Transcription:
2 passed by no other man in literature today. I am not a nature student, I suppose, but I am a nature lover, and I am told
by my friends that I see things to which their eyes are closed. I also fail to find in the writings of most of the so-called
nature students the inward substance that gives me satisfaction. There is not one of them whose book is laid down with real
sorrow. They seem never to reach the real point with me. They tell a great many small things that are not always worth the
telling, and some of which are hardly credible, but the inwardness and gist of the story they miss. But I beg you to let
me say that the matter that you write all too seldom is real old wheat among all that lot of chaff. It satisfies and nourishes
and sustains one. It is, to me, the very ultimate perfection of description. You put the scene before the reader so vividly,
and so charmingly, that he really sees it, and actually walks through it. I know of no writer who so completely contents me.
You have a rare combination of the meaty terseness of John Bunyan with the fulness and color of Sir Walter Scott. I find myself
picking flaws with the framing most other men give their thoughts, because the framing either mars or outshines the picture,
but when you take your pen in hand you leave no fulcrum for the lever of the 03431