32 
WALDEN. 
again, to some extent, and loves to stay out doors, even 
in wet and cold. It plays house, as well as horse, hav¬ 
ing an instinct for it. Who does not remember the 
interest with which when young he looked at shelving 
rocks, or any approach to a cave ? It was the natural 
yearning of that portion of our most primitive ancestor 
which still survived in us. From the cave we have ad¬ 
vanced to roofs of palm leaves, of bark and boughs, of 
linen woven and stretched, of grass and straw, of 
boards and shingles, of stones and tiles. At last, we 
know not what it is to live in the open air, and our 
lives are domestic in more senses than we think. From 
the hearth to the field is a great distance. It would be 
well perhaps if we were to spend more of our days and 
nights without any obstruction between us and the 
celestial bodies, if the poet did not speak so much from 
under a roof, or the saint dwell there so long. Birds 
do not sing in caves, nor do doves cherish their inno¬ 
cence in dovecots. 
However, if one designs to construct a dwelling 
house, it behooves him to exercise a little Yankee shrewd¬ 
ness, lest after all he find himself in a workhouse, a 
labyrinth without a clew, a museum, an almshouse, a 
prison, or a splendid mausoleum instead. Consider first 
how slight a shelter is absolutely necessary. I have 
seen Penobscot Indians, in this town, living in tents of 
thin cotton cloth, while the snow was nearly a foot deep 
around them, and I thought that they would be glad to 
have it deeper to keep out the wind. Formerly, when 
how to get my living honestly, with freedom left for my 
proper pursuits, was a question which vexed me even 
more than it does now, for unfortunately I am become 
somewhat callous, I used to see a large box by the rail- 
