Thoreau writes in his journal:
Going through Thrush Alley and beyond, I am pestered by flies about my head,—not till now (though I may have said so before). They are perfect imps, for they gain nothing for their pains and only pester me . . .
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Going through Thrush Alley and beyond, I am pestered by flies about my head,—not till now (though I may have said so before). They are perfect imps, for they gain nothing for their pains and only pester me . . .