In the Catskills | Page 2

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
He who marvels at the beauty of the world in summer will find equal
cause for wonder and admiration in winter. It is true the pomp and the
pageantry are swept away, but the essential elements remain,--the day
and the night, the mountain and the valley, the elemental play and
succession and the perpetual presence of the infinite sky. In winter the
stars seem to have rekindled their fires, the moon achieves a fuller
triumph, and the heavens wear a look of a more exalted simplicity.
Summer is more wooing and seductive, more versatile and human,
appeals to the affections and the sentiments, and fosters inquiry and the
art impulse. Winter is of a more heroic cast, and addresses the intellect.
The severe studies and disciplines come easier in winter. One imposes
larger tasks upon himself, and is less tolerant of his own weaknesses.
The tendinous part of the mind, so to speak, is more developed in
winter; the fleshy, in summer. I should say winter had given the bone
and sinew to Literature, summer the tissues and blood.
The simplicity of winter has a deep moral. The return of nature, after
such a career of splendor and prodigality, to habits so simple and
austere, is not lost either upon the head or the heart. It is the
philosopher coming back from the banquet and the wine to a cup of
water and a crust of bread.
And then this beautiful masquerade of the elements,--the novel
disguises our nearest friends put on! Here is another rain and another
dew, water that will not flow, nor spill, nor receive the taint of an
unclean vessel. And if we see truly, the same old beneficence and
willingness to serve lurk beneath all.
Look up at the miracle of the falling snow,--the air a dizzy maze of
whirling, eddying flakes, noiselessly transforming the world, the

exquisite crystals dropping in ditch and gutter, and disguising in the
same suit of spotless livery all objects upon which they fall. How novel
and fine the first drifts! The old, dilapidated fence is suddenly set off
with the most fantastic ruffles, scalloped and fluted after an unheard-of
fashion! Looking down a long line of decrepit stone wall, in the
trimming of which the wind had fairly run riot, I saw, as for the first
time,