e dictated notes to me from his diary, or
descriptive letters to his wife and son. The impression one gets out
there of earth sculpture in process is one of the chief attractions of
the region, and Mr. Burroughs never tired of studying the physiognomy
of the land, and the overwhelming evidences of time and change, and of
contrasting these with our still older, maturer landscapes in the East.

In passing through Kansas he commented on the monotonous level expanse
of country as being unbearable from any point of view except as good
farm land. Used to hills and mountains, inviting brooks and winding
roads, he turned away from this unpicturesque land, saying if it was a
good place to make money, it was also a place to lose one's own soul--he
was already homesick for the beauty and diversity of our more winsome
country.

Two days' journey from Chicago and we reached the desert town of
Adamana. As the train stopped near the little inn, a voice called out in
the darkness, "Hello, Johnnie, is that you?"

"Yes, John Muir"; and there under the big dipper, on the great Arizona
desert, the two friends met after a lapse of ten years.

"Muir, aren't you surprised to find me with two women in my wake?" asked
Mr. Burroughs, introducing us.

"Yes; surprised that there are only two, Johnnie." Then to us, "Up in
Alaska there were a dozen or two following him around, tucking him up in
steamer rugs, putting pillows to his head, running to him with a flower,
or a description of a bird--Oh, two is a very moderate number, Johnnie,
but we'll manage to worry through with them, somehow." And picking up
part of our luggage, the tall, grizzly Scot led the way to the inn.

The next day we drove nine miles over the rolling desert to visit one of
the petrified forests, of which there are five in that vicinity. Blended
with the unwonted scenes--the gray sands dotted with sagebrush and
greasewood, the leaping jack rabbits, the frightened bands of half-wild
horses, the distant buttes and mesas, and the brilliant blue of the
Arizona sky--is the memory of that talk of Mr. Muir's during the long
drive, a talk which for range and raciness I have never heard equaled.
He often uses the broad dialect of the Scot, translating as he
goes along. His forte is in monologue. He is a most engaging
talker,--discursive, grave and gay,--mingling thrilling adventures,
side-splitting anecdotes, choice quotations, apt characterizations,
scientific data, enthusiastic d