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THE GUIDE TO NATURE. 



ence in talking" to lunatics and fools, 

 and I do not intend to speak any fur- 

 ther to that class of people." 



While I have always enjoyed the 

 humor of that story, it contained, until 

 a few months ago, an element that 

 marred it for me. It did not "ring 

 true." It seemed "made up." The 

 humor was there, but the truth of the 

 art of applying truthfulness was lack- 

 ing. But this has changed. I now be- 

 lieve it, because I have had a similar 

 experience, except that the substitu- 

 tion was an imaginary one on the part 

 of the audience (unknown to me) of a 

 style of supposed nature study as re- 

 mote from the real kind that I intended 

 to portray as is a humorist from a 

 temperance lecturer. I had planned to 

 speak seriously and enthusiastically of 

 the charms of country life and of nature 

 study. The audience had a conception 

 of nature study based upon certain "en- 

 tertaining" books, upon "Oh, my !" 

 stories of animals and upon cer- 

 tain funny anecdotes about them. I 

 was intent upon being an instructor 

 and inspirer of nature study. The 

 audience was expecting entertainment. 

 I afterwards ascertained that certain 

 teachers, in a desire to bring out a 

 large audience of young folks and with 

 a misconception of the basis upon 

 which nature study is founded in cer- 

 tain widely selling and entertaining fic- 

 tions, had told their friends how funny 

 a naturalist is and what "funny things" 

 he often sees. I am not sure as to how 

 "funny" I was, but that evening I 

 surely saw funny things. A wave of 

 nature study had come to the small 

 country town, inspired originally by 

 the reading by a few members of the 

 women's club and endorsed by the 

 superintendent of schools and through 

 him the teachers, thus perpetuating an 

 erroneous notion of what nature study 

 actually is. So I found the whole town, 

 from the inspiring spirit of the women's 

 club to the youngest member of the 

 kindergarten, permeated by a certain 

 modern idea of nature study that only 

 tinges or largely predominates in other 

 communities — that is, that nature study 

 entertains and tells amusing tales of 



things that happened somewhere else. 



I changed cars on the main line of 

 railroad to take a primitive branch that 

 for some thirty-five miles wandered 

 through a charming country toward 

 the "inland" village. It was the late 

 afternoon of a beautiful day in early 

 spring. I enjoyed the ride, for I love 

 "wood piles" and farmhouse stations 

 and running brooks and gracefully 

 drooping alder catkins and even the 

 vigorous skunk cabbage. The robins 

 and the bluebirds were out in full force 

 and although that branch road was in 

 the eastern part of the state of New 

 York, the scenery reminded me of the 

 farm home of my boyhood in eastern 

 New England. "All nature is new in 

 the spring," and I was again a boy 

 revelling in the coming of the birds, 

 the early marsh plants and in anticipa- 

 tions of the approaching joys of being 

 out of doors. I wished that I were a 

 poet. I am not, but I could feel that 

 poetry was being lived everywhere, and 

 not the less true poetry although un- 

 seen and unheard — the poetry of life, if 

 not of expression. Every clump of al- 

 ders with their pendant catkins inspired 

 a suppressed hysterical scream of de- 

 light; every unfolding leaf of skunk 

 cabbage impelled me to leave the car 

 and run to the brookside. I wanted 

 to carry stones, sticks and boards, to 

 build a dam as I had built dams half 

 a century ago. Confined and hampered 

 in a city as I have been for years, I 

 revelled in the thought of being a country 

 boy in a place so heavenly as this, and 

 I lDroke at least one of the command- 

 ments by coveting the possessions of 

 every boy and girl that I saw along the 

 route. 



"I suppose you have travelled all over 

 the world and discovered many strange 

 and amusing things," the committee's 

 chairman said as he greeted me. 



"Most of my travelling," I replied, 

 "has been in a little back yard and in 

 a neighboring ravine and a patch of 

 woods. I don't suppose that I shall 

 live long enough to explore even that 

 region fully, so there is no necessity 

 for travelling to any great distance." 



This seemed to be a disappointment, 

 and I felt I was not to be counted suc- 

 cessful if I failed to tell of the antics 



