Excursions. Генри Дэвид Торо

fain to exclaim—

      "Can these things be,

       And overcome us like a summer's cloud?"

      Next to nature, it seems as if man's actions were the most natural, they so gently accord with her. The small seines of flax stretched across the shallow and transparent parts of our river, are no more intrusion than the cobweb in the sun. I stay my boat in midcurrent, and look down in the sunny water to see the civil meshes of his nets, and wonder how the blustering people of the town could have done this elvish work. The twine looks like a new river weed, and is to the river as a beautiful memento of man's presence in nature, discovered as silently and delicately as a footprint in the sand.

      When the ice is covered with snow, I do not suspect the wealth under my feet; that there is as good as a mine under me wherever I go. How many pickerel are poised on easy fin fathoms below the loaded wain. The revolution of the seasons must be a curious phenomenon to them. At length the sun and wind brush aside their curtain, and they see the heavens again.

      Early in the spring, after the ice has melted, is the time for spearing fish. Suddenly the wind shifts from northeast and east to west and south, and every icicle, which has tinkled on the meadow grass so long, trickles down its stem, and seeks its level unerringly with a million comrades. The steam curls up from every roof and fence.

      I see the civil sun drying earth's tears,

       Her tears of joy, which only faster flow.

      In the brooks is heard the slight grating sound of small cakes of ice, floating with various speed, full of content and promise, and where the water gurgles under a natural bridge, you may hear these hasty rafts hold conversation in an undertone. Every rill is a channel for the juices of the meadow. In the ponds the ice cracks with a merry and inspiriting din, and down the larger streams is whirled grating hoarsely, and crashing its way along, which was so lately a highway for the woodman's team and the fox, sometimes with the tracks of the skaters still fresh upon it, and the holes cut for pickerel. Town committees anxiously inspect the bridges and causeways, as if by mere eye-force to intercede with the ice, and save the treasury.

      The river swelleth more and more,

       Like some sweet influence stealing o'er

       The passive town; and for a while

       Each tussuck makes a tiny isle,

       Where, on some friendly Ararat,

       Resteth the weary water-rat.

      No ripple shows Musketaquid,

       Her very current e'en is hid,

       As deepest souls do calmest rest,

       When thoughts are swelling in the breast,

       And she that in the summer's drought

       Doth make a rippling and a rout,

       Sleeps from Nabshawtuck to the Cliff,

       Unruffled by a single skiff.

       But by a thousand distant hills

       The louder roar a thousand rills,

       And many a spring which now is dumb,

       And many a stream with smothered hum,

       Doth swifter well and faster glide,

       Though buried deep beneath the tide.

      Our village shows a rural Venice,

       Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is;

       As lovely as the Bay of Naples

       Yon placid cove amid the maples;

       And in my neighbor's field of corn

       I recognize the Golden Horn.