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the village store but haven’t spent much time there,” Bronson said. “In general I find the men here have a tendency to pontificate endlessly.”
    Louisa bit her bottom lip and jabbed the needle into the toe seam to stifle a giggle.
    She could see the irony of the comment did not escape Emerson either, but he continued kindly. “What have you been reading lately? I have something intriguing that I think you’ll quite enjoy.”
    “All my old texts— Pilgrim’s Progress , Aids to Reflection , Plato. You know how I feel that one must read the same works again and again to truly extract the meaning. But let no one say Alcott’s mind is closed to the new.”
    Emerson grinned at the proclamation. Bronson fancied himself a grand man, and though his lofty way of speaking endeared him to Emerson, it sometimes earned him ridicule from others.
    “This appeared just a few weeks ago, out of the ether.” Emerson pulled a volume the size of a prayer book from his jacket pocket. The book was bound in green cloth with gold-stamped type on the front cover and spine, and Louisa strained to see the title. “The poet calls it Leaves of Grass . And—you will not believe this when I tell you—his name is nowhere to be found on the cover.”
    Bronson’s eyes widened. “He doesn’t identify himself?” To two men quite enamored of the sight of their own names in print, the news was shocking.
    “None. Only this.” Emerson opened to the frontispiece. “A daguerreotype of the poet. Dressed like a scoundrel, I might add.”
    He handed the book to Bronson, who flipped slowly through its pages. “And what is the nature of the verse?”
    “It is the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom an American has ever contributed.”
    Bronson, who knew his friend was not prone to exaggeration, raised his eyebrows.
    “His words and form are transcendental in every meaning of the word. There’s nothing else like it I’ve ever seen.”
    Louisa realized she had been holding her breath. The hole in the much-darned stocking remained, the needle pinched between her index finger and thumb. She had never heard Mr. Emerson talk this way before. He sat on the edge of his chair, his typically sober demeanor alive with excitement.
    “You will find, I think . . .” Emerson hesitated. “ . . . that his subject matter is . . . peculiar. A bit shocking.” He gave a quick glance in Louisa’s direction. “And certainly not meant for the eyes of our counterparts.” Louisa realized glumly that he’d been aware of her presence all along. “In any case, they wouldn’t be able to make much sense of it, I don’t think. This is the poet of the man, the American man, and the meaning and responsibilities of his radical freedom.”
    Bronson turned the volume in his hands. “And you know nothing of his identity?”
    “Aha.” Emerson raised an index finger. “I did not, until a few nights ago. I saw an advertisement with a picture of the book, and beneath that, for the first time, the poet’s name. Mr. Walt Whitman, of Brooklyn, New York. You must read it as soon as you can, my friend. I am anxious to hear your thoughts on his work.”
    “I will begin it as soon as we part. Your recommendation is enough to convince me.” Bronson smeared butter on a slice of bread he’d been eyeing throughout the conversation. “And your own work—does it go well?”
    Emerson nodded. “I am finishing a volume of essays on my visits to England.” He pulled his watch from his waist pocket and squinted at it. “In fact, I should be on my way now. It is nearly afternoon.”
    The men rose. Bronson walked his friend to the front door and shook his hand. Emerson nodded to Louisa and asked Bronson to wish Mrs. Alcott well. When Bronson turned back, his eyes registered Louisa’s presence, but he took no notice of her. His mind was far away on something else. He reached for the strange volume of poetry Emerson had been so eager to show him and turned toward his