Thoreau writes in his journal:
The thought of its greater independence and its closeness to nature diminishes the pain I feel when I see a more interesting child than usual destined to be brought up in a shanty. I see that for the present the child is happy and is not puny, and has all the wonders of nature for its toys. Have I not faith that its tenderness will in some way be cherished and protected, as the buds of the spring in the remotest and wildest wintry dell no less than in the garden plot and summer-house?
That lives in the shanty.
I am four years old to-day
And shall soon be one and twenty.
I shall grow up
And be a great man,
And shovel all day
As hard as I can.
. . .
