e rocks, and noting facts about them,
but you can't reconstruct beauty and sublimity out of mere notes and
sketches. He must work his harvest into bread." But concerning this
writing Mr. Muir confesses he feels the hopelessness of giving his
readers anything but crumbs from the great table God has spread: "I can
write only hints to incite good wanderers to come to the feast."

Here we see the marked contrast between these two nature students: Mr.
Muir talks because he can't help it, and his talk is good literature; he
writes only because he has to, on occasion; while Mr. Burroughs writes
because he can't help it, and talks when he can't get out of it. Mr.
Muir, the Wanderer, needs a continent to roam in; while Mr. Burroughs,
the Saunterer, needs only a neighborhood or a farm. The Wanderer is
content to scale mountains; the Saunterer really climbs the mountain
after he gets home, as he makes it truly his own only by dreaming
over it and writing about it. The Wanderer finds writing irksome; the
Saunterer is never so well or so happy as when he can write; his food
nourishes him better, the atmosphere is sweeter, the days are brighter.
The Wanderer has gathered his harvest from wide fields, just for the
gathering; he has not threshed it out and put it into the bread of
literature--only a few loaves; the Saunterer has gathered his harvest
from a rather circumscribed field, but has threshed it out to the last
sheaf; has made many loaves; and it is because he himself so enjoys
writing that his readers find such joy and morning freshness in his
books, his own joy being communicated to his reader, as Mr. Muir's own
enthusiasm is communicated to his hearer. With Mr. Burroughs, if his
field of observation is closely gleaned, he turns aside into subjective
fields and philosophizes--a thing which Mr. Muir never does.

One of the striking things about Mr. Muir is his generosity; and though
so poor in his youth and early adult life, he has now the wherewithal to
be generous. His years of frugality have, strange to say, made him feel
a certain contempt for money. At El Tovar he asked, "What boy brought
up my bags?" Whereupon a string of bell-boys promptly appeared for their
fees, and Mr. Muir handed out tips to all the waiting lads, saying in
a droll way, "I didn't know I had so many bags." When we tried to
reimburse him for the Yosemite trip, he would have none of it, saying,
almost peevishly, "Now don't annoy me about that." Yet, i