in Thoreau’s Journal:
Though you are finger-cold toward night, and you cast a stone on your first ice, and see the unmelted crystals under every bank, it is glorious November weather and only November fruits are out— On some hickories you see a thousand black nuts against the sky—
There is quite a white cedar swamp behind the old tavern S of Maynards— You walk fast and far, and every apple left out is grateful to your invigorated taste.
You enjoy not only the bracing coolness, but all the heat and sunlight that there is, reflected back to you from the earth. The sandy road itself, lit by the November sun, is beautiful.
Shrub oaks and young oaks generally, and hazel bushes and other hardy shrubs, now more or less bare, are your companions, as if it were an iron age, yet in simplicity, innocence, and strength a golden one.
(Day before yesterday the rustling of the withered oak leaves in the wind reminded me of the similar sound produced by snow falling on them.)
It is glorious to consider how independent man is of all enervating luxuries–& the poorer he is in respect to them the richer he is– Summer is gone with all its infinite wealth–& still nature is genial to man—though he no longer bathers in the stream or reclines under the bank–or plucks berries on the hills–still he beholds the same inaccessible beauty around him….
Simply to see to a distant horizon thro’ a clean air—the firm outline of a distant hill—of a blue mt top through some new vista—this is wealth enough for one, [pm].
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