MR. BURROUGHS'S BOOKS. 
191 
English, well adapted to its purpose, with a vein of humour 
running through it which occasionally reminds one of Charles 
Lamb. They come straight out of the man’s fresh and healthy 
mind, and are obviously written just because he could not help 
writing them. They have the pleasant American flavour, with 
which we are all now so familiar, and they have the spice of 
a native wit, but no artificial seasoning. And Mr. Burroughs 
has the rare faculty of taking us with him in all his rambles, 
and making us see with his eyes ; and by the time we have 
read Pepacton and Wake-Robin and the rest, we feel as if we 
could almost find our way for ourselves among the forests of the 
Upper Delaware, or at least in the country around Washington, 
so rich in bird-life in April and May. As for the trout-fishing, 
it makes one’s mouth water ; and Mr. Burroughs is an old 
fisherman and comes of a fishing family. As he piquantly 
says, trout-streams have curled for generations round the roots 
of his family tree. Campings-out, long searches for hidden 
trout-lakes, expeditions on rafts, thunderstorms — all add an 
interest to the main theme, which is nearly always natural 
history, with the birds as prime favourites. 
These charming books are to be had for a shilling each on 
our book-stalls, and as they are, doubtless, sold in large numbers, 
I have no right to assume that they are not well known among 
us ; still, as I have met with many who never heard of them 
(nay, I should acknowledge that I have only lately made ac- 
quaintance with them myself), I may be excused for thus draw- 
ing attention to them. But what I wish more especially to note 
is the impression left on Mr. Burroughs’s mind by two visits to 
England, and by two or three months’ careful observation of 
English birds, their songs and habits. So many tears have 
been shed of late over the decay of bird-life in England, that it 
is as well to see whether our despondency is confirmed by the 
unprejudiced judgment of a foreigner. We shall find Mr. 
Burroughs’s British experiences partly in Winter Sunshine, but 
chiefly in Fresh Fields. 
We British, who in spite of our insular pride, take a strange 
delight in depreciating ourselves, may think Mr. Burroughs’s 
judgment of us too fanciful ; but who can resist the charm when 
he tells us that we are “ a sweet and mellow people a people 
younger, more vigorous, better walkers, larger footed, more 
easy-going than his countrymen ? With his kind words about 
us, however (not unmixed indeed with most excellent criticism), 
I am not now concerned, nor even with his delightful paragraph 
about our rich fields, our cosy homesteads, our footpaths (in 
which he revelled), our grass and moss growing in every nook 
and cranny, the repose and softness which mark all our land- 
scapes, and made England seem to him “like a seat by the 
chimney-corner.” Nor can I dwell on the sharpness of eye and 
ear which so quickly taught him the look and the voices of our 
birds, or the acuteness with which he hit oft' the blackbird as one 
