for his breakfast, and for his forenoon of work, whereas, had he stayed
out till eleven or twelve, eaten a hearty dinner, and been stimulated
and excited by much talk, he would have awakened without the joy in the
morning which he has managed to carry through his seventy-six years, and
which his readers, who rejoice in the freshness and tranquillity of his
pages, hope he will keep till he reaches the end of the Long Road.

Mr. Muir is as averse to speaking in public as is Mr. Burroughs, much as
he likes to talk. They both dislike the noise and confusion of cities,
and what we ordinarily mean by social life. Mr. Burroughs is less an
alien in cities than is Mr. Muir, yet, on the whole, he is more of a
solitaire, more of a recluse. He avoids men where the other seeks them.
He cannot deal or dicker with men, but the canny Scot can do this, if
need be, and even enjoy it. Circumstances seem to have made Mr. Muir
spend most of his years apart from his fellows, although by nature he
is decidedly gregarious; circumstances seem to have decreed that Mr.
Burroughs spend the greater part of his life among his fellow-men,
though there is much of the hermit in his make-up.

Mr. Muir gets lost in cities--this man who can find his way on the
trackless desert, the untrodden glaciers, and in the most remote and
inaccessible mountain heights. He will never admit that his wanderings
were lonely: "You can always have the best part of your friends with
you," he said; "it is only when people cease to love that they are
separated."

One Sunday in Pasadena we had planned to have a picnic up one of the
canons, but the rain decreed otherwise. So, discarding tables and other
appurtenances of life within doors, we picnicked on the floor of our
sitting-room, making merry there with the luncheon we had prepared
for the jaunt. While passing back and forth through the room in our
preparations, we heard the men of the party talk in fragments, and
amusing fragments they were. Once when Mr. Browne, the editor of
the "Dial," was discussing some point in connection with the
Spanish-American War, I heard Mr. Muir say, with a sigh of relief, "I
was getting flowers up on the Tuolumne meadows then, and didn't have to
bother about those questions." When another friend was criticizing Mr.
Roosevelt for the reputed slaughter of so many animals in Africa, and
Mr. Burroughs declared he did not credit half the things the papers said
the hunter was doing, Mr. Muir