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Introduction
by Clifton Johnson
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The eight essays in this volume all deal with the home region of
their author; for not only did Mr. Burroughs begin life in the
Catskills, and dwell among them until early manhood, but, as he
himself declares, he has never taken root anywhere else. Their
delectable heights and valleys have engaged his deepest affections as
far as locality is concerned, and however widely he journeys and
whatever charms he discovers in nature elsewhere, still the
loveliness of those pastoral boyhood uplands is unsurpassed.
The ancestral farm is in Roxbury among the Western Catskills, where
the mountains are comparatively gentle in type and always graceful in
contour. Cultivated fields and sunny pastures cling to their mighty
slopes far up toward the summits, there are patches of woodland
including frequent groves of sugar maples, and there are apple
orchards and winding roadways, and endless lines of rude stone
fences, and scattered dwellings. In every hollow runs a clear trout
brook, with its pools and swift shallows and silvery falls. Birds and
other wild creatures abound; for the stony earth and the ledges that
crop out along the hillsides, the thickets and forest patches, the
sheltered glens and windy heights offer great variety in domicile to
animal life. The creatures of the outdoor world are much in evidence,
and at no time do their numbers impress one more than when in winter
one sees the hand-writing of their tracks on the snow.
The work on the farm and the workers are genuinely rustic, but not
nearly so primitive as in the times that Mr. Burroughs most enjoys
recalling. Oxen are of the past, the mowing-machine goes over the
fields where formerly he labored with his scythe, stacks at which the
cattle pull in the winter time are a rarity, and the gray old barns
have given place to modern red ones. It is a dairy country, and on
every farm is found a large herd of cows; but the milk goes to the
creameries. The women, however, still share in the milking, and there
is much of unaffected simplicity in the ways of the household. On
days when work is not pushing, the men are likely to go hunting or
fishing, and they are always alert to observe chances to take
advantage of those little gratuities which nature in the remoter
rural regions is constantly offering, both in the matter of game and
in that of herbs and roots, berries and nuts. |
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Mr. Burroughs's old home has continued in the family, and the house
and its surroundings have in many ways continued essentially
unaltered ever since he can remember. What is most important-the
wide-reaching view down the vales and across to the ridges that rise
height on height until they blend with the sky in the ethereal
distance, is just what it always has been.
That the Catskills have proved an inspiration to Mr. Burroughs cannot
be doubted. Possibly we should never have had him as a nature writer
at all, had he spent his impressible youthful years in a less favored
locality. It is, however, a curious fact that the town which produced
this lover of nature also produced one other man of national fame,
who was as different form him as could well be imagined. I refer to
Jay Gould. He was born in the same town and in the same part of the
town, went to the same school, saw the same scenes, was a farm boy
like Burroughs, and had practically the same experiences. Indeed, the
two were a good deal together. But how different their later lives!
It seems easy to grant that environment helped make the one; but what
effect, if any, did that beautiful Catskill country have on the other? |
There are two seasons of the year when Mr. Burroughs is particularly
fond of getting back to his old home. The first is in sap-time, when
maple sugar is being made in the little shack on the borders of the
rock-maple grove. The second is in midsummer, when haying is in
progress. Both occasions have exceptional power for arousing pleasant
memories of the past, though such memories have also their touch of
sadness. In his early years he helped materially in the farm work
while on these visits; but latterly he gives his time to rambling and
contemplation. He once said to me, in speaking of a neighbor:
"That man hasn't a lazy bone in his body. But I have lots of
em-lots of em."
This affirmation is not to be interpreted too literally. He has made
a business success in raising small fruits, and his literary output
has been by no means meagre. I might also mention that in youth he
was something of a champion at swinging the scythe, and few could mow
as much in the course of a day. But certainly labor is no fetich of
his, and he has a real genius for loafing. In another man his
leisurely rambling with its pauses to rest on rock or grassy bank or
fallen tree, his mind meanwhile absolutely free from the feeling that
he ought to be up and doing, might be shiftlessness. But how else
could he have acquired his delightful intimacy with the woods and
fields and streams, and with wild life in all its moods? Surely most
of our hustling, untiring workers would be better off if they had
some of this same ability to cast aside care and responsibility and
get back to Nature-the good mother of us all.
Clifton Johnson
Hadley, Mass., 1910.
Note. -The pictures in this volume were all made in the Catskills and
are the results of several trips to the regions described in the essays |
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