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Updated: June 10, 2025
It has said: 'Give us proof that Thoreau killed Reville, and that his wife did not die a natural death. We are our own law. In these forests we are masters. And yet with this brothel at our doors we are not safe, our wives and daughters are within the reach of monsters. To-day it is my daughter her husband's wife. To-morrow it may be yours. There can be no mercy. We must kill kill and burn!
Thoreau had now seceded, and was a polity unto himself; or, as he explains it with admirable sense, "In fact, I quietly declare war with the State after my fashion, though I will still make what use and get what advantage of her I can, as is usual in such cases." He was put in prison; but that was a part of his design.
And there sits the little old spinet-piano Sophia Thoreau gave to the Alcott children, on which Beth played the old Scotch airs, and played at the Fifth Symphony.
Alf captured turtles that, deep in the mud, had learned the advent of spring as readily as the creatures of the air. The fish were ascending the swollen streams. "Each rill," as Thoreau wrote, "is peopled with new life rushing up it." Abram and Alf were planning a momentous expedition to a tumbling dam on the Moodna, the favorite resort of the sluggish suckers.
We remember William Cullen Bryant, like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, for one poem; Poe for three. Thoreau wrote only one essay the world will cherish; and "keeping Ruskin's 'Sesame and Lilies' and 'The Golden River, we can let the rest go," says Augustine Birrell. Thorwaldsen paid the penalty of success. He should have tasted exile, poverty and heartbreak not to have known these was his misfortune.
The wild apples, celebrated by Thoreau, are mostly of her planting. She browses them down, to be sure, but they are hers, and why should she not? What an individuality the apple-tree has, each variety being nearly as marked by its form as by its fruit.
Thoreau must have had a helpful sense of humor, for after lugging the burden upstairs he complacently remarks, "I have now a library of nearly nine hundred volumes, over seven hundred of which I wrote myself." In recent times a costly edition of all Thoreau's writings has been published. He is one of the rare spirits whose fame increases with the years.
A sound stopped him the softest, sweetest sound in all the world to Jan Thoreau and he whirled around like a cat. Melisse was smiling and making queer, friendly little signals to him from the table. She was standing upright, wedged in a coffin-shaped thing from which only her tiny white face peered out at him; and Jan knew that this was Maballa's surprise, Melisse was in a papoose-sling!
It is the passion that fills hell with its worst. He laid his plans before he came. That letter, the paper I read, M'sieur! He meant to see Josephine at once, and show it to her. There are two of those papers: one at Thoreau's place and one in Thoreau's pocket. If anything happens to Lang, one of them is to be delivered to the master of Adare by Thoreau.
Thoreau who was not, like some very celebrated landscape critics of the present day, an outside spectator of the action and products of natural forces, but, in the old religious sense, an OBSERVER of organic nature, living, more than almost any other descriptive writer, among and with her children had a very eloquent paper on the "Autumnal Tints" of the New England landscape.
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