A TEXT FROM THOREAU 



* THERE is no more tempting novelty than 

 this new November. No going to Europe 

 or to another world is to be named with it. 

 Give me the old familiar walk, post-office 

 and all, with this ever new self, with this 

 infinite expectation and faith which does not 

 know when it is beaten. "We '11 go nutting 

 once more. We'll pluck the nut of the 

 world and crack it in the winter evenings. 

 Theatres and all other sight-seeing are pup- 

 pet shows in comparison. I will take an- 

 other walk to the cliff, another row on the 

 river, another skate on the meadow, be out 

 in the first snow, and associate with the 

 winter birds. Here I am at home. In the 

 bare and bleached crust of the earth, I re- 

 cognize my friend." 



Thus bravely did Thoreau enter upon the 

 gray month. It was in 1858, when he was 

 forty-one years old. He wants nothing new, 



