By Henry David Thoreau
Henry David Thoreau wrote 4 full-length works, accumulated the following for the 1st time in one quantity. Subtly interweaving ordinary commentary, own event, and old lore, they demonstrate his brilliance not just as a author, yet as a naturalist, student, historian, poet, and thinker. "A Week at the harmony and Merrimack Rivers" is predicated on a ship journey serious about his brother from harmony, Massachusetts to harmony, New Hampshire. "Walden," considered one of America's nice books, is straight away a private statement of independence, social scan, voyage of non secular discovery, guide of self-reliance, and masterpiece of favor. "The Maine Woods" and "Cape Cod" painting landscapes altering irreversibly whilst he wrote. the 1st combines shut remark of the unexplored Maine desert with a far-sighted plea for conservation; the second one is an excellent and unsentimental account of survival on a barren peninsula within the face of opposed components, old switch, and average decay.
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Extra info for Henry David Thoreau : A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers Walden; Or, Life in the Woods The Maine Woods Cape Cod (Library of America)
The hundred yoke of oxen, meanwhile, standing patient, gazing wishfully meadow-ward, at that inaccessible waving native grass, uncut but by the great mower Time, who cuts so broad a swathe, without so much as a wisp to wind about their horns. That was a long pull from Ball's Hill to Carlisle Bridge, sitting with our faces to the south, a slight breeze rising from the north, but nevertheless water still runs and grass grows, Page 33 for now, having passed the bridge between Carlisle and Bedford, we see men haying far off in the meadow, their heads waving like the grass which they cut.
That straight geometrical line Page 34 against the water and the sky stood for the last refinements of civilized life, and what of sublimity there is in history was there symbolized. For the most part, there was no recognition of human life in the night, no human breathing was heard, only the breathing of the wind. As we sat up, kept awake by the novelty of our situation, we heard at intervals foxes stepping about over the dead leaves, and brushing the dewy grass close to our tent, and once a musquash fumbling among the potatoes and melons in our boat, but when we hastened to the shore we could detect only a ripple in the water ruffling the disk of a star.
Our river has, probably, very near the smallest allowance. The story is current, at any rate, though I believe that strict history will not bear it out, that the only bridge ever carried away on the main branch, within the limits of the town, was driven up stream by the wind. But wherever it makes a sudden bend it is shallower and swifter, and asserts its title to be called a river. Compared with the other tributaries of the Merrimack, it appears to have been properly named Musketaquid, or Meadow River, by the Indians.