“A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite tender sky,
The ripe rich tint of the corn-fields,
And the wild geese sailing high,
And all over upland and lowland
The charm of the goldenrod—
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it God!”
The pelt was finally off; the carcass in pickle for me; and the sun was out, flooding Montgomery Valley and the heaving ranges beyond. An automobile load of callers came, stopped a little time, and went away; another load came and went away, and Burroughs, now quite rested, brought out the manuscripts of two new books, which were about ready for the publishers.
I looked at the piles of work, then at the frail old man who had heaped them up, and thought with shame of my own strength—and laziness. To be approaching eighty-four with one book on the press and two other books in manuscript! What a long steady stroke he had pulled across these more than sixty years of writing to be bringing him in at the finish, two full volumes ahead of the race! Three volumes indeed, for “Accepting the Universe” had not yet come from the press.