A
man of forty-five is tired of the hardware business, lives in the
country, sees Mr. Burroughs's essays in the "Country Calendar,"
and asks him to "learn" him to "rite for the press."
Some readers take him to task for his opinions, some point out
errors, or too sweeping statements (for he does sometimes make
them); occasionally one suggests other topics for him to write
about; others labor to bring him back into orthodox paths; hundreds
write of what a comfort "Waiting" has been; and there are countless
requests for permission to visit Slabsides, as well as invitations
to the homes of his readers.
Many send him verses, a few the manuscripts of entire books, asking
for criticism. (And when he does give criticism, he gives it
"unsweetened," being too honest to praise a thing unless in his
eyes it merits praise.) Numerous are the requests that he write
introductions to books; that he address certain women's clubs;
that he visit a school, or a nature-study club, or go from Dan to
Beersheba to hold Burroughs Days--each writer, as a rule, urging his
claim as something very special, to which a deaf ear should not be
turned. Not all his correspondents are as considerate as the little
girl who was especially eager to learn his attitude toward snakes,
and who, after writing a pretty letter, ended thus: "Inclosed you
will find a stamp, for I know it must be fearfully expensive and
inconvenient to be a celebrity.
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