the picturesque retreat of a living author; they have received a
salutary impression made by the unostentatious life of a man who
has made a profound impression on his day who has made a profound
impression on his day and age; they have gone their separate ways
with an awakened sense of the comradeship it is possible to have
with nature, and with an ennobling affection for the one who has
made them aware of it. And this affection goes with them to whatever
place on the globe their destinies carry them. It is transmitted to
their children; it becomes a very real part of their lives.

"My dear John Burroughs--Everybody's dear John Burroughs," a friend
writes him from London, recounting her amusing experiences in the
study of English birds. And it is "Everybody's dear John Burroughs"
who stands in the wide doorway at Slabsides and gives his callers
a quiet, cordial welcome. And when the day is ended, and the
visitor goes his way down the hill, he carries in his heart a
new treasure--the surety that he has found a comrade.

Having had the privilege for the past twelve years of helping
Mr. Burroughs with his correspondence, I have been particularly
interested in the spontaneous responses which have come to him
from his young readers, not only in America, but from Europe,
New Zealand, Australia. Confident of his interest, they are boon
companions from the start. They describe their own environment,
give glimpses of the wild life about them, come to him with their
natural-history difficulties; in short, write as to a friend of
whose tolerant sympathy they feel assured. In fact, this is true
of all his correspondents. They get on easy footing at once. They
send him birds, flowers, and insects to identify; sometimes live
animals and birds--skylarks have been sent from England, which he