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.
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.