studying, or we encounter him in our travels. In whatever way
the personal relation comes about, we, one and all, share this
feeling: he is no longer merely the favorite author, he is /our
friend/ John Burroughs.

I question whether there is any other modern writer so approachable,
or one we so desire to approach. He has so written himself into his
books that we know him before meeting him; we are charmed with his
directness and genuineness, and eager to claim the companionship his
pages seem to offer. Because of his own unaffected self, our
artificialities drop away when we are with him; we want to be and
say and do the genuine, simple thing; to be our best selves; and one
who brings out this in us is sure to win our love.

[Illustration: Slabsides. From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott]

Mr. Burroughs seems to have much in common with Edward FitzGerald;
we may say of him as has been said of the translator of the
"Rubaiyat": "Perhaps some worship is given him . . . on account
of his own refusal of worship for things unworthy, or even for things
merely conventional." Like FitzGerald, too, our friend is a lover
of solitude; like him he shuns cities, gets his exhilaration from
the common life about him; is inactive, easy-going, a loiterer
and saunterer through life; and could say of himself as FitzGerald
said, on describing his own uneventful days in the country: "Such
is life, and I believe I have got hold of a good end of it." Another
point of resemblance: the American dreamer is like his English
brother in his extreme sensitiveness--he cannot bear to inflict or
experience pain. "I lack the heroic fibre," he is wont to say.
FitzGerald acknowledged this also, and, commenting on his own