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Walden Study TextChapter X: Baker Farm would have forsaken their oaks to worship in them; or
to the cedar wood beyond Flint's Pond, where the trees, covered with hoary blue
berries, spiring higher and higher, are fit to stand before Valhalla , and the
creeping juniper covers the ground with wreaths full of fruit; or to swamps where
the usnea lichen hangs in festoons from the black-spruce trees, and toadstools,
round tables of the swamp gods, cover the ground, and more beautiful fungi adorn
the stumps, like butterflies or shells, vegetable winkles; where the swamp-pink
and dogwood grow, the red alderberry glows like eyes of imps, the waxwork grooves
and crushes the hardest woods in its folds, and the wild holly berries make the
beholder forget his home with their beauty, and he is dazzled and tempted by nameless
other wild forbidden fruits, too fair for mortal taste. Instead of calling on
some scholar, I paid many a visit to particular trees, of kinds which are rare
in this neighborhood, standing far away in the middle of some pasture, or in the
depths of a wood or swamp, or on a hilltop; such as the black birch, of which
we have some handsome specimens two feet in diameter; its cousin, the yellow birch,
with its loose golden vest, perfumed like the first; the beech, which has so neat
a bole and beautifully lichen-painted, perfect in all its details, of which, excepting
scattered specimens, I know but one small grove of sizable trees left in the township,
supposed by some to have been planted by the pigeons that were once baited with
beechnuts near by; it is worth the while to see the silver grain sparkle when
you split this wood; the bass; the hornbeam; the Celtis occidentalis, or false
elm, of which we have but one well-grown; some taller mast of a pine, a shingle
tree, or a more perfect hemlock than usual, standing like a pagoda in the midst
of the woods; and many others I could mention. These were the shrines I visited
both summer and winter.
Once it chanced that I stood in the very abutment of a rainbow's arch, which filled the lower stratum of the atmosphere, tinging the grass and leaves around, and dazzling me as if I looked through colored crystal. It was a lake of rainbow light, in which, for a short while, I lived like a dolphin. If it had lasted longer it might have tinged my employments and life. As I walked on the railroad causeway, I used to wonder at the halo of light around my shadow, and would fain fancy myself one of the elect. One who visited me declared that the shadows of some Irishmen before him had no halo about them, that it was only natives that were so distinguished. tells us in his memoirs, that, after a certain terrible dream or vision which he had during his confinement in the castle of St. Angelo a resplendent light appeared over the shadow of his head at morning and evening, whether he was in Italy or France, and it was particularly conspicuous when the grass was moist with dew. This was probably the same phenomenon to which I have referred, which is especially observed in the morning, but also at other times, and even by moonlight. Though a constant one, it is not commonly noticed, and, in the case of an excitable imagination like Cellini's, it would be basis enough for superstition. Beside, he tells us that he showed it to very few. But are they not indeed distinguished who are conscious that they are regarded at all? I set out one afternoon to go a-fishing to Fair Haven, through the woods,
to eke out my scanty fare of vegetables. My way led through Pleasant Meadow,
an adjunct of the Baker Farm, that retreat of which a poet has since sung, beginning,
"Thy entry is a pleasant field, I thought of living there before I went to Walden. I "hooked" the apples, leaped the brook, and scared the musquash and the trout. It was one of those afternoons which seem indefinitely long before one, in which many events may happen, a large portion of our natural life, though it was already half spent when I started. By the way there came up a shower, which compelled me to stand half an hour under a pine, piling boughs over my head, and wearing my handkerchief for a shed; and when at length I had made one cast over the pickerelweed, standing up to my middle in water, I found myself suddenly in the shadow of a cloud, and the thunder began to rumble with such emphasis that I could do no more than listen to it. The gods must be proud, thought I, with such forked flashes to rout a poor unarmed fisherman. So I made haste for shelter to the nearest hut, which stood half a mile from any road, but so much the nearer to the pond, and had long been uninhabited: "And here a poet builded,
So the Muse fables. But therein, as I found, dwelt now John Field, an Irishman,
and his wife, and several children, from the broad-faced boy who assisted his
father at his work, and now came running by his side from the bog to escape
the rain, to the wrinkled, sibyl "Do you ever fish?" I asked. "Oh yes, I catch a mess now and then when I am lying by; good perch I catch."What's your bait?" "I catch shiners with fishworms, and bait the perch with them." "You'd better go now, John," said his wife, with glistening and hopeful face; but John demurred. The shower was now over, and a rainbow above the eastern woods promised a fair evening; so I took my departure. When I had got without I asked for a drink, hoping to get a sight of the well bottom, to complete my survey of the premises; but there, alas! are shallows and quicksands, and rope broken withal, and bucket irrecoverable. Meanwhile the right culinary vessel was selected, water was seemingly distilled, and after consultation and long delay passed out to the thirsty onenot yet suffered to cool, not yet to settle. Such gruel sustains life here, I thought; so, shutting my eyes, and excluding the motes by a skilfully directed undercurrent, I drank to genuine hospitality the heartiest draught I could. I am not squeamish in such cases when manners are concerned. As I was leaving the Irishman's roof after the rain, bending my steps again
to the pond, my haste to catch pickerel, wading in retired meadows, in sloughs
and bog-holes, in forlorn and savage places, appeared for an instant trivial O Baker Farm! Men come tamely home at night only from the next field or street, where their
household echoes haunt, and their life pines because it breathes its own breath
over again; their shadows, morning and evening, reach farther than their daily
steps. We should come home from far, from adventures, and perils, and discoveries
every day, with new experience and character. Before I had reached the pond some fresh impulse had brought out John Field,
with altered mind, letting go "bogging" ere this sunset. But he, poor
man, disturbed only a couple of fins while I was catching a fair string, and
he said it was his luck; but when we changed seats in the boat luck changed
seats too. Poor John Field!I trust he does not read this, unless he will
improve by itthinking to live by some derivative old-country mode in this
primitive new countryto catch perch with shiners. It is good bait sometimes,
I allow. With his horizon all his own, yet he a poor man, born to be poor, with
his inherited Irish poverty or poor life, his Adam's grandmother and boggy ways,
not to rise in this world, he nor his posterity, till their wading webbed bog-trotting
feet get talaria
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