You ask, if you shall say any thing
to Sullivan about the bill. No. Only that it is paid. I have, within
these two or three days, received letters from him explaining the
matter. It was really for the skin and bones of the moose, as I had
conjectured. It was my fault, that I had not given him a rough idea
of the expense I would be willing to incur for them. He had made the
acquisition an object of a regular campaign, and that too of a winter
one. The troops he employed sallied forth, as he writes me, in the month
of March--much snow--a herd attacked--one killed--in the wilderness--a
road to cut twenty miles--to be drawn by hand from the frontiers to his
house--bones to be cleaned, &c. &c. &c. In fine, he put himself to
an infinitude of trouble, more than I meant: he did it cheerfully, and I
feel myself really under obligations to him. That the tragedy might not
want a proper catastrophe, the box, bones, and all are lost: so that
this chapter of Natural History will still remain a blank. But I have
written to him not to send me another. I will leave it for my successor
to fill up, whenever I shall make my bow here.
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