Project Gutenberg's Rambles with John Burroughs, by Robert John De Loach This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Rambles with John Burroughs Author: Robert John De Loach Release Date: October 20, 2011 [EBook #37811] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMBLES WITH JOHN BURROUGHS *** Produced by Roberta Staehlin, David Garcia, Matthew Wheaton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) JOHN BURROUGHS RAMBLES WITH JOHN BURROUGHS R. J. H. De LOACH Illustrated with photographs by the Author RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON Copyright 1912 by Richard G. Badger All Rights Reserved The Gorham Press, Boston, Mass. To THE DEAR OLD UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA and her Noble faculty who have ever inspired me I dedicate this little volume PREFACE There is a longing in every student's life some time or other to share his pleasure with the world, and if he happens to find himself in the proper environment he cannot forego that pleasure. His studies, his anxieties, his loves and his devotions are a part of him and he cannot give himself to the world without giving these. My personal contact with John Burroughs has meant a great deal to me and these papers represent in a measure what I have enjoyed, though they come far short of what I would like them to be. Some of them were written among his native hills and it is hoped they will give the flavor of his own experiences. Others were written at odd times on trains, on boats, and in my study here, where I have enjoyed re-reading so many times his essays on Nature. The qualities of the man and his papers have always made a direct appeal to me, and I love to come in contact with him and spend days with him. [5] Long before they were printed in book form, I had collected most of his poems in my old scrap book and studied them. Their simplicity and beauty combined with their perfect rhythm impressed me and almost at one reading I was able to remember them line for line. The names of Burroughs and Whitman are forever linked together and one can hardly think of one in certain relations without thinking of the other. To the literary public they have many ideals in common, and their bonds of sympathy have been knit together forever in Burroughs essays. To be associated with Burroughs is therefore to get many interesting and valuable hints on the life and works of Whitman. While I write this preface Mr. Burroughs talks with me in the evenings on the possible future influence of Whitman on American literary methods and criticism. The reader will not be surprised therefore, to find in this collection of papers, one on the relation of these two grand old men. I have not attempted to interpret John Burroughs. He is his own interpreter and the very best one. In writing the papers, I have had in mind only just what he has meant to me. How he has affected me and changed the course of my life. How he has given me new eyes with which to see, new ears with which to hear, and a new heart with which to love God's great out-o'-doors. Athens, Ga. January, 1911. CONTENTS PAGE The Simple Life 11 Around Slabsides And The Den 36 John Burroughs In The South 48 Rambles Around Roxbury 64 The Old Clump 82 John Burroughs As Poet 93 John Burroughs And Walt Whitman 108 John Burroughs And The Birds 124 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE John Burroughs Frontispiece In the Old Barn 16 The Old Stone Wall built by Deacon Scudder 24 The Study 32 Slabsides 40 Burroughs Listening to the Cardinal in Georgia 48 At the Bars in front of The Old Burial Ground 56 Over the Site of his Grandfather's Old Home 64 Under a Catskill Ledge where he has often been protected from the rain in summer 72 A Catskill Mountain Side 80 Under the Old Grey Ledge 88 On the Summit of the Old Clump 96 Looking across the Pasture Wall 104 Stones marking Site of Thoreau's Cabin 112 Pointing out the Junco's Nest 128 [6] [7] [9] My Chickadee's Nest 140 THE SIMPLE LIFE I The great majority of people consider that this expression about defines a summer outing, or a camping trip and that is the end of it. They cannot associate it with any form of living for they have not tried the simple life. A few weeks in summer they are in the habit of unfolding their tents and going away to the mountains where they can for a short while rid themselves of conventionalities and try out nature. On such occasions they are forced to do most of their own work, and hence are primarily interested in reducing this to the minimum. Usually those who seek this form of the simple life are glad when the spell is over and they are back safely in the home. Once in awhile and perhaps at long intervals, the world gives birth to a character tuned in a lower key than the average of us, that by virtue of its inborn love of simplicity and lack of things to worry over, prefers to remove the deadly weights of the conventional and to live in harmony with the forces of the world. In this way native merits are allowed to expand and grow. Such persons are meek and lowly with much humility of spirit and usually gifted with a great capacity for love. Unconsciously they are continually weeding out everything from their lives that tends in any way to abate their natural forces, and by the time they are far on the way of life they have become entirely free from those things that hold most of us aloof from the best the world has to offer. The human race has given very few such characters to the world, in fact not a great enough number to formulate in any sense a law of the probability and chance of their production. Diogenes is an illustration of such a character, who after an early life of luxury, settled upon an extremely simple life during his later years, and grew in wisdom and understanding in proportion to his devotion to such life. Gilbert White after a thorough college training refused many offers to appointments to honorable posts in order to live simply at the Wakes and make a complete record of the Natural History about Selburne. In preference to large paying positions in many parts of the Kingdom, he chose clerical work at very low pay that he may remain at home and not miss any important event in the Natural History thereabouts. Thoreau is another type of the advocate of the simple life. He could have remained about Concord all his days as other men and have amounted to as little as many of them did, if he had preferred. But instead, he deliberately planned an experiment in plain living and high thinking. It has been thought by many that he was an extremist, but how many of us there are who would gladly take his claim to immortality. His experiment was a success. So soon as he cast off all obstacles to free thinking, his mind seized on the things he most loved and desired, and made him famous. Another character that belongs in this category, and the one in whom we are the most concerned in the present paper, is John Burroughs. Born in one of the most beautiful sections of a great country, and reared on a farm where he learned first hand the secrets of nature, he has never departed far from the simple life. At the age of seventy-five he still finds greatest comfort away from any human habitation, and the earth beneath—the sky above, and nothing to mar his inner musings. Strange to say the happiest environment that ever comes to him is amid the very hills where he first saw the light. Recently, he confessed as he lifted his eyes to a Catskill sunrise: "How much these dear old hills mean to me! When in my playful youth little did I think as I went along this roadway to school every morning that some day I should fall back upon these scenes for thought, love, inspiration! O what a wholesome effect they have upon me!" This I am sure is not an exaggerated statement of the case. He really longs to get back among the hills of his nativity on the return of summer, and so long as health and strength permits he will 'return to the place of his birth, though he cannot go back to his youth.' There in the quiet of the country, nestled among those beautiful hills and valleys, he can get into the free and wholesome open air and live as he likes, while the many pleasant memories of his earlier days seem to act as a lubricant to his already active mind. A simple life is not necessarily a life of idleness, but may on the other hand be the very busiest of lives. In fact, is the product of any mind as wholesome, as pure, as great as it might be when the denominator is not reduced to its lowest terms? Let us not get the little summer visit to the mountains confused with the larger simple life. Very few campers on a summer vacation ever know the real joy of a quiet life as Thoreau lived it at Walden Pond, or as Burroughs lives it at Slabsides in spring and at Woodchuck Lodge in summer. Such a life as I am writing about is a psychological condition as well as a physical environment, and results from a choice or preference of two or more methods of living. It carries with it no regrets, no envy, no covetousness. Perhaps such a life would prove impossible when forced upon one, but happy indeed is he who, having lived as other men, learns "to reduce the necessities of subsistence to their lowest terms" and proves, "that in every life there is time to be wise, and opportunity to tend the growth of the spirit." 'Tis then and [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] only then that he can "share the great, sunny, joyous life of the earth, or be as happy as the birds are! as contented as the cattle on the hills! as the leaves of the trees that dance and rustle in the wind! as the waters that murmur and sparkle to the sea!" All of this I think John Burroughs has realized if ever any man has realized it. Sitting in an old barn about a hundred yards from Woodchuck Lodge, his summer home, in his home-made chair, and for his writing desk an old chicken coop with one board-covered side, and a large piece of heavy manila paper covering this, is the way I found him at work. In front of the opening or barn door was The Old Clump, the mountain of his boyhood days to inspire, to uplift him. Even the summer home in which he lives savors too much of the conventional. To be absolutely free is a consummation devoutly to be sought for—and this he finds, experiences, cherishes. Writing at seventy-five? Yes, thinking and writing,—but writing, thinking and living best when living simplest. With his dark brown wash-suit and cap on, he is not afraid to sit or roll on mother earth nor to climb a tree if necessary. Before breakfast we go to gather some apples for the table, and nothing would do but I should hold the basket while he mounted the tree and picked the apples. Then over the brow of the hill after breakfast to get potatoes for dinner—but to stop long enough at the old barn for a snap-shot of him and to learn of the junco's nest built in the hay only six feet from his chicken-coop desk. The bird as busy in her work rearing her young as Burroughs writing his essays, and the two blend beautifully in the picturesque barn. This is the only record, he tells me, of a junco nesting under human habitation, so I get two very good pictures of the bird entering the nest. Only a few weeks before, he had remodeled Woodchuck Lodge and put a rustic porch on it. His niece, referring to Mr. Burroughs during the time, says: "I never saw a happier person than Uncle John was then. He would work all day and rest well at night, and was in a happy mood all the time. If there ever was such a thing as a happy person on earth, I think he was then." And nothing delights him more now than to point out the different pieces of furniture he made with his own hands. Every piece of it is up to the standard of the Craftsman, and the buffet and dining table quite tasty, while the rustic reading table and cot showed considerable ingenuity in the adaptation of odd-shaped pieces of bark covered wood to man's needs. All in all, it was an excellent piece of work, and far more picturesque than any factory work I ever saw. This man of whom we write is in many respects a wonderful man. His first dash into literature was purely and simply Transcendentalism, a kind of a mixture of Emersonian philosophy and metaphysics, and is by no means poor literature, but perhaps far too complicated or vague for the mental fibre of its author. So he starts from the first again and writes about the common things of the farm and forest. "It was mainly to break the spell of Emerson's influence," he says, "and get upon ground of my own that I took to writing upon out-door themes." The selection has been a happy one and has probably done much to recast, as it were, the author of Expression—to reduce his denominator, if not increase the numerator. Thinking and writing on every-day themes has induced him to almost get out and live with the animals and plants. It has very largely been responsible for the growth of his sane, wholesome mind housed in such a healthy body. Under no other conditions it seems to me could he have given to the world "so much of sane thinking, cool judgment, dispassionate reasoning, so many evidences of a calm outlook upon life and the world." In fact, could he have experienced these things in conventional life? His philosophy is well ripened and at the same time wonderfully human and appreciative. Each new book from his pen shows in every way the intense enthusiasm of the author for the great study that he has made his life work. BURROUGHS IN THE OLD BARN IN WHICH HE DOES HIS WRITING BURROUGHS IN THE OLD BARN IN WHICH HE DOES HIS WRITING We may ask, how does he spend his time in this country home when not actually engaged in writing? Going about from farm to farm talking to the common people about the seasons, the crops, and perhaps now and then advising with them [16] [17] [18] on some phase of farm work, such as curing hay or mowing grain. Sometimes he goes to the mountains and under some ledge of rocks he will be found studying the nature of the geological formation of the earth. A small angled stone in his hand, he picks into the side of the stone wall and makes some interesting discovery. While thus engaged, he hears in the hemlock forest behind him lively bird notes, and suddenly turning gets a glimpse of the author when for the first time in that particular woods he sees the warbling or white-eyed vireo. On his return he follows up a stone fence for several hundred feet to get a little study of the chipmunk, or to locate a new flower that he happens not to have seen this season. He knows where it ought to be, but has not located it yet. With the growth, color, and size of a particular species he associates its environment and perhaps learns something new about this too before he reaches home again. Wherever his fancy leads him, whether it be to the trout stream or the mountain side, he shows a wonderful vigor, keen vision, and alert attention to the life about him that is apparent in all his writings. I find no other writer on Natural History themes quite up to Burroughs in honesty and keenness of observation, delicacy of sentiment, and eloquent simplicity of style. For the past few years, Burroughs' mind has turned to philosophy rather than Nature study—the causes of things rather than things. This is to be expected of one who has given the mind opportunity for consecutive development for the past half century. He has always been a philosopher, but only his two last volumes of essays—Ways of Nature, and Leaf and Tendril show the deeper currents in his life. It is in these that we see him much concerned about the constitution of nature and the history of creation. His mind has ripened to this, and it is surprising to know how versatile he is on the structure of organic beings, and the geological formation of the earth's crust, and the evolution of life. Perhaps no nature writer, ancient or modern, is so largely responsible for the universal interest in the nature study movement at the present time, as John Burroughs. How many he leads to an appreciation of nature! and how many personal friends he has among all classes of people! Then too his writings have recently found their way to the schools —thanks to Miss Burt. With all his love for the freedom of the woods and mountains, he is a sociable being, and is thereby subject to many interruptions from friends. But despite this he has accomplished far more in the way of substantial writing than the average author, and recently said that if he keeps up his present rate he will soon have his shelves filled with his own writings. One thing is quite conspicuous about his relation to other people—His friends are the warmest of friends, and whenever I have been with him, he has had a good deal to say about them. In his Indoor Studies, he confesses that he is too conscious of persons. "I feel them too much, defer to them too much, and try too hard to adapt myself to them." But there is a certain influence he has felt from friends that has, in all probability, given him a calmer and more beautiful outlook upon the world. Often he is invited to dine with the rich, but always reluctantly accepts, and I think the best part of it to him is his return to the simple life. He says: "I am bound to praise the simple life, because I have lived it and found it good. When I depart from it, evil results follow. I love a small house, plain clothes, simple living. How free one feels, how good the elements taste, how close one gets to them, how they fit one's body and one's soul!" II Not many years after I had known Mr. Burroughs personally, it occurred to me to look up his literary record and see just how his years have been spent and associate with this the fruit of his labors. The long jump from Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person (1867), his first book to Leaf and Tendril (1908), his last volume, marks a wonderful change in interest and study. But the record is made, the books stand for themselves, and we would not have it otherwise. This is the way of nature and of her best interpreter, John Burroughs, whose nature books almost have the fresh and sweet flavor of wild strawberries, and tell in unmistakable language the author's love for and knowledge of the out-door world in which he has spent so much of his life. Reared in the country, he knows country life and country people and loves them. In his early years, his mind must have been very susceptible to impressions of truthful observations, which formed a setting for his after work. Of this I think he is still conscious, judging from the advice he gives teachers in a copy of the Pennsylvania School Journal I happen to have before me. "I confess, I am a little skeptical about the good of any direct attempt to teach children to 'see nature.' The question with me would be rather how to treat them or lead them so that they would not lose the love of nature which as children, they already have. Every girl and every boy up to a certain age loves nature and has a quick eye for the curious and interesting things in the fields and woods. But as they grow older and the worldly habit of mind grows upon them, they lose this love; this interest in nature becomes only so much inert matter to them. The boy may keep up his love of fishing and of sport, and thus keep in touch with certain phases of nature, but the girl gradually loses all interest in out-door things. "If I were a teacher I would make excursions into the country with my children; we would picnic together under the trees, and I would contrive to give them a little live botany. They should see how much a flower meant to me. What we find out ourselves tastes so good! I would as far as possible let the child be his own teacher. The spirit of inquiry— awaken that in him if you can—if you cannot, the case is about hopeless. "I think that love of nature which becomes a precious boon and solace in life, does not as a rule show itself in the youth. The youth is a poet in feeling, and generally he does not care for poetry. He is like a bulb—rich in those substances that are to make the future flower and fruit of the plant. "As he becomes less a poet in his unconscious life, he will take more and more to poetry as embodied in literary forms. In the same way, as he recedes from nature, as from his condition of youthful savagery, he is likely to find more and more interest in the wild life about him. Do not force a knowledge of natural things upon him too young." [19] [20] [21] [22] If Mr. Burroughs had been taught nature after the academic fashion, he would never have developed the love for the subject that is so evident in all his out-door books. My impression is that his early environment was best suited to him and he was the child so "like a bulb." He absorbed nature without having any consciousness of what it meant. "I was born of and among people," he says, "who neither read books nor cared for them, and my closest associations since have been with those whose minds have been alien to literature and art. My unliterary environment has doubtless been best suited to me. Probably what little freshness and primal sweetness my books contain is owing to this circumstance. Constant intercourse with bookish men and literary circles I think would have dwarfed or killed my literary faculty. This perpetual rubbing heads together, as in literary clubs, seems to result in literary sterility. In my own case at least what I most needed was what I had—a few books and plenty of things." The roaming over the hills and mountains and following up trout streams was most conducive to his life, and thus it was he spent his odd hours and rest-days. This gave him "plenty of real things," and just what they have meant to him you will be able to learn from his twelve out-door volumes. But what brought all this long string of books out of him? How comes it that he turned to literature as a profession? From the earliest he had a passion for authorship, and when in the "teens" resolved to become a writer. "It was while I was at school, in my nineteenth year," he says, "that I saw my first author; and I distinctly remember with what emotion I gazed upon him, and followed him in the twilight, keeping on the other side of the street.... I looked upon him with more reverence and enthusiasm than I had ever looked upon any man.... I suppose this was the instinctive tribute of a timid and imaginative youth to a power which he was beginning vaguely to see—the power of letters." By this time Mr. Burroughs had begun to see his own thoughts in print in a country newspaper. He also began writing essays about the same time and sending them to various periodicals only to receive "them back pretty promptly." These perhaps rather conventional papers on such subjects as Genius, Individuality, A Man and His Times, etc., served a great purpose. They tutored the author of them into his better papers that were welcomed by the editor of the Atlantic Monthly and other leading periodicals. In his twenty-first year, he discovered Emerson—so to speak—in a Chicago book-store, and says: "All that summer I fed upon these essays and steeped myself in them." No doubt Emerson's essays had a wonderful influence on this young reader and almost swamped him. They warped him out of his orbit so far, that had he not resolved to get back upon ground of his own, we would never have had Wake Robin. Emerson had complete possession of him for a time and was hard to shake off, but constant writing upon out-door themes did the work, and put Burroughs back in possession of himself. THE OLD STONE WALL IN FRONT OF THE BURROUGHS HOME, BUILT BY DEACON SCUDDER. THE CATSKILLS DIMLY SHOW IN THE DISTANCE In the year 1863, he went to Washington apparently to join the army, but somehow never did. Instead of this, he [23] [24] [25] received an appointment in the Treasury, as a guardian of a vault, to count the money that went in or came out. During this time he had many leisure moments which he put to good account writing his nature sketches that make up his first nature book, Wake Robin. Before he had been in the National Capital a great while he became acquainted with the poet Walt Whitman, and immediately fell in with him. Whitman's poetry was not new to Burroughs who had already developed a taste for it. The man Whitman seemed to be an embodiment of the poetry, Leaves of Grass, and Burroughs was so greatly moved by a study of the man that he soon began making notes of this study which resulted in his first book—Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person (1867). This little volume is one of the best, raciest and freshest books on Whitman, and certainly is as readable as Burroughs' later book on Whitman: A Study, (1896). To any man, who would rise in the world, one thing must become evident; he must know that the idle moments must be the busiest of all. On this basis Burroughs worked. While at his work in the Treasury, he recalled his many experiences in the Western Catskills, and wrote these experiences. His Sundays and Holidays were spent in the woods around the National Capital that he may each season increase his knowledge about natural history. The Atlantic Monthly began to publish his nature papers about 1864, the year after he reached Washington, and has continued to do so at regular intervals ever since. In fact at the present time that periodical has three of Burroughs' essays yet unpublished. Wake Robin, a collection of these early nature sketches and his first book on out-door themes, was published in 1871, just four years after the little book on Whitman came from the press. Perhaps we have no more readable book on bird life than this volume of nature sketches, which won for the writer immediate and complete success. Mr. Joel Benton formally introduced Burroughs to American literary people in the old Scribner's Monthly in 1876 while his third volume, Winter Sunshine (1875), was fresh in the mind of the public. In this timely article Mr. Benton claims: "What first strikes me in Mr. Burroughs's work, even above its well-acquired style, is the unqualified weight of conscience it exhibits. There is no posturing for effect; an admiration he does not have he never mimics. We find in him, therefore, a perfectly healthy and hearty flavor. Apparently, he does not put his pen to paper hastily, or until he is filled with his subject. What has been aptly termed the secondary, or final stage of thought, has with him full play.... A natural observer of things, he summons all the facts, near or remote—there is no side-light too small—and, when the material is all in, it seems to undergo a long incubation in his mind; or shows at least that reflection has done its perfect and many- sided work. Under his careful treatment and keen eye for the picturesque, the details get the proper artistic distribution and stand forth in poetic guise. The essay, when it appears, comes to us freighted with 'the latest news' from the meadows and the woods, and bears the unmistakable imprint of authenticity." This is a good testimonial from a good source, especially since it is the first public utterance of an opinion by an authority, on the quality of Burroughs' literary work. In a recent letter, Mr. Benton writes: "I did not say Burroughs was made by me, or that he remembers the priority of my article, but that I had the privilege and honor of being the first to write about him." This paper, I am sure, renewed his hopes for literary distinction and fame, and perhaps encouraged him to greater efforts. In Birds and Poets (1877), we find our nature student measuring other men's observations by his own deductions. He is beginning to branch out in literature and note nature references in the poets and now and then calls them to taw for stepping beyond the bounds of truth. Here we find Burroughs as much of a student of literature as he is of nature, and as delightful in his literary references as one could desire. Ten years after his appointment, he tired of his clerkship in the Treasury, as he resigned in 1872 to become receiver for a broken bank in Middletown, New York. Pretty soon after leaving Washington, he was made bank examiner for the Eastern part of New York State, which position he held till 1885. Since this last date he has depended entirely on literature and on a small farm for a livelihood. He purchased a place up the Hudson river at West Park about 1873 and began immediately to build a stone mansion which he named Riverby, and in which he has lived since its completion. But stone houses did not prove best suited for his literary work and he built a small bark covered study only a few yards from Riverby in which he has done most of his literary work. The most active period of his literary career was when he settled at West Park. Mention has already been made of Birds and Poets (1877). The magazines are full of his essays at this time and the volumes come thick in the blast: Locust and Wild Honey (1879), Pepacton and Other Sketches (1881), Fresh Fields (1884), Signs and Seasons (1886). The increased revenue from his books and literary work, supplemented by his little grape farm, enabled him to resign as Bank examiner in 1885, as above suggested, and he has never held office of any kind since. It was about at the age of fifty that Mr. Burroughs seems to have developed a considerable consciousness of literature as an art, as a consequence of which we find him beginning to write papers on literary criticism and Indoor Studies (1889). From this time on his nature books are written in a different key, just as interesting but not quite as enthusiastic, and in most of them a touch of nature philosophy. In 1886 there appeared in the Popular Science Monthly an essay by him under the caption, Science and Theology, which showed pretty clearly the deeper currents of his mind. This paper was followed by others of its kind for several years until they were collected into a volume, The Light of Day, Religious Discussions and Criticism from the Naturalist's Point of View (1900). Studies on such themes are the logical outcome of the growth and development of a mind like that of Burroughs', and in the present case the papers are accompanied with that "unqualified weight of conscience" referred to in Mr. Benton's article and are valuable discussions on themes that never grow old. Again we find him delighting himself and the reading public on his out-door observations around Riverby (1894), his stone house by the Hudson, in the preface to which he expresses the belief that this is to be his last volume of out-door essays. Whitman: A Study (1896), and Literary Values (1902), are books for the critic and are fully up to the standard in that field of activity. This book on Whitman is claimed by many scholars to be the best criticism of Whitman yet published. It is a strong defense of the "Good Gray Poet" and his literary method. Beginning with the year 1900, and perhaps a little earlier, there developed a great demand from the public for a larger crop of nature books and a great [26] [27] [28] [29] [30] many of our good writers, seeing this demand, began to try to fill it whether they were naturalists or not, and the consequence was that a great many fake nature stories got before the reading public. This, of course, bore heavily on Mr. Burroughs' mind who had lived so long with nature trying to understand her ways and laws, who in 1903 issued his protest against this practice in a strong article, "Real and Sham Natural History," in the March Atlantic Monthly of that year. This paper brought forth a warfare between the two schools of nature study in America, the romantic school and the scientific or the sane or sober school, which did not end till about 1908, and in fact, a little fruit of the controversy still crops out here and there in magazines and papers. In this controversy Burroughs won the battle of his life. The main point at issue was: Do animals have reason to any degree in the sense that man has reason? Burroughs claimed that they do not, and the romantic school claimed that they do, and to prove the claim hatched up a great many fairy tales about the animals and declared that these statements were made from observations under their own eyes. Before it was over, Burroughs had won the strong support of Mr. Frank M. Chapman, the ornithologist; Dr. Wm. M. Wheeler, W. F. Ganong, and Mr. Roosevelt, then the President of the United States, together with a great many other distinguished naturalists. It was natural and fitting that Burroughs should be the first one to come to the rescue of popular natural history, when it seemed to be falling into the hands of romancers, as he was and is the dean of American nature writers and is our best authority on the behavior of animals under natural conditions. The result of this controversy was the publication of Ways of Nature (1905), containing all the papers which were the outcome of the currents of thought and inquiry that the controversy set going in his mind. The volume contains many fine illustrations of his claims and is a complete answer to the many attacks made upon him by his enemies in this controversy. At the urgent request of his many friends he collected in a volume and published his poems, Bird and Bough (1906), which for perfect cadence and simple sweetness have not been surpassed by any of our minor poems. In 1903, he went west with President Roosevelt and spent the month of April in Yellowstone Park studying natural history with him. The President surprised Mr. Burroughs in his broad knowledge and enthusiastic study of nature. The little volume, Camping and Tramping with Roosevelt (1907), contains an account of this trip and brings out Mr. Roosevelt's strong points as a naturalist. During the last few years his philosophy has been ripening and a great deal of his energy has been spent in working out natural philosophy rather than natural history, though he has never gotten away from the latter. His last volume of essays, Leaf and Tendril (1908), contains a resume of his studies along this line and are, perhaps, the most readable of all of his late books. Another volume of papers is now in the hands of the printers, which will likely appear in print next spring (1912). The names and dates of appearance of his many volumes are as follows, and mark the evolution of his mind: 1867—Notes on Walt Whitman, as Poet and Person. 1871—Wake Robin. 1875—Winter Sunshine. 1877—Birds and Poets. 1879—Locusts and Wild Honey. 1881—Pepacton and Other Sketches. 1884—Fresh Fields. 1886—Signs and Seasons. 1889—Indoor Studies. 1894—Riverby. 1896—Whitman: A Study. 1900—The Light of Day. 1902—Literary Values. 1902—John James Audubon, A Biography. 1904—Far and Near. 1905—Ways of Nature. 1906—Bird and Bough. 1907—Camping and Tramping with Roosevelt. 1908—Leaf and Tendril. [31] [32] [33] THE DEN, BURROUGHS' STUDY NEAR HIS STONE MANSION, RIVERBY, AT WEST PARK THE DEN, BURROUGHS' STUDY NEAR HIS STONE MANSION, RIVERBY, AT WEST PARK This does not include a great many papers that were never printed in book form, nor many of his books and parts of them edited by other writers. This list is a good account of a life well spent, and treats of almost all phases of our American natural history. In the main, Mr. Burroughs has been a stay-at-home pretty much all his life, though he has been about some. In 1872, he was sent to England, and returned there of his own accord in the eighties. An account of these visits will be found in the two volumes, Winter Sunshine and Fresh Fields. From Alaska, 1899, and the island of Jamaica, 1902, he brought back material for most of the volume, Far and Near. In recent years he has visited the Golden West and Honolulu, an account of which we shall doubtless see in his volume now in press. The best part of all his travels is undoubtedly his return to the simple life at West Park and Roxbury, New York. His little bark covered study near by Riverby, where he has done so much of his writing, was his first love up to a few years ago. At present, his Roxbury summer home, Woodchuck Lodge, seems to be his place of greatest interest. In either place, he can lounge about as he sees fit and feel at ease, as he can no where else. Wherever he goes he continues writing in his ripe old age, and only last summer (1911), completed eight new essays while on an extended stay at Woodchuck Lodge. In the morning, from eight till twelve, he does his best work, and in the afternoon he rambles around the old place of his birth and among his neighbors. In the preparation of the above eight essays, he writes: "I lost eight pounds of flesh which I do not expect to regain." He is now beginning to "serenely fold his hands and wait" for the inevitable end, though the chances are he will live many years and win many battles against Nature Fakers and put many awkward students of nature in the paths of righteous observation. Strong and healthy, he can climb fences, ascend mountain heights with very little fatigue. Writing of his experiences with a party of friends in California, March, 1911, he says: "During the mountain climbing the other day, I set the pace and tired them all out. Mr. Brown, of the Dial, is sixty-six, but he had to stop and eat a sandwich and have some coffee before the top was reached." Not many of the school of literary men to which he belongs are now living. But what does he say to this: "The forces that destroy us are going their appointed ways, and if they turned out or made an exception on our account, the very foundations of the universe would be impeached." If needs be, I am sure he can boldly and fearlessly, "Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach the end, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams," and if needs be, I am as well persuaded that he can for another score of years, teach the world how to observe nature. He is optimistic and has always been, because he has always found plenty to do. His friends enjoy each victory he makes, and are glad to see so much interest center about his name as the years roll by. [34] [35] [36] AROUND SLABSIDES AND THE DEN It was a cloudy day in December when I made my first trip up the Hudson River to the home of John Burroughs, and how well I recall the invitation into the Den. On opening the door I stood face to face with the object of my pilgrimage, the distinguished naturalist, a man of low stature, rather small frame, a well formed head and sharp eyes, and much younger in appearance than his photographs would indicate. His hair is white, but he can read without glasses and see birds better with the natural eye than I can. He had on a brown jersey wool coat or jacket, beneath which was a vest and trousers of spotted brown and dark to match, all of which were well set to his body and limbs. His shoes were of cloth and rubber with rubber bottoms. When he walked out he put on a short gray overcoat, a small crushed brown or gray hat, and arctic overshoes. His general appearance would not indicate that you were with John Burroughs, but if you got a clear view of his face and eye, you could not mistake him for an ordinary man. West Park, the little station on the West Shore branch of the New York Central and Hudson River R. R., is a small village with not more than a hundred houses, and is quiet and almost puts one in a dreaming mood, when he thinks of being in the land of the great Literary Naturalist, who drew the most of his neighbors there. The Burroughs home, popularly known as Riverby, is in perfect keeping with the nature of the man. Hidden from the street behind a number of evergreens, it presents rather a secluded appearance, and is a part of nature rather than apart from nature. The house seems as if it sprang up from the soil, the lower half not yet above the ground. About twenty-five or thirty yards from the house is the study, which is pre-eminently the place of interest to the visitor. On entering this cozy little den—I found Mr. Burroughs reading Evolution and Ethics, by Huxley, and upon remarking that I noted what he was reading, his reply was that he had thought of writing something along that line and he wished to see what had already been said. "Right at this time," he said, "my mind is rather in a chaotic condition. I am not sure just what I shall hit upon next. I cannot definitely plan out my writing; but rather write when the mood comes on. I feel that I want to write on a particular subject and just get about it." When I expressed my appreciation of his great service in the way of interpreting nature, and reducing life from the conventional to the simple, he remarked at once: "I have never run after false gods, but have always tried to get at the truth of things, and let come of it what may. I do not believe in hiding the truth. Whatever I have accomplished in the way of writing, I attribute to this fact." This led me to ask him about "Real and Sham Natural History" (an essay written by him that appeared in the March Atlantic, 1903). He leant back in his chair and after a wholesome laugh, "Yes, I found it necessary to say something about the tendency of men like Thompson and Long who were taking advantage of their skill as writers and their popularity, to fool the people with those nature myths. If they had not advertised them as truth, it would have been all right. But when I saw that they persisted in teaching that the stories were true to nature, I could not stand it any longer. I just had to expose them! I could not rest till I had told the people that such stories were false!" Here Mr. Burroughs grew quite spirited, and his very manner indicated his lack of patience with those who make an effort to falsify nature. "I do not think that Long will ever forgive me for telling on him, but Seton Thompson is quite different. He seems to be all right and has shown me much courtesy at two or three dinners in New York. His wife, however, seems to have been hurt worse than Thompson himself. She is a little shy of me yet. I trust however that she will soon be all right. I have dined with them and she treated me very nicely." "Are these the only two that were offended by the article?" I asked. "What do you think of Miss Blanchon?" "She is a very pleasing writer, and writes rather for the younger readers. She is generally reliable—never says a thing that she is not convinced is true. I have been out with her and she has a very keen eye. She reads nature well. I think she is a genuine nature student." "I note that in the preface to your little volume of poems, some one could forgive you everything but your poetry. Who was so unkind to you?" After talking at length about the polemical essay, it interested me very much to hear Mr. Burroughs say that after all the article was probably of passing importance only and had likely served its purpose, so let it drop. He had seen good evidence of the fruit it had borne. Already it had become evident that he was worried about this false spirit among certain unreliable writers, and soon he began to tell me of his new article soon to appear in Outing (and which did appear in the February number, 1907). He had no patience with these Fake writers, and did not see any reason for the editors to allow themselves to be duped in such a manner. I shall not forget the expression he used in portraying his efforts to deal with such writers. "I just 'spank' them good for telling such lies. I have no patience with such writers, who doubtless are trying to follow in the steps of Long, and I cannot content myself to remain silent. If they did not vow that such stories were actual observations, I could forgive them. But here is where the danger comes." At times he showed his impatience, then he would tell one of these unbelievable stories, and burst into wholesome laughter. "Nothing but lies," he said. "A bigger lie was never told." After I had been gone for an hour to walk around the little West Shore station, I returned to the "Study" and found Mr. Burroughs cutting wood for his study fire. I said to him: "You still enjoy cutting your wood, do you?" "Yes," he says, "I find some daily exercise aside from my walks, necessary in order for me to keep my health. I feel better when I take my daily exercise." "What kind of wood is this you use?" [36] [37] [38] [39] [40] "Beech." When we had taken the wood to the study, the time had come for us to journey over the mountains to Slabsides, and that was what I was eager to do. For I was anxious to see the far-famed cabin in the woods. As we followed the beaten pathway up the rugged mountain side, Mr. Burroughs appeared perfectly at ease, and would tell of the famous visitors who had come along the same path with him to Slabsides. Nothing pleased him more than to speak of his high appreciation of President Roosevelt, and of the day the President and Mrs. Roosevelt spent at Riverby and Slabsides. SLABSIDES, THE WOODLAND RETREAT OF JOHN BURROUGHS SLABSIDES, THE WOODLAND RETREAT OF JOHN BURROUGHS "They came right along this path with me that warm August day in 1903. The President was full of life, and would jump and sport along the mountain path as a child would do. I am very much impressed with him as a man." "Do you remember the incident that occurred between you and the Chicago editor, where he spoke of you going to the Park to teach the President Natural History, in reply to which you state that President Roosevelt knew more western Natural History than four John Burroughs rolled into one?" "Yes, and I believe he does with reference to that big game in the west. You see he lived out west a great deal and has a very keen eye. Where did you see that?" "How did you enjoy your stay in the Park with the President?" "Oh! I had a very pleasant time except I got quite tired often and it was cold out there. The ground was covered with snow all the time." Directly we were beyond the loftiest part of the mountains in a roadway, and with all the anticipation of an enthusiast, I said, "What clearing is that in the distance? Is that Slabsides on the right there? O, I shall never forget this moment!" Mr. Burroughs answered in a very quiet way: "Yes, there is the little house called Slabsides, which you have heard so much about, and the clearing beyond is my famous celery farm." Now we were almost in front of Slabsides and Mr. Burroughs cast his eyes to the ground and saw by the roadside a small flower in which he manifested much interest, and called my attention to it. But my eyes were fixed on the very odd, yet beautiful house, that we were about to enter. The thought that here is a house that nature lovers, literateurs, college boys and girls, business men, working men, and all classes and conditions of humanity had made pilgrimages to see, caused my first sight of it to sink deeply into my heart. The house was so well suited to its environment that one might call it Nature's own. The bark covered slabs out of which it was built, the rustic looking doors, floors and steps, made me happier than anything I had ever seen, except the man who built it and called it home. The scattered shelves on the rustic walls filled with all kinds of books indicated what the house was built for. The table on one side of the room, covered with papers of every description, and letters, the little ink-well and goose quill pen, all contributed to my interest in the place. On the table lay a book containing a list of the names of visitors to Slabsides, in which I was asked to write my name. By this time Mr. Burroughs had found a letter from President Roosevelt which I read with considerable anxiety. It was full of sane and healthy thoughts. Mr. Burroughs did not fail to express his high regard for the President. The plain open fireplace and the cooking utensils scattered in the room were all suggestive of Mr. Burroughs' [41] [42] [43] philosophy of life; plain living and high thinking, or as Thoreau would have it, "Lessening the Denominator." To my surprise, there was an upstairs to Slabsides, and the great philosopher and poet, on taking me up in the second story of his little house, told me that he had entertained more than a half dozen men and women, two or three days at a time, at Slabsides. On returning to the sitting room, we rested for a short while, during which time I asked him some questions on the American poets. He was at home in that field, and freely expressed himself. I asked what he thought of Longfellow, and if he had ever seen him. "No," said he, "I never had but one opportunity of seeing him, and thinking that I might have a better some day, neglected that, but Longfellow died before another opportunity presented itself. I think he was a real poet, and I like him very much. He was not elemental like Whitman, nor as serious as Emerson, but wrote some fine verse." "Do you enjoy your stay over here at Slabsides?" "Yes! But not like I did a few years ago. Nature appeals to me here as it does nowhere else. I built this house in order to get further away from the conventionalities of life, and to get a first hand acquaintance with Nature. The Hudson is such a highway for the yachts of millionaires of New York and other cities, that I wanted to withdraw into the wilderness, to get back from the river, and live close to Nature's heart, and I bought this little place. It has given me a great deal of pleasure, a...