poets,--young and old, renowned and obscure,--from April till November
seek out this lover of nature, who is a lover of human nature as
well, who gives himself and his time generously to those who find
him. When the friends of Socrates asked him where they should bury
him, he said: "You may bury me if you can /find/ me." Not all who
seek John Burroughs really find him; he does not mix well with every
newcomer; one must either have something of Mr. Burroughs's own
cast of mind, or else be of a temperament capable of genuine sympathy
with him, in order to find the real man. He withdraws into his
shell before persons of uncongenial temperament; to such he can
never really speak--they see Slabsides, but they don't see Burroughs.
He is, however, never curt or discourteous to any one. Unlike
Thoreau, who "put the whole of nature between himself and his
fellows," Mr. Burroughs leads his fellows to nature, although it
is sometimes, doubtless, with the feeling that one can lead a horse
to water, but can't make him drink; for of all the sightseers that
journey to Slabsides there must of necessity be many that "Oh!" and
"Ah!" a good deal, but never really get further in their study of
nature than that. Still, it can scarcely fail to be salutary even
to these to get away from the noise and the strife in city and town,
and see how sane, simple, and wholesome life is when lived in a sane
and simple and wholesome way. Somehow it helps one to get a clearer
sense of the relative value of things, it makes one ashamed of his
petty pottering over trifles, to witness this exemplification of
the plain living and high thinking which so many preach about, and
so few practice.

"The thing which a man's nature calls him to do--what else so well
worth doing?" asks this writer. One's first impression after
glancing about this well-built cabin, with the necessities of body