JOHN BURROUGHS , 47 



whirl of a snowstorm, the work of the hom y- 

 bees, the procession of the seasons over Slabsides, 

 even the abundant soil out of which he and his 

 grapes grow and which, " incorruptible and uncle- 

 filed," he calls divine. 



He devotes an entire chapter to the bluebird, 

 a chapter to the fox, one to the apple, another to 

 the wild strawberry. The individual, the particu- 

 lar thing, is always of particular interest to him. 

 But so is its habitat, the whole of its environment. 

 He sees the gem, not cut and set in a ring, but 

 rough in the mine, where it glitters on the hand 

 of nature, and glitters all the more that it is worn 

 in the dark. Naturally Mr. Burroughs has writ- 

 ten much about the birds ; yet he is not an or- 

 nithologist. His theme has not been this or that, 

 but nature in its totality, as it is held within the 

 circle of his horizon, as it surrounds, supports, and 

 quickens him. 



That nature does support and quicken the 

 spiritual of him, no less than the physical, is the 

 inspiration of his writing and the final comment 

 it requires. Whether the universe was shaped 

 from chaos with man as its end, is a question of 

 real concern to Mr. Burroughs, but of less con- 



