A TEXT FROM THOREAtT 129 



and the children's feet are still not quite 

 content with day's work in a treadmill. 



Let our preferences be what they may, 

 however, the greater number of us must 

 stay where we are put, and play the hand 

 that is dealt to us, happy if we can face the 

 dark side of the year with a measure of 

 philosophy. If there is a new self, as Tho- 

 reau says, there will be a new world and a 

 new season. If we carry the tropics within 

 us, we need not dream of Florida. And 

 even if there is no constraint upon our going 

 and coming, we need not be in haste to run 

 away. We may safely wait a week or two, 

 at least. November is often not half so bad 

 as it is painted not half so bad, indeed, 

 as Thoreau himself sometimes painted it. 

 For the eleventh month was not one of his 

 favorites. "November Eat-Heart," he is 

 more than once moved to call it. The ex- 

 perience of it puts his equanimity to the 

 proof. Even his bravest words about it 

 sound rather like a defiance than a welcome, 

 a little as if he were whistling to keep up 

 his courage. With the month at its worst, 

 he confesses, he has almost to drive himself 



