ng his writings for years, cherishing also a confident feeling
that we shall know him some day, we obey a sudden impulse, write to him
about a bird or a flower, ask help concerning a puzzling natural-history
question, tell him what a solace "Waiting" is, what a joy his books have
been; possibly we write some verses to him, or express appreciation
for an essay that has enlarged our vision and opened up a new world of
thought. Perhaps we go to see him at Slabsides, or in the Catskills, as
the case may be; perhaps in some unexpected way he comes to us--stops in
the same town where we live, visits the college where we are studying,
or we encounter him in our travels. In whatever way the personal
relation comes about, we, one and all, share this feeling: he is no
longer merely the favorite author, he is _our friend_ John Burroughs.

I question whether there is any other modern writer so approachable, or
one we so desire to approach. He has so written himself into his books
that we know him before meeting him; we are charmed with his directness
and genuineness, and eager to claim the companionship his pages seem to
offer. Because of his own unaffected self, our artificialities drop away
when we are with him; we want to be and say and do the genuine, simple
thing; to be our best selves; and one who brings out this in us is sure
to win our love.

(Illustration of Slabsides. From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott)

Mr. Burroughs seems to have much in common with Edward FitzGerald; we
may say of him as has been said of the translator of the "Rubaiyat":
"Perhaps some worship is given him... on account of his own refusal of
worship for things unworthy, or even for things merely conventional."
Like FitzGerald, too, our friend is a lover of solitude; like him he
shuns cities, gets his exhilaration from the common life about him; is
inactive, easy-going, a loiterer and saunterer through life; and could
say of himself as FitzGerald said, on describing his own uneventful days
in the country: "Such is life, and I believe I have got hold of a good
end of it." Another point of resemblance: the American dreamer is like
his English brother in his extreme sensitiveness--he cannot bear to
inflict or experience pain. "I lack the heroic fibre," he is wont to
say. FitzGerald acknowledged this also, and, commenting on his own
over-sensitiveness and tendency to melancholy, said, "It is well if the
sensibility that makes us fearful of ourselves is