"How did you enjoy your stay in the Park with the President?"
"Oh! I had a very pleasant time except I got quite tired often and it was cold out there. The ground was covered with snow all the time."
Directly we were beyond the loftiest part of the mountains in a roadway, and with all the anticipation of an enthusiast, I said, "What clearing is that in the distance? Is that Slabsides on the right there? O, I shall never forget this moment!"
Mr. Burroughs answered in a very quiet way: "Yes, there is the little house called Slabsides, which you have heard so much about, and the clearing beyond is my famous celery farm."
Now we were almost in front of Slabsides and Mr. Burroughs cast his eyes to the ground and saw by the roadside a small flower in which he manifested much interest, and called my attention to it. But my eyes were fixed on the very odd, yet beautiful house, that we were about to enter. The thought that here is a house that nature lovers, literateurs, college boys and girls, business men, working men, and all classes and conditions of humanity had made pilgrimages to see, caused my first sight of it to sink deeply into my heart. The house was so well suited to its environment that one might call it Nature's own. The bark covered slabs out of which it was built, the rustic looking doors, floors and steps, made me happier than anything I had ever seen, except the man who built it and called it home. The scattered shelves on the rustic walls filled with all kinds of books indicated what the house was built for. The table on one side of the room, covered with papers of every description, and letters, the little ink-well and goose quill pen, all contributed to my interest in the place. On the table lay a book containing a list of the names of visitors to Slabsides, in which I was asked to write my name. By this time Mr. Burroughs had found a letter from President Roosevelt which I read with considerable anxiety. It was full of sane and healthy thoughts.
Mr. Burroughs did not fail to express his high regard for the President.
The plain open fireplace and the cooking utensils scattered in the room were all suggestive of Mr. Burroughs' philosophy of life; plain living and high thinking, or as Thoreau would have it, "Lessening the Denominator."
To my surprise, there was an upstairs to Slabsides, and the great philosopher and poet, on taking me up in the second story of his little house, told me that he had entertained more than a half dozen men and women, two or three days at a time, at Slabsides.
On returning to the sitting room, we rested for a short while, during which time I asked him some questions on the American poets. He was at home in that field, and freely expressed himself. I asked what he thought of Longfellow, and if he had ever seen him. "No," said he, "I never had but one opportunity of seeing him, and thinking that I might have a better some day, neglected that, but Longfellow died before another opportunity presented itself. I think he was a real poet, and I like him very much. He was not elemental like Whitman, nor as serious as Emerson, but wrote some fine verse."
"Do you enjoy your stay over here at Slabsides?"