We read his books
and echo Whitman's verdict on them: "They take me outdoors! God
bless outdoors!" And since God /has/ blessed outdoors, we say, "God
bless John Burroughs for taking us out of doors with him!"
Our writer never prates about nature, telling us to look and
admire. He loves the common, everyday life about him, sees it
more intimately than you or I see it, and tells about it so simply
and clearly that he begets a like feeling in his reader. It was
enjoined of the early Puritans "to walke honestlie in the sweete
fields and woodes." How well our friend has obeyed this injunction!
And what an unobtrusive lover he is! Although it is through him that
his mistress stands revealed, it is not until we look closely that
we spy her adorer in the background, intent only on unveiling her
charms. How does he do this? First by succumbing himself--Nature's
graces, her inconsistencies, even her objectionable traits appeal to
him. Like the true lover, he is captivated by each of her phases,
and surrenders himself without reserve. Such homage makes him the
recipient of her choicest treasures, her most adorable revelations.
[Illustration: Mr. Burroughs sitting for a Statuette. From a
photograph by Charles S. Olcott]
I have mentioned Gilbert White's contributions to the literature
about nature: one must admire the man's untiring enthusiasm, but his
book is mainly a storehouse of facts; how rarely does he invest the
facts with charm! To pry into nature's secrets and conscientiously
report them seems to be the aim of the English parson; but we get
so little of the parson himself.
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