(His nieces and nephews at the old home always speak of
this songster as "Uncle John's bird.")
[Illustration: Mr. Burroughs in the Hay-Barn Study, Woodchuck Lodge.
From a photograph by R. J. H. DeLoach]
As I watched Mr. Burroughs start out morning after morning with
his market-basket of manuscripts on his arm, and briskly walk
to his rude study, I asked myself, "Is there another literary
man anywhere, now that Tolstoy has gone, who is so absolutely
simple and unostentatious in tastes and practice as is John
Burroughs?" How he has learned to strip away the husks and get
at the kernels! How superbly he ignores non-essentials! how free
he is from the tyranny of things! There in the comfort of the
hills among which his life began, with his friends around him, he
rejoices in the ever-changing face of Nature, enjoys the fruits of
his garden, his forenoons of work, and the afternoons when friends
from near and far walk across the fields, or drive, or motor up to
Woodchuck Lodge; and best of all, he enjoys the peace that evening
brings--those late afternoon hours when the shadow of Old Clump is
thrown on the broad mountain-slope across the valley, and when the
long, silvery notes of the vesper sparrow chant "Peace, goodwill,
and then good-night." As the shadows deepen, he is wont to carry
his Victor out to the stone wall and let the music from Brahms's
"Cradle Song" or Schubert's "Serenade" float to us as we sit on
the veranda, hushed into humble gratitude for our share in this
quiet life.
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