Gibson was by no means an “easy” writer. His page, as it stands, revised and corrected, hardly gives a sign of the pains taken to bring it into smooth and fluent shape. It seems to be a natural, spontaneous running-on of a mind as sure of its expressions as it is of its impressions. But the effect was purchased only by the hardest and most conscientious labor. His “first drafts” show all the experiments he made in words, phrases, expressions, and construction. Many times the text is hardly legible, it is so crossed, recrossed, cut, interlined, and rewritten altogether. If Sheridan’s judgment is to be accepted, that “easy writing’s curst hard reading,” Gibson comes honestly by his pleasing style. The patient work of the author has smoothed the way for the reader. He had both the qualifications which Pope declares constitute the secret of good writing,--“to know thoroughly what one writes about, and not to be affected.” And to these he added a third; he took pains. In a letter written to Mr. Gunn in 1880, Gibson pours out his heart, as he always did to his old teacher, and reveals incidentally the spirit in which he took his literary work, as well as the honest and conscientious purpose behind it all. “140 NASSAU ST., N. Y. “_June 7/80._ “DEAR MR. GUNN: “If you only knew how much happiness your letters always give me you would never feel it necessary to accompany them with any apology whose need exists only in your imagination. There are a hundred reasons why I value a letter from you more than that of any other friend in the world, even though it should be all that you seem to think, in ‘tameness.’ I like your so-called tame letters. I don’t care how you write, so long as you write when you feel like it. Your appreciation of my ‘Springtime’ gratifies me more than all the ‘press’ encomiums put together, for you combine all the qualifications for the most perfect criticism, both as regards the question of truthfulness and style. I appreciate your praise, more than I can tell, albeit I may inwardly feel that it is not deserved. When I write on the subject of nature, there seems to be an unseen impulse that guides my hand and fairly overwhelms me with memories. It is difficult for me to select from the enormous mass of reminiscences and vivid pictures that crowd upon me. Dates and figures I cannot remember, but verily it does seem that every bit of animate or inanimate nature, whether in the form of insect or of flower, whether subtle tint of bark or lichen, crumpled leaf or dried and broken twig among the herbage, every one comes up before me as though by magic spell, and I thank my happy life at the Gunnery for the inspiration that led to the thoughtful study of the infinite beauties of nature. How thankful I am that they are infinite, that so long as I live I shall always find fresh food for contemplation.