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

Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only. I lived there two years and two months. At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.’”
    The familiar words had a new, strange sound—a sort of looseness, as though they were sifting down through the branches of the pines and skittering up from the surface of the lake. The Senator attended closely. He was obviously a good listener.
    â€œ ‘I should not obtrude my affairs so much on the notice of my readers if very particular inquiries had not been made by my townsmen concerning my mode of life, which some would call impertinent . . .’ ”
    McCarthy leapt to his feet. “Inquiries?” he snorted. “There you are. This guy was being investigated even then, and the inquiries were being called impertinent. Brother, where have I heard that before! Anyway, the townspeople must have been wise to him or they wouldn’t have questioned his affairs.”
    The Senator took out his pad and noted, “Was under fire at the time.” Then he ordered me to continue reading. I com-plied, skipping around in the text as it suited my fancy, which is one of the privileges of anyone who reads to the blind or the near-blind.
    â€œ ‘The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad . . .’ ”
    â€œRead that again, slower!” commanded the Senator.
    I repeated the sentence.
    â€œWell,” drawled McCarthy, “that’s a subversive statement right there. He’s going against the majority opinion of the community. Anybody who does that has no kick coming if he gets investigated.” The Senator grew thoughtful. He repeated the sentence slowly, savoring the words. “You know,” he said, “that sentence came very near being a very sensible remark. I could edit it a little and make it into something completely American, if I wanted to. All you do is just take out three words. Listen to this: ‘The greater part of my neighbors I believe in my soul to be bad.’ Now you’ve got something! Well, I’m not going to clean up Thoreau’s text for him—he’s cutting his own throat fast and I’m going to let him. But it just shows what can be done if you’re on the ball. Read some more!”
    â€œ ‘I think we may safely trust a good deal more than we do,’” I read.
    â€œPoppycock!” cried McCarthy. “Balderdash!” He was visibly shaken by the sound of the word “trust,” and his body was racked with shudders. He flapped his head back and forth, the way a dog fights an itch, as though trying to expunge the idea of confidence from his thoughts. I waited till he subsided, then skipped a few paragraphs and read some of Thoreau’s remarks about shelter and vital heat.
    â€œ ‘When a man is warmed by the several modes which I have described, what does he want next? Surely not more warmth of the same kind, as more and richer food, larger and more splendid houses, finer and more abundant clothing . . .’ ”
    â€œWait a minute!” said the Senator. “Now d’ya see what I mean? This man was Communist-inspired. That accounts for his sour attitude about housing—those cracks about not wanting larger and more splendid houses, more food, finer clothing. Every good American wants a bigger house, that’s for sure.”
    â€œWhat about the small ranch-type dwelling so popular today?” I asked, timidly. “The ranch-type house is an American manifestation, a concession to the compact-living school of which Thoreau was a founder. Thoreau was simply ahead of his time.”
    McCarthy uttered something unintelligible. He seemed unimpressed. I was unimpressed myself, but I felt that I had met the challenge adroitly and in a manly fashion. I turned back to the book, but my companion interrupted.
    â€œWas this fellow ever in