literature as well.

In thinking of Gilbert White one invariably thinks also of Selborne,
his open-air parish; in thinking of Thoreau one as naturally recalls
his humble shelter on the banks of Walden Pond; and it is coming to
pass that in thinking of John Burroughs one thinks likewise of his
hidden farm high on the wooded hills that overlook the Hudson,
nearly opposite Poughkeepsie. It is there that he has built himself
a picturesque retreat, a rustic house named Slabsides. I find that,
to many, the word "Slabsides" gives the impression of a dilapidated,
ramshackle kind of place. This impression is an incorrect one.
The cabin is a well-built two-story structure, its uneuphonious but
fitting name having been given it because its outer walls are formed
of bark-covered slabs. "My friends frequently complain," said Mr.
Burroughs, "because I have not given my house a prettier name, but
this name just expresses the place, and the place just meets the
want that I felt for something simple, homely, secluded--something
with the bark on."

Both Gilbert White and Thoreau became identified with their
respective environments almost to the exclusion of other fields.
The minute observations of White, and his records of them, extending
over forty years, were almost entirely confined to the district of
Selborne. He says that he finds that "that district produces the
greatest variety which is the most examined." The thoroughness
with which he examined his own locality is attested by his "Natural
History of Selborne." Thoreau was such a stay-at-home that he
refused to go to Paris lest he miss something of interest in
Concord. "I have traveled a good deal in Concord," he says in his
droll way. And one of the most delicious instances of provinciality