I
To one who is interested in the most beautiful things in nature a day
trip up the Hudson by boat in mid-summer is a real treat. Here you get a
general idea of the palisades and are far more impressed with their
beauty and significance than is possible when taking a hurried trip by
rail. You are constantly shifting the scenes from hill to hill, from
mountain to mountain and from outline to outline, each scene
characterized by its particular fascinating beauty, till you reach the
climax as you approach the Highlands. Here you get the best the Hudson
has to offer, and you almost feel suddenly lifted above yourself as you
approach these round mountain peaks clad in dark and light green, and
reflected almost as perfectly in the calm gentle flowing river.
An additional charm is added to the trip as you approach West Park, a
small station on the West Shore Railroad, about five miles above
Poughkeepsie, the home of John Burroughs, the great literary naturalist,
the interpreter of Nature, the delightful man of many parts. From the
boat you can see Riverby, his stone house, and the small bark covered
study near by. Perhaps if he were here, we could see him in the little
summer house overlooking the river, taking his mid-day rest. But he is
back at the old home farm in the western Catskills, at Roxbury, enjoying
again the scenes of his boyhood, or better, as he himself puts it,
"drinking from the fountains of his youth." From time to time, he goes
back to his native heath and rambles over his favorite boyhood haunts,
and climbs the hills and stone walls he used to climb. He was born in a
farm house in one of the valleys just above the little town of Roxbury,
to the northwest, on one of the best farms in that part of the state of
New York, and the homing instinct appeals to him no more than the desire
to get back to the farm he helped develop, and to enjoy the free open
air of the hills and mountains.
[Illustration: EATING RASPBERRIES ON THE SITE OF HIS GRANDFATHER'S
HOUSE, LONG SINCE TORN AWAY]
"Well, you did come didn't you," are the first words he spoke as I
stepped off the afternoon train from Kingston Point. Yes, he was there
and what a warm and welcome hand-shaking he gave me! Soon plans were
perfected for our journey up the hill from the railway station to
Woodchuck Lodge, a farm house where Mr. Burroughs keeps house of late
years while he visits his old home. This house is on the south and west
edge of his brother's farm, in the direction of the station, and is a
comfortable place for his summer work. He thinks that he will fit it up
and spend part of every summer in it as long as he lives. John Burroughs
had been tramping all day with some friends, and but for his vigor of
manhood, would have been too tired to meet the train that afternoon, but
one of the party said he was right in for meeting the train, and never
thought of yielding the task to another. When he gets back among his
native hills he is no longer aged, despite his gray hairs, nor does he
credit his own lines, "One may go back to the place of his birth, He
cannot go back to his youth." Here he is back to his youth and it is not
to be denied. He is as optimistic as any young man ever was.
With all his optimism, however, there are many sad hints mingled. Before
we had reached Woodchuck Lodge, he pointed many scenes of his childhood,
and said in a little undertone: "These are the scenes upon which my eyes
first opened, and I sometimes think I would not mind if they closed for
the last time upon them. I would not mind if I come to the end of my
journey right here among these hills." As we went slowly up the
hillside, he began pointing out the many places of interest about the
town, among which was the Roxbury Academy, a large two-story frame
building, that he longed to attend as a young man but never did. The
academy looked about as it did sixty years ago, and was conducted
practically along the same lines. Many modern ideas and methods had
crept into the curriculum, but the tendency was to stick to the
traditions of the past. "This little brook here used to be a famous
trout stream when I was a boy. Many are the times I have fished up and
down it when a bare-foot boy, and have caught some fine fish in it too.
They are all about gone now, so many people have moved in and taken the
timber from the valley of the brook, and have fished it out. We shall go
up by the edge of that pond and follow the trail around the upper end of
it, instead of going around the roadway. In this way we can make our
walk some shorter." His mind wandered from one thing to another as he
led the way up the hill. Now he would be pointing out some interesting
flower or plant, now some bird or nest, and in it all he found joy and,
as truly, shared it with me.
The small artificial pond we were passing was stocked with fish, and I
was told by the keeper had a half million trout in it. Pointing back
toward the town Mr. Burroughs said: "Over there is the famous Gould
Memorial Church, built by Helen Gould, and just to the left of the
church you will see the Gould home, in front of which is a beautiful
park." As we approached the upper end of the pond he saw a gopher run up
a tree and disappear in a hollow, a sight he had never witnessed before,
and he remarked with some pride: "One never gets too old to learn. I
thought I knew the gopher pretty well, but this is the first time I ever
saw one hide himself in a tree after that manner." About this time a
hyla sounded his familiar note in a small tree just across the brook,
and Mr. Burroughs hastened to that part of the bog and lingered about
this tree till we heard a vesper sparrow singing his evening hymn on the
stone wall just beyond the bog. "I never tire of such music as that. The
vesper sparrow sings for me many months in the year and has been doing
so as long as ever I can remember, but its music is as fresh and sweet
today as it was the first time I ever heard it. There is something
strange about the constancy of nature and the inroads she makes upon
one's mind and soul." It would hardly be a mistake to say that the
appeal which nature makes to John Burroughs has kept before him all
these years high ideals and a great purpose, and has been responsible
for his success as a writer. He has been constant in his love for and
devotion to nature, but has had to wait (and he has done it patiently)
for the great welcome the world is now giving him. His circle of
admirers was very much restricted for many years during the beginnings
of his literary career, but he kept before him the lessons of nature,
and never lacked for enthusiasm to reflect truth when the appeal came.
The afternoon was beautiful. As we approached Woodchuck Lodge the
shadows were growing long and dim, and the sky was beginning to turn
saffron, but there was some signs of discontentment in the weather,
which did not fail to bring fruit before morning, for there was a strong
wind from the east before mid-night, which brought clouds with a little
sprinkling of rain and a considerable drop in temperature before
morning. The walk had ended and we were tired, but how refreshing was
the shredded wheat and fresh sweet milk, the home-made loaves, the maple
cookies (Mr. Burroughs' boyhood favorites) and the beautiful white
honey. This repast was fit for a king, and served in this simple manner,
tasted better than it would have on any king's table. Whatever else he
was doing, once in awhile I could hear him sigh: "I get so home sick for
these dear old scenes of my early days! I cannot stay away from them
long at a time! I come back every year and spend some time following up
the paths I helped to make around the old home place! Mrs. B. used to
come with me, but she doesn't enjoy it now like she did years ago. It is
the best of tonics for me."
After the evening meal, Mr. Burroughs took me over to the old Burroughs'
home, where his brother now lives, and who could have experienced
greater pleasure than I, when it was announced that I was to occupy
Uncle John's room for the time of my stay! To think that I should look
out from the windows that he looked from, and would see the scenes that
inspired him so much during the formative period of his life, was all
joy to me. To know the interesting family of his brother, and to sleep
under the roof that had for so many years, brought happiness to the man
whom I had gone far to see, these were experiences that add much to
one's resources of life. Here in this beautiful valley among the hills
of the western Catskills, nestled the village in which grew the boy who
now, at seventy three years young, brings people from all parts of the
world to his door. A man who has put man and Nature on good terms and
brought happiness to thousands of homes. No wonder he sighs for the
hills and for the home of his youth! They gave him his first love for
Nature.
His interest in the affairs of the farm was keen. He would ask his
nephew: "How is your crop of oats turning out? Aren't you afraid to
leave the shocks in the field too long? I should think they would begin
to rot. When are you going to cut the field up by the road?" Nothing of
interest about the farm escaped his attention, and though his interest
was altogether a personal interest, you would think he was getting half
the revenue of the crop.