You once asked me how, considering my antecedents and youthful
environment, I accounted for myself; what sent me to Nature, and
to writing about her, and to literature generally. I wish I could
answer you satisfactorily, but I fear I cannot. I do not know,
myself; I can only guess at it.

I have always looked upon myself as a kind of sport; I came out
of the air quite as much as out of my family. All my weaknesses
and insufficiencies--and there are a lot of them--are inherited,
but of my intellectual qualities, there is not much trace in my
immediate forbears. No scholars or thinkers or lovers of books,
or men of intellectual pursuits for several generations back of
me--all obscure farmers or laborers in humble fields, rather
grave, religiously inclined men, I gather, sober, industrious, good
citizens, good neighbors, correct livers, but with no very shining
qualities. My four brothers were of this stamp--home-bodies,
rather timid, non-aggressive men, somewhat below the average in
those qualities and powers that insure worldly success--the kind
of men that are so often crowded to the wall. I can see myself
in some of them, especially in Hiram, who had daydreams, who
was always going West, but never went; who always wanted some
plaything--fancy sheep or pigs or poultry; who was a great lover
of bees and always kept them; who was curious about strange lands,
but who lost heart and hope as soon as he got beyond the sight of
his native hills; and who usually got cheated in every bargain he
made. Perhaps it is because I see myself in him that Hiram always
seemed nearer to me than any of the rest. I have at times his
vagueness, his indefiniteness, his irresolution, and his want of
spirit when imposed upon.