I want you to write me when you receive this if the dog has turned up
yet. If he has not you better drive down to Bundy's again and see if he
has been there. Also tell me if the hawk flies, etc. Has there been a
heavy rain, and has it done any damage to the vineyard? It rained very
hard here the night I arrived. If it has damaged the vineyard I will
come back. Look about and see if there is any grape rot yet. I want Zeke
to send me a crate of those pears there in the currants.... It is very
pleasant up here, but I fear I will be dined and tead and drove and
walked until I am sick. I have had no good sleep yet. Mr. Johnson of the
_Century_ is here. We sleep in a large fine tent. It is in the woods and
is just like camping out, except that we do not have a bed of boughs. It
is warm and rainy here this morning. Tell me if you and your mother
are going out to Roxbury, or anywhere else. Tell Northrop to send on my
letters if there are any. I have not received any yet. Tell me what Dude
and Zeke have been doing.
Your affectionate father, JOHN BURROUGHS.
The dog spoken of was Dan, or Dan Bundy-ah, a pretty medium-sized dog
that won Father's heart and was bought for two dollars, which seemed a
big price for a dog then, of a workman who helped us in the vineyards.
He was always running off home. "It breaks a dog all up to change his
home, or rather household; it makes of him a citizen of the world," said
Father. How he did love a nice dog! Even in his last illness he often
spoke of the one we owned; he had a true feeling of comradeship for a
dog.
The hawk referred to is the young marsh hawk we got from the nest and
raised ourselves. I know it fell to me to supply this hawk with food:
English sparrows, red squirrels, and small game, a ceaseless undertaking
and one which took most of my time, so much so that Mother took me to
task for it time and again. When later Father "wrote up" the hawk and
got something for the article I felt that I should be paid for what
I had been compelled to endure in the cause! "Fifty cents for every
scolding I got," was what I demanded. "You are getting your pay now,"
Father replied as he watched me eat.
Did the rain do any damage to the vineyard?--Yes, that was a fear that
was always present. The steep side hills would often wash very badly,
the soil being carried down the hill, costing us much labour in bringing
it back. When there was a slack time there was always dirt to drag up
the steep slopes. I know one time some of it was carried up the hill by
hand. We nailed two sticks for handles on a box and Charley and I spent
days carrying this box full of dirt up a very steep spot--"just like two
jackasses," Father exclaimed in fun. Though he could say in his poem--
"I rave no more 'gainst time or fate"
he did often rave against the weather, especially the "mad,
intemperate," as he called them, summer showers. Once there was a
hailstorm. We were "out home," and after supper Mother brought forth a
telegram, saying, "I did not give you this until after you had eaten."
Even I was conscious of the tactless way she did it, the household
looking on. With drawn face Father slowly opened and read: "Hailstorm,
grapes all destroyed." How limp Father felt! He said: "I had
complimented myself when I looked at those grapes. I had seen several
statements that grapes would bring a good price this fall." Well, we
found that half of them could be saved and that the terrific hailstorm
had extended over only two vineyards--the path of the storm not half a
mile across in either direction, a curious freak, but one that in ten
minutes took away all profits for the year.
If I can invent a phrase I will say that Father had the pride of
humility; that is, he had the true spirit of the craftsman--pride in and
for his work, and not pride of self. Nothing was too good for his art,
nothing too poor for himself. The following letter, written twenty-eight
years ago, gives us a glimpse of himself as he was then, alone and
introspective. There evidently had been a family jar, something that
came far too frequently, and Father was alone here at Riverby.
West Park, July 24, {1893}.