“Your successful work, then, has been in what direction?” I said.
“In studying nature. It has all come by living close to the plants
and animals of the woods and fields, and coming to understand them.
There I have been successful. Men who, like myself, are deficient in
self-assertion, or whose personalities are flexible and yielding, make
a poor show in business, but in certain other fields these defects
become advantages. Certainly it is so in my case. I can succeed with
bird or beast, for I have cultivated my ability in that direction. I
can look in the eye of an ugly dog or cow and win, but with an ugly man
I have less success.
“I consider the desire which most individuals have for the luxuries
which money can buy, an error of mind,” he added. “Those things do
not mean anything except a lack of higher tastes. Such wants are not
necessary wants, nor honorable wants. If you cannot get wealth with
a noble purpose, it is better to abandon it and get something else.
Peace of mind is one of the best things to seek, and finer tastes and
feelings. The man who gets these, and maintains himself comfortably,
is much more admirable and successful than the man who gets money and
neglects these. The realm of power has no fascination for me. I would
rather have my seclusion and peace of mind. This log hut, with its bare
floors, is sufficient. I am set down among the beauties of nature, and
in no danger of losing the riches that are scattered all about. No one
will take my walks or my brook away from me. The flowers, birds and
animals are plentifully provided. I have enough to eat and wear, and
time to see how beautiful the world is, and to enjoy it. The entire
world is after your money, or the things you have bought with your
money. It is trying to keep them that makes them seem so precious. I
live to broaden and enjoy my own life, believing that in so doing I do
what is best for everyone. If I ran after birds only to write about
them, I should never have written anything that anyone else would have
cared to read. I must write from sympathy and love,—that is, from
enjoyment,—or not at all. I come gradually to have a feeling that I
want to write upon a given theme. Whenever the subject recurs to me, it
awakens a warm, personal response. My confidence that I ought to write
comes from the feeling or attraction which some subjects exercise over
me. The work is pleasure, and the result gives pleasure.”
“And your work as a naturalist is what?”
“Climbing trees to study birds, lying by the waterside to watch the
fishes, sitting still in the grass for hours to study the insects, and
tramping here and there, always to observe and study whatever is common
to the woods and fields.”
“Men think you have done a great work,” I said.
“I have done a pleasant work,” he said, modestly.
“And the achievements of your schoolmate Gould do not appeal to you as
having anything in them worth aiming for?” I questioned.
“Not for me. I think my life is better for having escaped such vast and
difficult interests.”
The gentle, light-hearted naturalist and recluse came down the long
hillside with me, “to put me right” on the main road. I watched him
as he retraced his steps up the steep, dark path, lantern in hand.
His sixty years sat lightly upon him, and as he ascended I heard
him singing. Long after the light melody had died away, I saw the
serene little light bobbing up and down in his hand, disappearing and
reappearing, as the lone philosopher repaired to his hut and his couch
of content.