from my own experience, are always very welcome. It is no intrusion but
rather an inspiration." A gracious invitation to make him a visit came
later.

The visit was made in the "month of tall weeds," in September, 1901.
Arriving at West Park, the little station on the West Shore Railway,
I found Mr. Burroughs in waiting. The day was gray and somewhat
forbidding; not so the author's greeting; his almost instant recognition
and his quiet welcome made me feel that I had always known him. It was
like going home to hear him say quietly, "So you are here--really here,"
as he took my hand. The feeling of comradeship that I had experienced
in reading his books was realized in his presence. With market-basket
on arm, he started off at a brisk pace along the country road, first
looking to see if I was well shod, as he warned me that it was quite a
climb to Slabsides.

His kindly face was framed with snowy hair. He was dressed in
olive-brown clothes, and "his old experienced coat" blended in color
with the tree-trunks and the soil with which one felt sure it had often
been in close communion.

We soon left the country road and struck into a woodland path, going
up through quiet, cathedral-like woods till we came to an abrupt rocky
stairway which my companion climbed with ease and agility despite his
five-and-sixty years.

I paused to examine some mushrooms, and, finding a species that I
knew to be edible, began nibbling it. "Don't taste that," he said
imperatively; but I laughed and nibbled away. With a mingling of anxiety
and curiosity he inquired: "Are you sure it's all right? Do you really
like them? I never could; they are so uncanny--the gnomes or evil genii
or hobgoblins of the vegetable world--give them a wide berth."

He pointed to a rock in the distance where he said he sometimes sat and
sulked. "_You_ sulk, and own up to it, too?" I asked. "Yes, and own up
to it, too. Why not? Don't you?"

"Are there any bee-trees around here?" I questioned, remembering that
in one of his essays he has said: "If you would know the delight of
bee-hunting, and how many sweets such a trip yields besides honey, come
with me some bright, warm, late September or early October day. It is
the golden season of the year, and any errand or pursuit that takes
us abroad upon the hills, or by the painted woods and along the
amber-colored streams at such a time is enough." Here was a September
day if not a bright one, and here were the painted