doubt, by persons who are in no real sense nature-lovers, but who
go to his retreat merely to see the hermit in hiding there.

After twelve years' acquaintance with his books I yielded to the
impulse, often felt before, to tell Mr. Burroughs what a joy his
writings had been to me. In answering my letter he said: "The
genuine responses that come to an author from his unknown readers,
judging 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