II

Before going to the woods and mountains the next morning, Mr. Burroughs

showed me a copy of the Atlantic Monthly containing his essay,

"Expression," published in November, 1860, and asked if I cared to read

the essay. I found it interesting and as perfect a piece of work as John

Burroughs ever did. It begins: "The law of expression is the law of

degrees,--much, more, most.... There is no waste material in a good

proverb; it is clear meat like an egg,--a happy result of logic, with

the logic left out, and the writer who shall thus condense his wisdom,

and as far as possible give the two poles of thought in every

expression, will most thoroughly reach men's minds and hearts." Thus

ends the first paragraph of the essay, and it continues to abound in

Transcendentalism to the end. The following is the last and much quoted

paragraph: "Johnson's periods act like a lever of the third kind, the

power always exceeds the weight raised." It is filled with proverbs and

brilliant thought. Perhaps it is Emersonian, but certainly it is

different from anything Emerson ever did. It is so entirely different

from anything else Burroughs did that one can hardly feel while reading

it that he is following after the author of "Wake Robin," or "Winter

Sunshine." It is so well done, however, that one cannot help but feel

that if he had given himself over to that form of literature, he would

have rivaled Emerson, or any other writer, in that field of expression.

Wake Robin, though keyed in a much lower tone than the essay, is as

fresh as the morning dew, and sparkles as much, and we cannot help but

feel that Mr. Burroughs did the proper thing when he came down from his

high perch of Transcendentalism.

After breakfast was over, and the chores were done, we prepared for the

morning tramp in the hills. Our itinerary, which had already been mapped

out by Mr. Burroughs, lead down the road by the old home farm and up the

lane beyond to the south and east. In the corner of a meadow, to the

right of the road beyond the Burroughs' house, is an old family grave

yard, and when we reached this, Mr. Burroughs stopped and gave a little

history of the farm and of several of the people who had been planted

there in the city of the dead. "Ezra Bartram owned this farm before

father, and sold it to father. Bartram built the house in which I was

born. When I was a young boy father built the house you see down there

now. Edna Bartram, the grand-daughter of Ezra, was my first sweetheart

and I recall now just how she looked." We entered the old grave yard

from the bars in the stone fence, and Mr. Burroughs had much pleasure

reading the names and telling of the people who were buried there. When

he came to the name of Jeremiah Dart, he recalled that he had three

sons, Dave, Abe and Rube, and that Rube once worked for his father. The

Scudders were teachers and preachers. The Corbins were successful

farmers and respectable people. "Deacon Jonathan Scudder had a farm

joining father's farm on the southwest, and well do I remember how

straight he was. The Deacon built that fence over there beyond our farm,

and I can see him now as straight as a rod, picking up stones in that

pasture. He never bent except at the hips. How he ever built that wall

is a puzzle. But he was forever going through the pasture picking up

stones and putting them on the fence one by one. He was thrifty and

always had things done right about him." Mr. Burroughs went on across

the grave yard and came to a name that interested him a great deal.

"Nath Chase was the first to introduce top-knot chickens in our

community, and O how I wanted some of those chickens!"

[Illustration: RESTING UNDERNEATH A CATSKILL LEDGE WHERE HE HAS OFTEN

BEEN PROTECTED FROM THE RAIN IN SUMMER]

From this grave yard we went over the hill to the east, following the

public road, till we came to a large patch of raspberries on the left of

the road, which were growing in a hole surrounded by heaps of stone and

brickbats. Mr. Burroughs did not tell me why his fancy led him there,

but I knew when he told me that his father was born there, and that it

was his grandfather's place. He was loath to leave here, but sat down on

one of the old timbers in the centre of the place where the house stood

and ate raspberries for some time. "How delicious these berries are! Far

better it seems to me than any cultivated berries that ever grew."

Having said this, he gave me a handful that I might try those he himself

was gathering. From this place we went to the site of his grandfather's

barn, where Mr. Burroughs discovered a few years ago his father's

initials cut in a slab of stone. "These letters, 'C. A. B.' stand for

Chauncey A. Burroughs, my father, born in 1803, who must have cut them

here many, many years ago. I was very glad to make the discovery."

Just as we began our journey toward the nearby woods, he pointed out to

me the little red school on the edge of the opposite hillside, where he

got most of his education. "That school and the grounds about it, are

about as they were when I was in school there over sixty years ago. The

house was painted red then as it is now, and on some of the old seats I

can see where some of my schoolmates cut their names." The call of a

sharp shinned hawk attracted our attention from the school house, to the

woods. Now we halted for several moments in the lower edge of the

meadow. Mr. Burroughs thought they must have found some prey and that we

might see what it was if we kept still and quiet. But the hawks went

across the valley in the direction of the school house and we never saw

what was the cause of the disturbance.

Going south from here, we came to some beautiful woods, at the bottom of

which flowed a clear cool brook. At the upper edge of the hill was an

outcrop of stratified rock. This was of the greatest interest to the

naturalist, who, just back from the petrified forests of Arizona and the

Yosemite valley, where he had enjoyed the companionship of John Muir,

was chuck full of Geology and the Geological history of the earth. "You

can see the effects of water in this perfect stratification here," he

would say, as he pointed out the leaves of stone so perfectly marked

there in the hillside. "If we could just roll back the pages of history

a few millions of years, we could read some interesting and wonderful

stories of the formation of Mother Earth's crust. Just look at the wave

marks of the sea along the edges of the hill! How I wonder if old Triton

did not have a great task allaying the waves that folded these pages! O

what a small part man plays in the history of the earth! The creature of

the hour and a mere speck on the face of nature." There is a sadness and

sweetness in the associations with a man like this, and I could not help

but think of Wordsworth's little poem as I listened to John Burroughs

tell about his idea of the earth in its relation to man, and of how

little man studies Mother Earth.

"The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This sea that bears her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are upgathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be

A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."

There is kept before your mind the unquestionable seriousness of the

influences of cosmic forces; the effects of an intimate relationship

with Nature. Burroughs always sees the better and larger side of things.

You never hear any of the nature prattle so common among the less

serious students.

At this moment the red-eyed vireo burst in full song only a few feet

from us and a Rubenstein would not have commanded our attention quicker.

"The little fellow is doing almost the work of two," said the

naturalist, so fluent was the song. He came within close range and

softened down into a low mellow song, whereupon Mr. Burroughs remarked:

"His audience is not quite as large as he first thought, so he is tuning

his harp down accordingly." Here we came into the settlement roadway

and returned to the Lodge for dinner.