To see Mr. Burroughs daily amid these scenes; to realize how they
are a part of him, and how inimitably he has transferred them to
his books; to roam over the pastures, follow the spring paths,
linger by the stone walls he helped to build, sit with him on the
big rock in the meadow where as a boy he sat and dreamed; to see
him in the everyday life--hoeing in the garden, tiptoeing about
the house preparing breakfast while his guests are lazily dozing
on the veranda; to eat his corn-cakes, or the rice-flour pudding
with its wild strawberry accompaniment; to see him rocking his
grandson in the old blue cradle in which he himself was rocked;
to picnic in the beech woods with him, climb toward Old Clump at
sunset and catch the far-away notes of the hermit; to loll in the
hammocks under the apple trees, or to sit in the glow of the
Franklin stove of a cool September evening while he and other
philosophic or scientific friends discuss weighty themes; to hear
his sane, wise, and often humorous comments on the daily papers,
and his absolutely independent criticism of books and magazines--to
witness and experience all this, and more, is to enjoy a privilege
so rare that I feel selfish unless I try to share it, in a measure,
with less fortunate friends of Our Friend.
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