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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 5, whole no. 28, June 1942
Page 5
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SPACEWAYS 5 AVE ATQUE VALE! and occasionally was my companion as I went about my daily work. I have recollections of him from almost every scene of my customary activities. In my own home, where he was always a most welcome guest, there's a rocking chair, and there's Peter, the big part-angora. Now Howard used to sit in that chair by the fireside and try to win the attention of the indifferent animal! He'd dangle his watch and chain to win a passing gleam and an outstretched paw as the chain swept by. Shall I ever forget the indescribably funny attempts Howard made to imitate the cat's inordinately loud purr--attempts which sounded, I declared, somewhat between a stifled peanut-stand whistle and the unsuccessful effort of a soda-fountain to explode! Howard was a great lover of cats. He used to write me most entertainingly and imaginatively of the Council of toms that sunned themselves on the roof of a shed beneath his window at 66 College Street. Then there's the pathetic black kitten that used to accompany him occasionally from his boarding house to his study. One day, for no known reason, the poor little animal fell dead. Describing the incident to me, Lovecraft expressed his emotion in verses of touching pathos and fine feeling which I quote, together with excerpts from the letter in which they came to me: "My fortnight of solitude has been signalized by a distressing plethora of work, a picturesque siege of indigestion which had me in bed 2 days (I'm hardly out of it now), and a sorrow of unfeigned poignancy...the passing of my little black friend across the garden, of whom I spoke so frequently last month, and whom I vainly tried to find when you were here. Poor little Sam Perkins! And he seemed to be getting along so well--even making his peace with the old Toms of the shed roof and becoming a member of the Kappa Alpha Tau! On the 7th he was here nearly all day--climbing over Grandpa, rustling the papers on the old gentleman's desk, and signing a letter to my aunt with a tiny footprint. But on the 10th he was found lifeless--from no apparent cause--in the garden, and was interr'd amidst universal mourning. Blessed little Pice of the Night--he lived but from June to September, and was spared the knowledge of what savage winter is like! The Kappa Alpha Tau chaunt his requiem o' nights, and I trust that Napoleon, His Grace, and Peter Ivanovitch may institute similar funerary observances. "The ancient garden seems tonight A deeper gloom to bear, As if some silent shadow's blight Were hov'ring in the air. "With hidden griefs the grasses sway Unable quite to word them-- Remembering from yesterday The little paws that stirr'd them." Of nights, I cannot sit in the quiet shades of my living room with Peter stretched out near by without thinking often of the many hours Howard and I have been there together in the course of the fourteen years during which he visited me in this house. Memories of the serious discussions, of banter and badinages and of all those exchanges of thought and soul that endear friendship flood my mind and leave an ache in my heart that these hours are never to be renewed. The historic sites of Quincy (of which Wollaston is a part)--the homes of the presidents, the church in which they repose, the Dorothy Q. house, Merrymount--all these, my daily environment, recall the spirited enthusiasm with which Howard visited them. Am I in Boston? There the drug store I pass daily on my way to work recalls the many occasions when it was the rendezvous for Howard and me when he came to Boston. I can call up instantly the picture of his tall figure, his long, almost cadaverous face, the inevitable black bag, and the peculiar case in which he carried his writing materials and a small telescope. How his somewhat somber features would light up with smiles, his eyes twinkle, and his hand reach forth in sincere greeting when I enter! Thee's Beacon
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SPACEWAYS 5 AVE ATQUE VALE! and occasionally was my companion as I went about my daily work. I have recollections of him from almost every scene of my customary activities. In my own home, where he was always a most welcome guest, there's a rocking chair, and there's Peter, the big part-angora. Now Howard used to sit in that chair by the fireside and try to win the attention of the indifferent animal! He'd dangle his watch and chain to win a passing gleam and an outstretched paw as the chain swept by. Shall I ever forget the indescribably funny attempts Howard made to imitate the cat's inordinately loud purr--attempts which sounded, I declared, somewhat between a stifled peanut-stand whistle and the unsuccessful effort of a soda-fountain to explode! Howard was a great lover of cats. He used to write me most entertainingly and imaginatively of the Council of toms that sunned themselves on the roof of a shed beneath his window at 66 College Street. Then there's the pathetic black kitten that used to accompany him occasionally from his boarding house to his study. One day, for no known reason, the poor little animal fell dead. Describing the incident to me, Lovecraft expressed his emotion in verses of touching pathos and fine feeling which I quote, together with excerpts from the letter in which they came to me: "My fortnight of solitude has been signalized by a distressing plethora of work, a picturesque siege of indigestion which had me in bed 2 days (I'm hardly out of it now), and a sorrow of unfeigned poignancy...the passing of my little black friend across the garden, of whom I spoke so frequently last month, and whom I vainly tried to find when you were here. Poor little Sam Perkins! And he seemed to be getting along so well--even making his peace with the old Toms of the shed roof and becoming a member of the Kappa Alpha Tau! On the 7th he was here nearly all day--climbing over Grandpa, rustling the papers on the old gentleman's desk, and signing a letter to my aunt with a tiny footprint. But on the 10th he was found lifeless--from no apparent cause--in the garden, and was interr'd amidst universal mourning. Blessed little Pice of the Night--he lived but from June to September, and was spared the knowledge of what savage winter is like! The Kappa Alpha Tau chaunt his requiem o' nights, and I trust that Napoleon, His Grace, and Peter Ivanovitch may institute similar funerary observances. "The ancient garden seems tonight A deeper gloom to bear, As if some silent shadow's blight Were hov'ring in the air. "With hidden griefs the grasses sway Unable quite to word them-- Remembering from yesterday The little paws that stirr'd them." Of nights, I cannot sit in the quiet shades of my living room with Peter stretched out near by without thinking often of the many hours Howard and I have been there together in the course of the fourteen years during which he visited me in this house. Memories of the serious discussions, of banter and badinages and of all those exchanges of thought and soul that endear friendship flood my mind and leave an ache in my heart that these hours are never to be renewed. The historic sites of Quincy (of which Wollaston is a part)--the homes of the presidents, the church in which they repose, the Dorothy Q. house, Merrymount--all these, my daily environment, recall the spirited enthusiasm with which Howard visited them. Am I in Boston? There the drug store I pass daily on my way to work recalls the many occasions when it was the rendezvous for Howard and me when he came to Boston. I can call up instantly the picture of his tall figure, his long, almost cadaverous face, the inevitable black bag, and the peculiar case in which he carried his writing materials and a small telescope. How his somewhat somber features would light up with smiles, his eyes twinkle, and his hand reach forth in sincere greeting when I enter! Thee's Beacon
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