Part 2 (1/2)

It was of much interest to me to hear the distinguished Naturalist tell of his celery farm, and the ancient lake bottom in which it is located.

To the south of the little farm is a spring which we visited at his suggestion. For the spring is one of the integral parts of Slabsides and the celery farm. While standing at the spring, and discussing the little farm generally, we heard distinctly the whistle of a bird in upper air, which he told me was that of a pine grosbeak come down to spend the winter. I rejoiced to hear also the sound of the goldfinch.

When I was leaving Slabsides, I could not help but turn back two or three times to get another and yet another glimpse, for I had been helped by my visit, my soul had been enriched, and I was loath to wind around the mountain path, beyond the eminence behind which I could no longer see the never-to-be-forgotten little sylvan home. I could not help but say to the naturalist that Th.o.r.eau and Walden Pond had been on my mind much of the hour.

Before we reached the Den, I expressed my appreciation of ”Bird and Bough,” and remarked that the poems were quite musical and suggested the power of natural objects to incite poetic vision, and my belief that such poetry would have a tendency to influence the poets of the future, to sing more songs of nature. About this time we entered the Den again, where John Burroughs gave free expression to his feelings in reference to his own poems. He would have it, that there was more truth than poetry in them, that there was some real good natural history in them.

I referred to some of his critics and what they had said about him, and could not help but feel deeply impressed with his wholesome view about the whole question of literature. ”These things do not worry me at all.

I take the position that any man's writings must live by merit alone, and the bad will drop out and the good live on. Every writer must be judged finally, by whatever of his writings that stand the test of time.”

Just as I heard him make these remarks I arose to bid the great philosopher good-bye, for it was nearing train time and I had to return to New York that evening.

The day had been an epoch making day for me. I had long loved the writings of John Burroughs, and had had some correspondence with him, but now for the first time, had my fondest hope come true. His whole air is one of pleasantness and when he speaks he says words of wisdom.

Frequently as I sit in my study, I live that day over, and live in the hope of making many other pilgrimages to Riverby and to Slabsides, and of bringing away renewed inspiration from the poet-naturalist.

His conclusions in natural history are reached after careful study and the closest observation, and are not to be controverted. I was much impressed with his keenness of intellect and frank confessions. He predicted the controversy in the school of nature writers, which was so noticeably before the public last year, 1907-1908, and a.s.sured me of the necessity of calling a halt on the Fake Natural History writers, whose stories have duped so many of the Magazine editors. Most of these Fake writers are masters of the English language and to their credit be it said, are able to make the stories sound well and catch the public mind, and if they would only advertise them as myths, they would be of great educational value to the public, but when such myths are held to be actual occurrences in Nature, they destroy the usefulness of such talent, and tend to place editors at a discount. The new writers may consider themselves in advance of the old school naturalists, and more in keeping with the progressive age in which they live, but give me the man or the school that does not trifle with facts in all his nature pictures. Give me the man or school that sees wisely and turns the mirror up to nature. This is what we have in White, Th.o.r.eau and Burroughs.

JOHN BURROUGHS IN THE SOUTH

I

Shall I ever forget the morning that John Burroughs, a basket in one hand and hand bag in the other, walked up from the train to my house?

His eyes caught a glimpse of every bird on the ground, in the trees and in the air above, and he would rejoice saying: ”I hear the thrasher somewhere!” ”There is a robin!” ”How many jays you have down here!”

”There is a tree in full bloom; it looks like one of the plums!” These bits of natural history made him feel at home, and as if he were among his neighbors. Every flower seemed to be a revelation and an inspiration to him, and his very love for them proved a great inspiration to me. He noted with special emphasis that our Spring in Georgia is at least a month earlier than theirs in New York. The weather was ideal while Mr.

Burroughs was here, and, as a result of this, he would often, while walking in the late afternoon, speak of the saffron sky and of the season it foretold.

When urged to feel at ease, he would reply: ”I want to invite my soul; just walk around and take things easy. I like to saunter around.” It is remarkable to see how vitally all objects of natural history affect him now, and he 72 years of age. They seem to be a part of him. Go to Nature with him and you will be especially impressed with his remarkable keenness of perception, and ability to read and enjoy the 'fine print and foot notes.' He looks into the secrets of Nature and interprets them. He goes to the woods because he loves to go. When he returns he tells, in his essays, just what he saw and felt. In the evenings his conversations lead up to these things, and the philosophy of natural history. He will be found putting two and two together to make four, and of course when he finds that some other writer on these matters makes five out of two and two, he knows it and is ready to challenge it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BY A SOUTHERN WOODLAND BROOK, LISTENING TO THE CARDINAL GROSBEAK]

Few men are so prominently before the American world of letters at this time as John Burroughs, and any incident in his life interests a great many people. He has long been considered the Dean of American Nature writers, and his essays for the past few years have been drifting toward human interests. Now he is working out a complete system of philosophy about human and animal life, and is at the same time, in a certain sense, a check upon our present crop of Nature writers. No time in the history of any literature has the tendency been so strong to exaggerate about every-day occurrences, as it is at this time among American Nature writers to tell incredible stories about our remaining wild animals and birds. It is this unwarranted tendency that brings forth from Mr. Burroughs such essays as ”Real and Sham Natural History,” or ”The Credible and Incredible in Nature.” Under normal conditions, he is a calm, peaceful prophet of Nature, but try to perpetrate upon the reading public such stories as I have suggested above, and he buckles on his sword and goes forth to set straight the crooked paths.

The difference in the time of printing the books is not greater than the difference in the nature of the contents of _Wake Robin_ (1867), and _Ways of Nature_ (1905). The former is the plain and simple record of the observations of an enthusiastic lover of Nature, while the latter goes into animal psychology and natural philosophy, without showing any loss of enthusiasm manifested in the first.

II

His visit through the South during the Winter and early Spring of 1908, is rather significant, especially among his literary and Nature-lover friends. It is another evidence of his determination to understand Nature under all conditions, and removes far from us the idea that he is a local figure like Th.o.r.eau or White.

When it was known that Mr. Burroughs intended to spend part of the Spring of 1908, traveling through the South and visiting in Florida, nothing seemed more fitting than to have him stop in Georgia. This he consented to do, and was with us a week beginning March 4. As soon as he consented to visit in Georgia, an effort was made to have him meet ”Uncle Remus,” and Mr. Harris was invited to call on Mr. Burroughs, but on account of sickness that finally got the better of Mr. Harris and caused his death, July 3, also on account of business details during the combining of The Home Magazine with _Uncle Remus's Magazine_, the two men did not meet. In expressing his regrets, ”Uncle Remus” wrote of his debt and relation to Mr. Burroughs as follows:

There is not in the wide world a man whom I would rather meet than John Burroughs. He is the only man in the country who is living the ideal life. I have just been re-reading his essay on Walt Whitman, and I feel closer to him than ever. There are some details of the deal with the Western Magazine still to settle, and I am sorry indeed, not to be able to accept your invitation. I thank you for thinking of me. Give Mr. Burroughs my love.

Faithfully yours, JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

Both of these men have lived the simple life, and yet, ”Uncle Remus”

thought that ”Oom John,” as Mr. Roosevelt calls Burroughs, was the only man in the country living the ideal life. One thing is evident, no man ever enjoyed life more than Mr. Burroughs, and as per his own statement, work has been the secret of his happiness. ”Oh, the blessedness of work,” he says, ”of life-giving and life-sustaining work! The busy man is the happy man; the idle man is the unhappy. When you feel blue and empty and disconsolate, and life seems hardly worth living, go to work with your hands,--delve, hoe, chop, saw, churn, thrash, anything to quicken the pulse and dispel the fumes. The blue devils can be hoed under in less than a half hour.”

This, he goes on to say, is his own experience, and therefore he has always found something to do. Not many days ago he wrote: ”I have recently got to work again and hope to keep at it.” And he will keep at it as long as life shall last.