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Updated: June 8, 2025
When the buried sheep had to be kept too long buried and was found "gone bad" when disinterred, I fancy it made little difference to the diners. One remembers Thoreau's pleasure at the spectacle of a crowd of vultures feasting on the carrion of a dead horse; the fine healthy appetite and boundless vigour of nature filled him with delight.
Gaunt and solitary, the tall spruce loomed up against the silver glow, its thick head sighing faintly in the night wind, as if in wailing answer to that far-away music in the skies. Suddenly there leaped up from Jan Thoreau's breast a breath that burst from his lips in a low cry.
Three years ago a man from Thoreau's Place offered me an insult in the woods, and Soldier almost killed him. He would have killed him if I had not dragged him off. From that day I called him Hero. He is a quarter-strain wolf." She went to the husky, and the yellow giant leaped up against her, so that her arms were about him, with his wolfish muzzle reaching for her face.
The fountain cannot rise above its source, and man is as good as is the nature out of which he came, and of which he is a part. Most of Thoreau's harsh judgments upon his neighbors and countrymen are only his extreme individualism gone to seed. An extremist he always was. Extreme views commended themselves to him because they were extreme.
This longing for a return to nature in minds less imaginative than Thoreau's and Jefferies' results in globe-trotting or colonisation according to circumstances, it wakes the gipsy in our blood, be we gentle or simple, and sends us wandering over the waste places of the earth in quest of glory, adventure, or a gold mine anything so long as it entails wandering.
I know wild apples that ripen in August, and that do not need, if it could be had, Thoreau's sauce of sharp November air to be eaten with. At the foot of a hill near me and striking its roots deep in the shale, is a giant specimen of native tree that bears an apple that has about the clearest, waxiest, most transparent complexion I ever saw. It is good size, and the color of a tea-rose.
Adare straightened with a sudden idea: "On that day we shall have a great anniversary feast," he declared. "We will ask every soul red and white for a hundred miles about, with the exception of the rogues over at Thoreau's Place! What do you say, Philip?" "Splendid!" cried Philip, catching triumphantly at this straw in the face of Josephine's plans for him.
Before following him thither, it may be well to give at once such further references to this period of his life as are contained in the memoranda. The following extract is undated: "À propos of Emerson's death, Father Hecker said: 'I knew him well. When I resolved to become a Catholic I was boarding at the house of Henry Thoreau's mother, a stone's-throw from Emerson's at Concord."
I hesitated a little, but as he pressed me, and would have an answer, I said that I did not feel quite so sure of his kindly judgment on Thoreau's books; and it so chanced that I used the word "acrid" for lack of a better, in endeavoring to express my idea of Jerrold's way of looking at men and books.
Was this not true? As if in answer to my question, as if to explain his coming out to Mullein Hill, the Pilgrim drew forth a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and without opening it or looking at it, said: "I wrote it the other day beside Thoreau's grave. You love your Thoreau you will understand." The chanting voice died away and the woods were still.
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