i 3 o THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



Robbed of its reality, he was unable to make it 

 true again. 



Most of us recover from this shock in regard 

 to books, asking only that they seem real. But 

 we are eternally childish, curious, credulous, in 

 our thought of nature ; she is so close and real to 

 us, and yet so shadowy, hidden, mysterious, and 

 remote ! We are eager to listen to any tale, will- 

 ing to believe anything, if only it be true. Nay, 

 we are willing to believe it true — we were^ I 

 should say, until, like the boy with the book, we 

 were rudely told that all this fine writing was 

 made up, that we have no such kindred in the 

 wilds, and no such wilds. Then we said in our 

 haste, all men — who write nature-books — are 

 liars. 



" How much of this is real ? " asked a keen 

 and anxious reader, eyeing me narrowly, as she 

 pointed a steady finger at an essay of mine in the 

 " Atlantic." " Have you, sir, a farm and four real 

 boys of your own, or are thty faked ? " 



" Good heavens, madam ! " I exclaimed. " Has 

 it come to this ? My boys faked ! " 



But it shows how the thoughtful and the fear- 

 ful regard the literary naturalist, and how para- 



