I've been fond of "collections" of stories for a very long time. Anthologies, compilations, etc. That's what drew me to this book. I got it cheap, $8.99 from a used-book store; I didn't expect much. What I got was a subdued and mirthful collection of essays that re-ignited my passion for nature. Burroughs writes in a way that is very relaxing, it is easy to read. You can slip into the book and enjoy his world effortlessly. He speaks on the wonders of the American domestic wilderness as what at the time would have been a fairly benign hobbyist, the equivalent of the modern camper. But because of the era it comes off as something far more magnificent. This juxtaposition of peaceful domestic language and whimsy, with such majestic subject matter is wonderful for the modern reader. It made me think about what we've lost.