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 from 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.

IN THE CATSKILLS

I

THE SNOW-WALKERS