I
Shall I ever forget the morning that John Burroughs, a basket in one hand and hand bag in the other, walked up from the train to my house?
His eyes caught a glimpse of every bird on the ground, in the trees and in the air above, and he would rejoice saying: "I hear the thrasher somewhere!" "There is a robin!" "How many jays you have down here!" "There is a tree in full bloom; it looks like one of the plums!" These bits of natural history made him feel at home, and as if he were among his neighbors. Every flower seemed to be a revelation and an inspiration to him, and his very love for them proved a great inspiration to me. He noted with special emphasis that our Spring in Georgia is at least a month earlier than theirs in New York. The weather was ideal while Mr. Burroughs was here, and, as a result of this, he would often, while walking in the late afternoon, speak of the saffron sky and of the season it foretold.
When urged to feel at ease, he would reply: "I want to invite my soul; just walk around and take things easy. I like to saunter around." It is remarkable to see how vitally all objects of natural history affect him now, and he 72 years of age. They seem to be a part of him. Go to Nature with him and you will be especially impressed with his remarkable keenness of perception, and ability to read and enjoy the 'fine print and foot notes.' He looks into the secrets of Nature and interprets them. He goes to the woods because he loves to go. When he returns he tells, in his essays, just what he saw and felt. In the evenings his conversations lead up to these things, and the philosophy of natural history. He will be found putting two and two together to make four, and of course when he finds that some other writer on these matters makes five out of two and two, he knows it and is ready to challenge it.
BY A SOUTHERN WOODLAND BROOK, LISTENING TO THE CARDINAL GROSBEAK
Few men are so prominently before the American world of letters at this time as John Burroughs, and any incident in his life interests a great many people. He has long been considered the Dean of American Nature writers, and his essays for the past few years have been drifting toward human interests. Now he is working out a complete system of philosophy about human and animal life, and is at the same time, in a certain sense, a check upon our present crop of Nature writers. No time in the history of any literature has the tendency been so strong to exaggerate about every-day occurrences, as it is at this time among American Nature writers to tell incredible stories about our remaining wild animals and birds. It is this unwarranted tendency that brings forth from Mr. Burroughs such essays as "Real and Sham Natural History," or "The Credible and Incredible in Nature." Under normal conditions, he is a calm, peaceful prophet of Nature, but try to perpetrate upon the reading public such stories as I have suggested above, and he buckles on his sword and goes forth to set straight the crooked paths.
The difference in the time of printing the books is not greater than the difference in the nature of the contents of Wake Robin (1867), and Ways of Nature (1905). The former is the plain and simple record of the observations of an enthusiastic lover of Nature, while the latter goes into animal psychology and natural philosophy, without showing any loss of enthusiasm manifested in the first.