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Editorial 



John Burroughs 



The third of April was John Burroughs' eightieth birthday. 

 We thought that our httle snowy trilHums, Christmas roses, snow- 

 drops and yellow crocuses were brighter and that the song of our 

 bluebirds was sweeter that day than ever before, for of course, they 

 were celebrating the day. We had heard with sorrow of Mr. 

 Burroughs' recent bereavement and had felt great concern over its 

 effect upon him. It was with real gratitude that we read in the 

 New York Times of April first, a reassurring interview with him at 

 his home: " Mr. Burroughs came down from the woodshed where 

 he had been chopping wood ! Ruddy and hearty, erecc and nimble, 

 there is no sign of age about the man save the whiteness of his hair 

 and beard and the wisdom of his eyes." And what a comfort to 

 us all was his assertion to the reporter ' ' I have done more literary 

 work this year than in any year of my whole life. It came to me 

 and I just wrote. I never overwork, or burn the midnight oil. 

 I don't draw on the future. I chop wood and work in the garden 

 and keep well. My interest in outdoor things and current things 

 is just as fresh as it ever was." 



For many years we have read what he has written with such 

 utter satisfaction that we had never thought of reading anything 

 about our best beloved naturalist; then, one day, we met him and 

 discovered with a feeling of deep relief that he was just the kind of 

 man to write John Burroughs' books; many authors are personally 

 so alien to what they write that it is a calamity to the reader to 

 meet them; but not so this author; his books are just Hke him. 

 Still we only knew about him those things which the newspapers 



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