O sad, sad hills! O cold, cold hearth!
In sorrow he learned this truth—
One may return to the place of his birth,
He cannot go back to his youth.
RAMBLES AROUND ROXBURY
I
To one who is interested in the most beautiful things in nature a day trip up the Hudson by boat in mid-summer is a real treat. Here you get a general idea of the palisades and are far more impressed with their beauty and significance than is possible when taking a hurried trip by rail. You are constantly shifting the scenes from hill to hill, from mountain to mountain and from outline to outline, each scene characterized by its particular fascinating beauty, till you reach the climax as you approach the Highlands. Here you get the best the Hudson has to offer, and you almost feel suddenly lifted above yourself as you approach these round mountain peaks clad in dark and light green, and reflected almost as perfectly in the calm gentle flowing river.
An additional charm is added to the trip as you approach West Park, a small station on the West Shore Railroad, about five miles above Poughkeepsie, the home of John Burroughs, the great literary naturalist, the interpreter of Nature, the delightful man of many parts. From the boat you can see Riverby, his stone house, and the small bark covered study near by. Perhaps if he were here, we could see him in the little summer house overlooking the river, taking his mid-day rest. But he is back at the old home farm in the western Catskills, at Roxbury, enjoying again the scenes of his boyhood, or better, as he himself puts it, "drinking from the fountains of his youth." From time to time, he goes back to his native heath and rambles over his favorite boyhood haunts, and climbs the hills and stone walls he used to climb. He was born in a farm house in one of the valleys just above the little town of Roxbury, to the northwest, on one of the best farms in that part of the state of New York, and the homing instinct appeals to him no more than the desire to get back to the farm he helped develop, and to enjoy the free open air of the hills and mountains.
EATING RASPBERRIES ON THE SITE OF HIS GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE, LONG SINCE TORN AWAY
"Well, you did come didn't you," are the first words he spoke as I stepped off the afternoon train from Kingston Point. Yes, he was there and what a warm and welcome hand-shaking he gave me! Soon plans were perfected for our journey up the hill from the railway station to Woodchuck Lodge, a farm house where Mr. Burroughs keeps house of late years while he visits his old home. This house is on the south and west edge of his brother's farm, in the direction of the station, and is a comfortable place for his summer work. He thinks that he will fit it up and spend part of every summer in it as long as he lives. John Burroughs had been tramping all day with some friends, and but for his vigor of manhood, would have been too tired to meet the train that afternoon, but one of the party said he was right in for meeting the train, and never thought of yielding the task to another. When he gets back among his native hills he is no longer aged, despite his gray hairs, nor does he credit his own lines, "One may go back to the place of his birth, He cannot go back to his youth." Here he is back to his youth and it is not to be denied. He is as optimistic as any young man ever was.
With all his optimism, however, there are many sad hints mingled. Before we had reached Woodchuck Lodge, he pointed many scenes of his childhood, and said in a little undertone: "These are the scenes upon which my eyes first opened, and I sometimes think I would not mind if they closed for the last time upon them. I would not mind if I come to the end of my journey right here among these hills." As we went slowly up the hillside, he began pointing out the many places of interest about the town, among which was the Roxbury Academy, a large two-story frame building, that he longed to attend as a young man but never did. The academy looked about as it did sixty years ago, and was conducted practically along the same lines. Many modern ideas and methods had crept into the curriculum, but the tendency was to stick to the traditions of the past. "This little brook here used to be a famous trout stream when I was a boy. Many are the times I have fished up and down it when a bare-foot boy, and have caught some fine fish in it too. They are all about gone now, so many people have moved in and taken the timber from the valley of the brook, and have fished it out. We shall go up by the edge of that pond and follow the trail around the upper end of it, instead of going around the roadway. In this way we can make our walk some shorter." His mind wandered from one thing to another as he led the way up the hill. Now he would be pointing out some interesting flower or plant, now some bird or nest, and in it all he found joy and, as truly, shared it with me.