"In there," said Mr. Burroughs, pointing to an obscure path, "I had
a partridge for a neighbor. She had a nest there. I went to see
her every day till she became uneasy about it, and let me know I
was no longer welcome."
"Yonder," he continued, indicating a range of wooded hills against
the wintry sky, "is the classic region of 'Popple Town Hill,' and
over there is 'Pang Yang.'"
Some friendly spirit has preceded us to the cabin; a fire is
burning in the great stone fireplace, and mattresses and bedding
are exposed to the heat. Moving these away, the host makes room
for us near the hearth. He piles on the wood, and we are soon
permeated by the warmth of the fire and of the unostentatious
hospitality of Slabsides.
How good it is to be here! The city, with its rush and roar and
complexities, seems far away. How satisfying it is to strip off
the husks and get at the kernel of things! There is more chance
for high thinking when one is big enough to have plain living.
How we surround ourselves with non-essentials, how we are dominated
with the "mania of owning things"--one feels all this afresh in
looking around at this simple, well-built cabin with its few
needful things close at hand, and with life reduced to the simplest
terms. One sees here exemplified the creed Mr.
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