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Thoreau was not a great philosopher, he was not a great naturalist, he was not a great poet, but as a nature-writer and an original character he is unique in our literature. His philosophy begins and ends with himself, or is entirely subjective, and is frequently fantastic, and nearly always illogical. His poetry is of the oracular kind, and is only now and then worth attention.
He is still only taking the first step in the sequence of causations. A recent English nature-writer, on the whole, I think, a good observer and truthful reporter, Mr. Richard Kearton, tells of an osprey that did this incredible thing: to prevent its eggs from being harmed by an enforced exposure to the sun, the bird plunged into the lake, then rose, and shook its dripping plumage over the nest.
The impression those fowls made upon me seems as vivid to-day as it was when first made. The topknot was the extra touch the touch of poetry that I have always looked for in things, and that Hiram, in his way, craved and sought for, too. There was something, too, in my maternal grandfather that probably foreshadowed the nature-lover and nature-writer.
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