THE EXHILARATIONS OF THE ROAD 29 



with the farms and the industries on either hand. 

 The vital, universal currents play through him. 

 He knows the ground is alive; he feels the pulses 

 of the wind, and reads the mute language of things. 

 His sympathies are all aroused; his senses are con- 

 tinually reporting messages to his mind. Wind, 

 frost, rain, heat, cold, are something to him. He is 

 not merely a spectator of the panorama of nature, 

 but a participator in it. He experiences the country 

 he passes through, — tastes it, feels it, absorbs it; 

 the traveler in his fine carriage sees it merely. This 

 gives the fresh charm to that class of books that 

 may be called "Views Afoot," and to the narratives 

 of hunters, naturalists, exploring parties, etc. The 

 walker does not need a large territory. When you 

 get into a railway car you want a continent, the 

 man in his carriage requires a township ; but a 

 walker like Thoreau finds as much and more along 

 the shores of Walden Pond. The former, as it were, 

 has merely time to glance at the headings of the 

 chapters, while the latter need not miss a line, and 

 Thoreau reads between the lines. Then the walker 

 has the privilege of the fields, the woods, the hills, 

 the byways. The apples by the roadside are for him, 

 and the berries, and the spring of water, and the 

 friendly shelter; and if the weather is cold, he eats 

 the frost grapes and the persimmons, or even the 

 white-meated turnip, snatched from the field he 

 passed through, with incredible relish. 



