"
I suppose there is no literary landmark in America that has had a
more far-reaching influence than Slabsides. Flocks of youths and
maidens from many schools and colleges have, for the past fifteen
years, climbed the hill to the rustic cabin in all the gayety and
enthusiasm of their young lives. But they have seen more than
the picturesque retreat of a living author; they have received a
salutary impression made by the unostentatious life of a man who
has made a profound impression on his day who has made a profound
impression on his day and age; they have gone their separate ways
with an awakened sense of the comradeship it is possible to have
with nature, and with an ennobling affection for the one who has
made them aware of it. And this affection goes with them to whatever
place on the globe their destinies carry them. It is transmitted to
their children; it becomes a very real part of their lives.
"My dear John Burroughs--Everybody's dear John Burroughs," a friend
writes him from London, recounting her amusing experiences in the
study of English birds. And it is "Everybody's dear John Burroughs"
who stands in the wide doorway at Slabsides and gives his callers
a quiet, cordial welcome. And when the day is ended, and the
visitor goes his way down the hill, he carries in his heart a
new treasure--the surety that he has found a comrade.
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