The small artificial pond we were passing was stocked with fish, and I was told by the keeper had a half million trout in it. Pointing back toward the town Mr. Burroughs said: "Over there is the famous Gould Memorial Church, built by Helen Gould, and just to the left of the church you will see the Gould home, in front of which is a beautiful park." As we approached the upper end of the pond he saw a gopher run up a tree and disappear in a hollow, a sight he had never witnessed before, and he remarked with some pride: "One never gets too old to learn. I thought I knew the gopher pretty well, but this is the first time I ever saw one hide himself in a tree after that manner." About this time a hyla sounded his familiar note in a small tree just across the brook, and Mr. Burroughs hastened to that part of the bog and lingered about this tree till we heard a vesper sparrow singing his evening hymn on the stone wall just beyond the bog. "I never tire of such music as that. The vesper sparrow sings for me many months in the year and has been doing so as long as ever I can remember, but its music is as fresh and sweet today as it was the first time I ever heard it. There is something strange about the constancy of nature and the inroads she makes upon one's mind and soul." It would hardly be a mistake to say that the appeal which nature makes to John Burroughs has kept before him all these years high ideals and a great purpose, and has been responsible for his success as a writer. He has been constant in his love for and devotion to nature, but has had to wait (and he has done it patiently) for the great welcome the world is now giving him. His circle of admirers was very much restricted for many years during the beginnings of his literary career, but he kept before him the lessons of nature, and never lacked for enthusiasm to reflect truth when the appeal came.
The afternoon was beautiful. As we approached Woodchuck Lodge the shadows were growing long and dim, and the sky was beginning to turn saffron, but there was some signs of discontentment in the weather, which did not fail to bring fruit before morning, for there was a strong wind from the east before mid-night, which brought clouds with a little sprinkling of rain and a considerable drop in temperature before morning. The walk had ended and we were tired, but how refreshing was the shredded wheat and fresh sweet milk, the home-made loaves, the maple cookies (Mr. Burroughs' boyhood favorites) and the beautiful white honey. This repast was fit for a king, and served in this simple manner, tasted better than it would have on any king's table. Whatever else he was doing, once in awhile I could hear him sigh: "I get so home sick for these dear old scenes of my early days! I cannot stay away from them long at a time! I come back every year and spend some time following up the paths I helped to make around the old home place! Mrs. B. used to come with me, but she doesn't enjoy it now like she did years ago. It is the best of tonics for me."
After the evening meal, Mr. Burroughs took me over to the old Burroughs' home, where his brother now lives, and who could have experienced greater pleasure than I, when it was announced that I was to occupy Uncle John's room for the time of my stay! To think that I should look out from the windows that he looked from, and would see the scenes that inspired him so much during the formative period of his life, was all joy to me. To know the interesting family of his brother, and to sleep under the roof that had for so many years, brought happiness to the man whom I had gone far to see, these were experiences that add much to one's resources of life. Here in this beautiful valley among the hills of the western Catskills, nestled the village in which grew the boy who now, at seventy three years young, brings people from all parts of the world to his door. A man who has put man and Nature on good terms and brought happiness to thousands of homes. No wonder he sighs for the hills and for the home of his youth! They gave him his first love for Nature.
His interest in the affairs of the farm was keen. He would ask his nephew: "How is your crop of oats turning out? Aren't you afraid to leave the shocks in the field too long? I should think they would begin to rot. When are you going to cut the field up by the road?" Nothing of interest about the farm escaped his attention, and though his interest was altogether a personal interest, you would think he was getting half the revenue of the crop.
II
Before going to the woods and mountains the next morning, Mr. Burroughs showed me a copy of the Atlantic Monthly containing his essay, "Expression," published in November, 1860, and asked if I cared to read the essay. I found it interesting and as perfect a piece of work as John Burroughs ever did. It begins: "The law of expression is the law of degrees,—much, more, most.... There is no waste material in a good proverb; it is clear meat like an egg,—a happy result of logic, with the logic left out, and the writer who shall thus condense his wisdom, and as far as possible give the two poles of thought in every expression, will most thoroughly reach men's minds and hearts." Thus ends the first paragraph of the essay, and it continues to abound in Transcendentalism to the end. The following is the last and much quoted paragraph: "Johnson's periods act like a lever of the third kind, the power always exceeds the weight raised." It is filled with proverbs and brilliant thought. Perhaps it is Emersonian, but certainly it is different from anything Emerson ever did. It is so entirely different from anything else Burroughs did that one can hardly feel while reading it that he is following after the author of "Wake Robin," or "Winter Sunshine." It is so well done, however, that one cannot help but feel that if he had given himself over to that form of literature, he would have rivaled Emerson, or any other writer, in that field of expression.
Wake Robin, though keyed in a much lower tone than the essay, is as fresh as the morning dew, and sparkles as much, and we cannot help but feel that Mr. Burroughs did the proper thing when he came down from his high perch of Transcendentalism.
After breakfast was over, and the chores were done, we prepared for the morning tramp in the hills. Our itinerary, which had already been mapped out by Mr. Burroughs, lead down the road by the old home farm and up the lane beyond to the south and east. In the corner of a meadow, to the right of the road beyond the Burroughs' house, is an old family grave yard, and when we reached this, Mr. Burroughs stopped and gave a little history of the farm and of several of the people who had been planted there in the city of the dead. "Ezra Bartram owned this farm before father, and sold it to father. Bartram built the house in which I was born. When I was a young boy father built the house you see down there now. Edna Bartram, the grand-daughter of Ezra, was my first sweetheart and I recall now just how she looked." We entered the old grave yard from the bars in the stone fence, and Mr. Burroughs had much pleasure reading the names and telling of the people who were buried there. When he came to the name of Jeremiah Dart, he recalled that he had three sons, Dave, Abe and Rube, and that Rube once worked for his father. The Scudders were teachers and preachers. The Corbins were successful farmers and respectable people. "Deacon Jonathan Scudder had a farm joining father's farm on the southwest, and well do I remember how straight he was. The Deacon built that fence over there beyond our farm, and I can see him now as straight as a rod, picking up stones in that pasture. He never bent except at the hips. How he ever built that wall is a puzzle. But he was forever going through the pasture picking up stones and putting them on the fence one by one. He was thrifty and always had things done right about him." Mr. Burroughs went on across the grave yard and came to a name that interested him a great deal. "Nath Chase was the first to introduce top-knot chickens in our community, and O how I wanted some of those chickens!"
RESTING UNDERNEATH A CATSKILL LEDGE WHERE HE HAS OFTEN BEEN PROTECTED FROM THE RAIN IN SUMMER