ght.

Most of his readers have heard much of Slabsides, the cabin in the
wooded hills back of the Hudson, and of his conventional home, Riverby,
at West Park, New York; but as yet the public has heard little of his
more remote retreat on his native heath.

(Illustration of Woodchuck Lodge and Barn. From a photograph by Charles
S. Olcott)

For several years it has been his custom to slip away to the old home in
Delaware County on one pretext or another--to boil sap in the old
sugar bush and rejoice in the April frolic of the robins; to meander
up Montgomery Hollow for trout; to gather wild strawberries in the June
meadows and hobnob with the bobolinks; to saunter in the hemlocks in
quest of old friends in the tree-tops; and--yes, truth compels me to
confess--to sit in the fields with rifle in hand and wage war against
the burrowing woodchuck which is such a menace to the clover and
vegetables of the farmer.

In the summer of 1908, Mr. Burroughs rescued an old dwelling fast
going to decay which stood on the farm a half-mile from the Burroughs
homestead, and there, with friends, camped out for a few weeks, calling
the place, because of the neighbors who most frequented it, "Camp
Monax," or, in homelier language, "Woodchuck Lodge." In the succeeding
summers he has spent most of his time there. Though repairing and adding
many improvements, he has preserved the simple, primitive character of
the old house, has built a roomy veranda across its front, made tables,
bookcases, and other furniture of simple rustic character, and there in
summer he dwells with a few friends, as contented and serene a man as
can be found in this complicated world of to-day. There his old friends
seek him out, and new ones come to greet him. Artists and sculptors
paint and model him, and photographers carry away souvenirs of their
pilgrimages.

In order to withdraw himself completely during his working hours from
the domestic life, Mr. Burroughs instituted a study in the hay-barn, a
few rods up the hill from the house. A rough box, the top of which
is covered with manilla paper, an old hickory chair, and a hammock
constitute his furnishings. The hay carpet and overflowing haymows yield
a fragrance most acceptable to him, and through the great doorway he
looks out upon the unfrequented road and up to Old Clump, the mountain
in the lap of which his father's farm is cradled, the mountain which he
used to climb to salt the sheep, the mountain whic