mother than are we to the invisible, sustaining, mothering powers of
the universe, and to its spiritual entities, every moment of our
lives." One who speaks thus of the things of such import to every
human soul is bound to win responses; he deals with things that come
home to us all. We want to know him.

Although retiring in habit, naturally seeking seclusion, Mr.
Burroughs is not allowed overindulgence in this tendency. One
may with truth describe him as a contemporary described Edward
FitzGerald--"an eccentric man of genius who took more pains to
avoid fame than others do to seek it." And yet he is no recluse.
When disciples seek out the hermit in hiding behind the vines at
Slabsides, they find a genial welcome, a simple, homely hospitality;
find that the author merits the Indian name given him by a clever
friend--"Man-not-afraid-of-company."

The simplicity and gentleness of this author and his strong interest
in people endear him to the reader; we feel these qualities in his
writings long before meeting him--a certain urbanity, a tolerant
insight and sympathy, and a quiet humor. These draw us to him.
Perhaps after cherishing 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