In the summer of 1908, Mr. Burroughs rescued an old dwelling
fast going to decay which stood on the farm a half-mile from
the Burroughs homestead, and there, with friends, camped out
for a few weeks, calling the place, because of the neighbors
who most frequented it, "Camp Monax," or, in homelier language,
"Woodchuck Lodge." In the succeeding summers he has spent most
of his time there. Though repairing and adding many improvements,
he has preserved the simple, primitive character of the old house,
has built a roomy veranda across its front, made tables, bookcases,
and other furniture of simple rustic character, and there in summer
he dwells with a few friends, as contented and serene a man as
can be found in this complicated world of to-day. There his old
friends seek him out, and new ones come to greet him. Artists and
sculptors paint and model him, and photographers carry away
souvenirs of their pilgrimages.
In order to withdraw himself completely during his working hours
from the domestic life, Mr. Burroughs instituted a study in the
hay-barn, a few rods up the hill from the house. A rough box,
the top of which is covered with manilla paper, an old hickory
chair, and a hammock constitute his furnishings. The hay carpet
and overflowing haymows yield a fragrance most acceptable to him,
and through the great doorway he looks out upon the unfrequented
road and up to Old Clump, the mountain in the lap of which his
father's farm is cradled, the mountain which he used to climb to
salt the sheep, the mountain which is the haunt of the hermit
thrush.
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