, made in
Rolfe’s, of errors that have crept gradually in since the edition of
1821. For instance, in Canto II, l. 685, every edition since 1821 has
had “I meant not all my heart would say,” the correct reading being
“my heat would say.” In Canto VI, l. 396, the Scottish “boune” has
been changed to “bound” and eight lines below, the old word
“barded” has become “barbed”; and these are but a few among
many examples.
When we turn to Shakespeare, we find less direct service of this
kind required than in the minor authors; less need of the microscope.
At any rate, the variations have all been thoroughly scrutinized, and
no flagrant changes have come to light since the disastrous attempt
in that direction of Mr. Collier in 1852. On the other hand, we come to
a new class of variations, which it would have been well perhaps to
have stated more clearly in the volumes where they occur; namely,
the studied omissions, in Rolfe’s edition, of all indecent words or
phrases. There is much to be said for and against this process of
Bowdlerizing, as it was formerly called; and those who recall the
publication of the original Bowdler experiment in this line, half a
century ago, and the seven editions which it went through from 1818
to 1861, can remember with what disapproval such expurgation was
long regarded. Even now it is to be noticed that the new edition of
reprints of the early folio Shakespeares, edited by two ladies, Misses
Clarke and Porter, adopts no such method. Of course the objection
to the process is on the obvious ground that concealment creates
curiosity, and the great majority of copies of Shakespeare will be
always unexpurgated, so that it is very easy to turn to them. Waiving
this point, and assuming the spelling to be necessarily modernized, it
is difficult to conceive of any school edition done more admirably
than the new issue of Mr. Rolfe’s volumes of Shakespeare’s works.
The type is clear, the paper good, and the notes and appendices are
the result of long experience. When one turns back, for instance, to
the old days of Samuel Johnson’s editorship, and sees the utter
triviality and dullness of half the annotations of that very able man,
one feels the vast space of time elapsed between his annotations
and Dr. Rolfe’s. This applies even to notes that seem almost trivial,
and many a suggestion or bit of explanation which seems to a mere
private student utterly wasted can be fully justified by cases in which
still simpler points have proved seriously puzzling in the school-
room.
It has been said that every Shakespeare critic ended with the
desire to be Shakespeare’s biographer, although fortunately most of
them have been daunted by discouragement or the unwillingness of
booksellers. Here, also, Mr. Rolfe’s persistent courage has carried
him through, and his work, aided by time and new discoveries, has
probably portrayed, more fully than that of any of his predecessors,
the airy palace in which the great enchanter dwelt. How far the
occupant of the palace still remains also a thing of air, we must leave
for Miss Delia Bacon’s school of heretics to determine. For myself, I
prefer to believe, with Andrew Lang, that “Shakespeare’s plays and
poems were written by Shakespeare.”
 XXII
GÖTTINGEN AND HARVARD A CENTURY AGO
 GÖTTINGEN AND HARVARD A CENTURY AGO

“Whene’er with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon that I’m rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-
niversity of Göttingen,
niversity of Göttingen.”

To the majority of Harvard graduates the chief association with

Göttingen is Canning’s once-famous squib, of which this is the first
verse, in the “Anti-Jacobin.” But the historical tie between the two
universities is far too close to be forgotten; and I have lately come
into possession of some quite interesting letters which demonstrate
this. They show conclusively how much the development of Harvard
College was influenced, nearly a century ago, by the German
models, and how little in comparison by Oxford and Cambridge; and
as the letters are all from men afterwards eminent, and pioneers in
that vast band of American students who have since studied in
Germany, their youthful opinions will possess a peculiar interest.
The three persons through whom this influence most came were
Joseph Green Cogswell, Edward Everett, and George Ticknor, all
then studying at Göttingen. It happens that they had all been intimate
in my father’s family, and as he was very much interested in the
affairs of the college,—of which he became in 1818 the “Steward
and Patron,” and practically, as the Reverend A. P. Peabody assures
us,[22] the Treasurer,—they sent some of their appeals and
arguments through him. This paper will consist chiefly of extracts
from these letters, which speak for themselves as to the point of view
in which the whole matter presented itself.
It will be well to bear in mind the following details as to the early
history of these three men, taking them in order of age. Cogswell
was born in 1786, graduated (Harvard) in 1806, was tutor in 1814-15
(having previously tried mercantile life), and went abroad in 1816.
Ticknor was born in 1791, graduated (Dartmouth) in 1807, went to
Germany in 1815, and was appointed professor of Modern
Languages at Harvard in 1817. Everett was born in 1794, graduated
(Harvard) in 1811, and went abroad on his appointment as Greek
professor (Harvard) in 1815.
The first of these letters is from George Ticknor, and is a very
striking appeal in behalf of the Harvard College Library, which then
consisted of less than 20,000 volumes, although the largest in the
United States, with perhaps one exception.

Göttingen, May 20, 1816.

As you have talked a good deal in your letter about the
college and its prospects, I suppose I may be allowed to say a
few words about it in reply, though to be sure I have already
said more than was perhaps proper in one like myself, who
am not even a graduate there, and shall very probably get no
other answer to what I may venture to say hereafter than that
I should do better to mind my books, and let those who are
intrusted with the affairs of ye (sic) college take care of them. I
cannot, however, shut my eyes on the fact, that one very
important and principal cause of the difference between our
University and the one here is the different value we affix to a
good library, and the different ideas we have of what a good
library is. In America we look on the Library at Cambridge as
a wonder, and I am sure nobody ever had a more thorough
veneration for it than I had; but it was not necessary for me to
be here six months to find out that it is nearly or quite half a
century behind the libraries of Europe, and that it is much less
remarkable that our stock of learning is so small than that it is
so great, considering the means from which it is drawn are so
inadequate. But what is worse than the absolute poverty of
our collections of books is the relative inconsequence in
which we keep them. We found new professorships and build
new colleges in abundance, but we buy no books; and yet it is
to me the most obvious thing in the world that it would
promote the cause of learning and the reputation of the
University ten times more to give six thousand dollars a year
to the Library than to found three professorships, and that it
would have been wiser to have spent the whole sum that the
new chapel had cost on books than on a fine suite of halls.
The truth is, when we build up a literary Institution in America
we think too much of convenience and comfort and luxury and
show; and too little of real, laborious study and the means that
will promote it. We have not yet learnt that the Library is not
only the first convenience of a University, but that it is the very
first necessity,—that it is the life and spirit,—and that all other
considerations must yield to the prevalent one of increasing
and opening it, and opening it on the most liberal terms to all
who are disposed to make use of it. I cannot better explain to
you the difference between our University in Cambridge and
the one here than by telling you that here I hardly say too
much when I say that it consists in the Library, and that in
Cambridge the Library is one of the last things thought and
talked about,—that here they have forty professors and more
than two hundred thousand volumes to instruct them, and in
Cambridge twenty professors and less than twenty thousand
volumes. This, then, you see is the thing of which I am
disposed to complain, that we give comparatively so little
attention and money to the Library, which is, after all, the
Alpha and Omega of the whole establishment,—that we are
mortified and exasperated because we have no learned men,
and yet make it physically impossible for our scholars to
become such, and that to escape from this reproach we
appoint a multitude of professors, but give them a library from
which hardly one and not one of them can qualify himself to
execute the duties of his office. You will, perhaps, say that
these professors do not complain. I can only answer that you
find the blind are often as gay and happy as those who are
blessed with sight; but take a Cambridge professor, and let
him live one year by a library as ample and as liberally
administered as this is; let him know what it is to be forever
sure of having the very book he wants either to read or to
refer to; let him in one word know that he can never be
 discouraged from pursuing any inquiry for want of means, but
on the contrary let him feel what it is to have all the
excitements and assistance and encouragements which
those who have gone before him in the same pursuits can
give him, and then at the end of this year set him down again
under the parsimonious administration of the Cambridge
library,—and I will promise you that he shall be as
discontented and clamorous as my argument can desire.
But I will trouble you no more with my argument, though I
am persuaded that the further progress of learning among us
depends on the entire change of the system against which it
is directed.

The next extract is from a letter of Cogswell’s, and gives a glimpse

at the actual work done by these young men:—

Göttingen, March 8, 1817.

I must tell you something about our colony at Göttingen
before I discuss other subjects, for you probably care little
about the University and its host of professors, except as they
operate upon us. First as to the Professor (Everett) and Dr.
Ticknor, as they are called here; everybody knows them in
this part of Germany, and also knows how to value them. For
once in my life I am proud to acknowledge myself an
American on the European side of the Atlantic: never was a
country more fortunate in its representation abroad than ours
has been in this instance; they will gain more for us in this
respect than even in the treasures of learning they will carry
back. Little as I have of patriotism, I delight to listen to the
character which is here given of my countrymen; I mean as
countrymen, and not as my particular friends: the
despondency which it produces in my own mind of ever
obtaining a place by their sides is more than counterbalanced
by the gratification of my national feelings, to say not a word
of my individual attachment. You must not think me
extravagant, but I venture to say that the notions which the
European literati have entertained of America will be
essentially changed by G. and E.’s [Ticknor’s and Everett’s]
residence on the Continent; we were known to be a brave, a
rich, and an enterprising people, but that a scholar was to be
found among us, or any man who had a desire to be a
scholar, had scarcely been conceived. It will also be the
means of producing new correspondences and connections
between the men of the American and European sides of the
Atlantic, and spread much more widely among us a
knowledge of the present literature and science of this
Continent.
Deducting the time from the 13th of December to the 27th
of January during which I was confined to my room, I have
been pretty industrious; through the winter I behaved as well
as one could expect. German has been my chief study; to
give it a relief I have attended one hour a day to a lecture in
Italian on the Modern Arts, and, to feel satisfied that I had
some sober inquiry in hand, I have devoted another to
Professor Saalfeld’s course of European Statistics, so that I
have generally been able to count at night twelve hours of
private study and private instruction. This has only sharpened
not satisfied my appetite. I have laid out for myself a course of
more diligent labors the next semester. I shall then be at least
eight hours in the lecture rooms, beginning at six in the
morning. I must contrive, besides, to devote eight other hours
to private study. I am not in the least Germanized, and yet it
appalls me when I think of the difference between an
education here and in America. The great evil with us is, in
our primary schools, the best years for learning are trifled and
whiled away; boys learn nothing because they have no
instructors, because we demand of one the full [work?] of ten,
and because laziness is the first lesson which one gets in all
our great schools. I know very well that we want but few
closet scholars, few learned philologists, and few verbal
commentators; that all our systems of government and
customs and life suppose a preparation for making practical
men,—men who move, and are felt in the world; but all this
 could be better done without wasting every year from infancy
to manhood. The system of education here is the very reverse
of our own: in America boys are let loose upon the work when
they are children, and fettered when they are sent to our
college; here they are cloistered, too much so I acknowledge,
till they can guide themselves, and then put at their own
disposal at the universities. Luther’s Reformation threw all the
monkish establishments in the Protestant countries into the
hands of the Princes, and they very wisely appropriated them
to the purposes of education, but unluckily they have retained
more of the monastic seclusion than they ought. The three
great schools in Saxony, Pforte, Meissen, and ⸺ are kept in
convents, and the boys enjoy little more than the liberty of a
cloister. They are all very famous, the first more particularly;
out of it have come half of the great scholars of the country.
Still they are essentially defective in the point above named.
Just in the neighborhood of Gotha is the admirable institution
of Salzmann, in a delightfully pleasant and healthy valley; his
number is limited to thirty-eight, and he has twelve instructors,
—admits no boy who does not bring with him the fairest
character: when once admitted they become his children, and
the reciprocal relation is cherished with corresponding
tenderness and respect. I should like to proceed a little farther
in this subject, but the bottom of my paper forbids.

The following is from Ticknor again, and shows, though without

giving details, that the young men had extended their observations
beyond Göttingen:—

Göttingen, November 30, 1816.

Dear Sir,—On returning here about a fortnight since, after
a journey through North Germany which had occupied us
about two months, I found your kind letter of August 4 waiting
to welcome me. I thank you for it with all my heart, and take
the first moment of leisure I can find in the busy
commencement of a new term, to answer it, that I may soon
have the same pleasure again.
You say you wish to hear from me what hours of relaxation I
have, and what acquaintances I make, in this part of the
Continent. The first is very easily told, and the last would not
have been difficult before the journey from which I have just
returned; but now the number is more than I can write or you
willingly hear. However, I will answer both your inquiries in the
spirit in which they are made.
As to relaxation, in the sense of the word in which I used to
employ it at home,—meaning the hours I lounged so happily
away when the weariness of the evening came, on your sofa,
and the time I used to pass with my friends in general, I know
not how or why, but always gayly and thoughtlessly,—of this
sort of relaxation I know nothing here but the end of an
evening which I occasionally permit myself to spend with
Cogswell, whose residence here has in this respect changed
the whole color of my life. During the last semester, I used to
visit occasionally at about twenty houses in Göttingen, chiefly
as a means of learning to speak the language. As the
population here is so changeable, and as every man is left to
live exactly as he chooses, it is customary for all those who
wish to continue their intercourse with the persons resident
here to make a call at the beginning of each semester, which
is considered a notice that they are still here and still mean to
go into society. I, however, feel no longer the necessity of
visiting for the purpose of learning German, and now that
Cogswell is here cannot desire it for any other purpose; have
made visits only to three or four of the professors, and shall,
therefore, not go abroad at all. As to exercise, however, I
have enough. Three times a day I must cross the city entirely
to get my lessons. I go out twice besides, a shorter distance
for dinner and a fourth lesson; and four times a week I take an
hour’s exercise for conscience’ sake and my mother’s in the
riding-school. Four times a week I make Cogswell a visit of
half an hour after dinner, and three times I spend from nine to
 ten in the evening with him, so that I feel I am doing quite right
and quite as little as I ought to do in giving up the remaining
thirteen hours of the day to study, especially as I gave
fourteen to it last winter without injury.
The journey we have lately taken was for the express
purpose of seeing all the universities or schools of any
considerable name in the country. This in a couple of months
we easily accomplished, and of course saw professors,
directors, and schoolmasters—men of great learning and men
of little learning, and men of no learning at all—in shoals.

This is from Cogswell again, and is certainly a clarion appeal as to

the need of thoroughness in teaching and learning:—

Göttingen, July 13, 1817.

I hope that you and every other person interested in the
College are reconciled to Mr. Everett’s plan of remaining
longer in Europe than was at first intended, as I am sure you
would be do you know the use he makes of his time, and the
benefit you are all to derive from his learning. Before I came
to Göttingen I used to wonder why it was that he wished to
remain here so long; I now wonder he can consent to leave
so soon. The truth is, you all mistake the cause of your
impatience: you believe that it comes from a desire of seeing
him at work for and giving celebrity to the College, but it
arises from a wish to have him in your society, at your dinner-
tables, at your suppers, your clubs, and your ladies, at your
tea-parties (you perceive I am aiming at Boston folks):
however, all who have formed such expectations must be
disappointed; he will find that most of these gratifications must
be sacrificed to attain the objects of a scholar’s ambition.
What can men think when they say that two years are
sufficient to make a Greek scholar? Does not everybody know
that it is the labor of half a common life to learn to read the
language with tolerable facility? I remember to have heard
little Drisen say, a few days after I came here, that he had
been spending eighteen years, at least sixteen hours a day,
exclusively upon Greek, and that he could not now read a
page of the tragedians without a dictionary. When I went
home I struck Greek from the list of my studies; I now think no
more of attaining it than I do of becoming an astrologer. In
fact, the most heart-breaking circumstance attending upon
human knowledge is that a man can never go any farther than
“to know how little’s to be known”; it fills, then, the mind of
scholars with despair to look upon the map of science, as it
does that of the traveler to look upon the map of the earth, for
both see what a mere speck can be traveled over, and of that
speck how imperfect is the knowledge which is acquired. Let
any one who believes that he has penetrated the mysteries of
all science, and learnt the powers and properties of whatever
is contained in the kingdoms of air, earth, fire, and water, but
just bring his knowledge to the test; let him, for example,
begin with what seems the simplest of all inquiries, and
enumerate the plants which grow upon the surface of the
globe, and call them by their names, and, when he finds that
this is beyond his limits, let him descend to a single class and
bring within it all that the unfathomed caves of ocean and the
unclimbed mountains bear; and as this is also higher than he
can reach, let him go still lower and include only one family, or
a particular species, or an individual plant, and mark his
points of ignorance upon each, and then, if his pride of
knowledge is not humbled enough, let him take but a leaf or
the smallest part of the most common flower, and give a
satisfactory solution for many of the phenomena they exhibit.
But, you will ask, is Göttingen the only place for the
acquisition of such learning? No, not the only, but I believe far
the best for such learning as it is necessary for Mr. E. to fit
him to make Cambridge in some degree a Göttingen, and
render it no longer requisite to depend upon the latter for the
formation of their scholars: it is true that very few of what the
Germans call scholars are needed in America; if there would
only be one thorough one to begin with, the number would
soon be sufficient for all the uses which could be made of
 them, and for the literary character of the country. This one, I
say, could never be formed there, because, in the first place,
there is no one who knows how it is to be done; secondly,
there are no books, and then, by the habits of desultory study
practiced there, are wholly incompatible with it. A man as a
scholar must be completely upset, to use a blacksmith’s
phrase; he must have learnt to give up his love of society and
of social pleasures, his interest in the common occurrences of
life, in the political and religious contentions of the country,
and in everything not directly connected with his single aim. Is
there any one willing to make such a sacrifice? This I cannot
answer, but I do assure you that it is the sacrifice made by
almost every man of classical learning in Germany, though to
be sure the sacrifice of the enjoyments of friendly intercourse
with mankind to letters is paying much less dear for fame here
than the same thing would be in America. For my own part I
am sorry I came here, because I was too old to be upset; like
a horseshoe worn thin, I shall break as soon as I begin to
wear on the other side: it makes me very restless at this
period of my life to find that I know nothing. I would not have
wished to have made the discovery unless I could at the
same time have been allowed to remain in some place where
I could get rid of my ignorance; and, now that I must go from
Göttingen, I have no hope of doing that.

The following from Edward Everett carries the war yet farther into
Africa, and criticises not merely American colleges, but also
secondary schools:—

Göttingen, September 17, 1817.

You must not laugh at me for proceeding to business the
first thing, and informing you in some sort as an argument,
that, if I have been unreasonable in prolonging my stay here, I
have at least passed my time not wholly to disadvantage,—
that I received this morning my diploma as Doctor of
Philosophy of this University, the first American, and as far as