WINTER SUNSHINE 21 



There was even a park with deer, and among the 

 gayly painted outbuildings I noticed a fancy dove- 

 cote, with an immense flock of doves circling above 

 it; some whiskey-dealer from the city, we were told, 

 trying to take the poison out of his money by agri- 

 culture. 



We next passed through some woods, when we 

 emerged into a broad, sunlit, fertile-looking valley, 

 called Oxen Run. We stooped down and drank of 

 its clear white- pebbled stream, in the veritable spot, 

 I suspect, where the oxen do. There were clouds 

 of birds here on the warm slopes, with the usual 

 sprinkling along the bushy margin of the stream of 

 scarlet grosbeaks. The valley of Oxen Run has 

 many good-looking farms, with old picturesque 

 houses, and loose rambling barns, such as artists 

 love to put into pictures. 



But it is a little awkward to go east. It always 

 seems left-handed. I think this is the feeling of 

 all walkers, and that Thoreau's experience in this 

 respect was not singular. The great magnet is the 

 sun, and we follow him. I notice that people lost 

 in the woods work to the westward. When one 

 comes out of his house and asks himself, "Which 

 way shall I walk ? " and looks up and down and 

 around for a sign or a token, does he not nine times 

 out of ten turn to the west 1 He inclines this way 

 as surely as the Avillow wand bends toward the 

 water. There is something more genial and friendly 

 in this direction. 



Occasionally in winter I experience a southern 



