168 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



a wilderness of weeds ; the other, a tall ash, a dwarfed 

 maple, and a garden that, excluding all else, grows in 

 wildest luxuriance a golden bloom, the beautiful He- 

 lenium autumnale. 



"Whenever I come down the creek, I am tempted to 

 draw up to the lone willow of the upper island, for to 

 tarry there an hour, ay or for a day, is no hardship. 

 For me, it is not to be 



" Under the shade of melancholy boughs," 



but rather in the shadow of joyous branches, glittering 

 with light and tremulous with the airy steps of many 

 birds ; nor, once here, do I 



"Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time." 



I may, perhaps, neglect to mechanically count the 

 hours as they pass, but then, why should I ? Tarrying 

 here can never be accounted a loss of time. I always 

 bear hence something to con over in the years to come 

 — reap a fair harvest of food for thought. 



Is there not much idle talk about losing time ? Who 

 is appointed among us to say this of his fellows ? 



He who, as the result of a meditative life, gives a 

 single useful hint to his fellows, has accomplished more 

 than any mere accumulator of a fortune. Surely it was 

 better for us that Thoreau ceased to be a pencil-maker, 

 and gave to the world " "Walden " and " The "Week." 



To the poor toilers of the crowded town, who could 

 not come hither without bringing thoughts of their ledg- 

 ers and the state of trade, it might be a loss of time, 

 but even such unfortunates should place some value on 



