The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder heights;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delights.
The stars come nightly to the sky,
The tidal wave comes to the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
A Winter Day At Slabsides
"Come and go to Slabsides for over Sunday--I think we can keep warm.
We will have an old-fashioned time; I will roast a duck in the pot;
it will be great fun."
This invitation came from Mr. Burroughs in 1911 to friends who
proposed to call on him early in December. Riverby was closed for
the season, its occupants tarrying in Poughkeepsie, but, ever ready
for an adventure, the Sage of Slabsides proposed a winter picnic at
his cabin in the hills.
A ride of some two hours from New York brings us to West Park,
where our host awaits us. A stranger, glancing at his white
hair and beard, might credit his seventy-five years, but not
when looking at his ruddy face with the keen, bright eyes, or
at his alert, vigorous movements.
Together with blankets and a market-basket of provisions we are
stowed away in a wagon and driven up the steep, winding way; at
first along a country road, then into a wood's road with huge
Silurian rocks cropping out everywhere, showing here and there
seams of quartz and patches of moss and ferns.
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