It must not be inferred that Mr. Burroughs has no money. As an author,
he has given us such delightful books, dear to every lover of nature,
as “Wake, Robin,” “Winter Sunshine,” “Locusts and Wild Honey,” “Fresh
Fields,” “Indoor Studies,” “Birds and Poets,” “Pepacton,” “Signs and
Seasons,” “Riverby,” “Whitman,” and “The Light of Day,” published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Company.
His writings produce goodly sums, while his vineyards and gardens
produce as much as he needs; but the charm of it all is, he knows not
the unrest of eagerly seeking it. His is one of the very infrequent
instances in which a man knows when he has enough, and really and
truthfully does not care for more. Nor is he a “hayseed” in the popular
application of that expressive term. When he goes to the city, as he
occasionally does (just to reassure himself that he prefers life in the
country), he is not met at the station by gentlemen in loud checked
suits; he carries no air of the rustic with him. As an Irish wit
recently put it, “When in Paris, he does as the parasites do,” and he
conducts himself and clothes himself as a well regulated citizen should.
So John Burroughs is rich, not in money, but in thought, in simplicity,
in the knowledge that he is making the best of life. He has found out
that money is not everything, that all the money in the world will not
buy a light heart, or a good name,—that there is a place for every
one, and in that place alone can a man be of service to himself or
others,—that there alone can he be successful; there only can he be
“rich without money!”