"My mother went out too soon to know, and my father never saw one
of the books; but he knew I was boiling and bubbling like a yeast
jar in July over some literary work, and if I timidly slipped to
him with a composition, or a faulty poem, he saw good in it, and
made suggestions for its betterment. When I wanted to express
something in colour, he went to an artist, sketched a design for an
easel, personally superintended the carpenter who built it, and
provided tuition. On that same easel I painted the water colours
for `Moths of the Limberlost,' and one of the most poignant regrets
of my life is that he was not there to see them, and to know that
the easel which he built through his faith in me was finally used
in illustrating a book.
"If I thought it was music through which I could express myself, he
paid for lessons and detected hidden ability that should be
developed. Through the days of struggle he stood fast; firm in his
belief in me. He was half the battle. It was he who demanded a
physical standard that developed strength to endure the rigours of
scientific field and darkroom work, and the building of ten books
in ten years, five of which were on nature subjects, having my own
illustrations, and five novels, literally teeming with natural
history, true to nature. It was he who demanded of me from birth
the finishing of any task I attempted and who taught me to
cultivate patience to watch and wait, even years, if necessary, to
find and secure material I wanted.
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