Writings from the New Yorker 1925-1976 by E. B. White Read Free Book Online

Concord woods on his second-hand errand, was not fronting the essential facts, not living deliberately. Nevertheless, it is easy to understand why Mr. Teale was there, easy to share his vicarious excitement and to enjoy his tardy and beautiful photographs. (I was glad to learn from one of the notes that Thoreau was thirty-six years old before he discovered that he was tying his shoes with a granny knot. A man must take courage from something these days, while tying his shoes, and that is as buoyant a thought as any.)
    A book of this sort is a personal tribute rather than an illustrative work. Thoreau is the naturalist’s philosopher. The extraordinary thing about him was that he so strangely combined the curiosity, the patience, and the literalness of the scientist with the poetical and critical faculty of the artist. His contribution to limnology (the study of fresh-water ponds) is recognized by scientists. And even when he was voicing man’s highest aspirations in sentences of great power and intensity, a muskrat would somehow work its way into the thing. As long as there are men and muskrats, there will be readers who will ache to identify themselves with the spirit and the sense of this revolutionary book, this solid and everlasting book; and they will be drawn to Deep Cove in all weather and in all seasons, armed with whatever they can substitute for a borrowed axe. Teale took a camera.
    THOREAU AND SHELTER
    8/7/48
    THE THOREAU SOCIETY wants contributions so it can buy the house at 73 Main Street, Concord, where Henry David Thoreau sat taking pot shots at the whole theory of shelter. We haven’t decided yet whether to listen to the Society or to Henry. If we heed the Society’s call, it will cost us a hundred dollars to become a one-three-hundredths owner of 73 Main, but if we take Thoreau’s advice, we’ll simply enclose a dollar to the Society and suggest that it exercise a little Yankee shrewdness and buy one of those large toolboxes that you see by the railroad, six feet long and three feet wide, bore a few auger holes in it, and set it up in Concord, thus memorializing not only the man but the Idea. Unless the Thoreau Society is careful, it is going to find itself with a museum on its hands—a labyrinth without a clue. Nobody would chuckle more appreciatively over this, if he were in chuckling trim, than Henry. You can hear his frogs chuckling over it any night you want to walk out to the pond.
    VISITORS TO THE POND
    5/23/53
    WHEN SENATOR MCCARTHY * turned his attention to H. D. Thoreau, the egghead of Concord, and decided to visit the Waiden country to look into the very suspicious fact of Thoreau’s pondside interlude, he asked me to go along as guide. I always jump at the chance of an outing and I agreed readily. Copies of “Waiden, or Life in the Woods” had been found on the shelves of libraries of the United States Information Service overseas, and the Senator was in a high state of excitement about it. He was particularly anxious that I accompany him to the pond, as he wanted me to read aloud from the pocket edition, which has fine print. Long hours of studying defamatory evidence have affected McCarthy’s vision, and there are days when he can hardly see anything smaller than a subpoena.
    The minute we stepped from the train at the Concord station, the indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature began having a bad effect on my companion. It was a lovely afternoon, and I suggested that we walk out to the pond along the tracks of the Fitchburg Railroad, but McCarthy refused irritably and demanded a cab.
    â€œI’d like to walk,” I protested.
    â€œAnd I want to ride,” snapped the Senator. It was a contretemps.
    â€œA contretemps!” cried a bystander, and several other Concordians, idling on the platform, gathered around to see the fun.
    Seizing the opportunity, I pulled “Waiden” from my pocket and turned quickly to page U9,