liberated on the Hudson, hoping to persuade them to become
acclimated; "St. John's Bread," or locust pods, have come to him
from the Holy. Land; pressed flowers and ferns from the Himalayas,
from Africa, from Haleakala.

Many correspondents are considerate enough not to ask for an answer,
realizing the countless demands of this nature made upon a man like
Mr. Burroughs; others boldly ask, not only for a reply, but for
a photograph, an autograph, his favorite poem written in his own
hand, a list of favorite books, his views on capital punishment,
on universal peace, on immortality; some naively ask for a sketch
of his life, or a character sketch of his wife with details of their
home life, and how they spend their time; a few modestly hope he
will write a poem to them personally, all for their very own. A
man of forty-five is tired of the hardware business, lives in the
country, sees Mr. Burroughs's essays in the "Country Calendar,"
and asks him to "learn" him to "rite for the press."

Some readers take him to task for his opinions, some point out
errors, or too sweeping statements (for he does sometimes make
them); occasionally one suggests other topics for him to write
about; others labor to bring him back into orthodox paths; hundreds
write of what a comfort "Waiting" has been; and there are countless
requests for permission to visit Slabsides, as well as invitations
to the homes of his readers.

Many send him verses, a few the manuscripts of entire books, asking
for criticism. (And when he does give criticism, he gives it
"unsweetened," being too honest to praise a thing unless in his
eyes it merits praise.) Numerous are the requests that he write