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The hearts of the Lee-vites are gladdened—the young Peacock has returned to his lodge by Nawshawtuck. He is the medicine of his tribe, but his heart is like the dry leaves when the whirlwind breathes. He has come to help choose new chiefs for the tribe in the great council house when two suns are past.—There is no seat for Tahatawan in the council-house. He lets the squaws talk—his voice is heard above the warwhoop of his tribe, piercing the hearts of his foes—his legs are stiff, he cannot sit.

Brother, art thou waiting for spring that the geese may fly low over they wigwam? Thy arrows are sharp, thy bow is strong. Has Anawan killed all the eagles? The crows fear not the winter. Tahatawans eyes are sharp—he can track a snake in the grass, he knows a friend form a foe—he welcomes a friend to his lodge though the ravens croak.

Brother hast thou studied much in the medicine books of the Pale-Faces? Dost thou understand the long talk of the great medicine whose words are like the music of the mocking bird? But our chiefs have not ears to hear him—they listen like squaws to council of old men—they understand not his words. But Brother, he never danced the war-dance, nor heard the warwhoop of his enemies.

He was a squaw—he staid by the wigwam when the braves were out, and tended the tame buffaloes.

Fear not, the Dundees have faint hearts, and much wampum. When the grass is green on the great fields, and the small titmouse returns again we will hunt the buffaloe to gether.

Our old men say they will send the young chief of the Karlisles who lives in the green wigwam and is a great medicine, that his words may be heard in the long talk which the wise men are going to hold at Shawmut by the salt-lake. He is a great talk—and will not forget the enemies of his tribe.

14th Sun.

The fire has gone out in the council house. The words of our old men have been like the vaunts of the Dundees. The Eaglebeak was moved to talk like a silly Pale-Face, and not as becomes a great war-chief in a council of braves. The young Peacock is a woman among braves—he heard not the words of the old men—like a squaw, he looked at his medicine paper. The young chief of the green wigwam has hung up his moccasins, he will not leave his tribe till after the buffaloe have come down on to the plains.

Brother this is a long talk—but there is much meaning to my words. they are not like the thunder of canes when the lightening smites them.

Brother I have just heard thy talk and am well pleased thou are getting to be a great medicine.

The Great Spirit confound the enemies of thy tribe.

Tahatawan
his mark

Publisher’s rendition of Thoreau’s sketch (The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, 18)

  We went to Goose pond where we heard a tremendous chirping of frogs. It has been disputed whether the noise was caused by frogs so we were very curious to know what it was. Mr Thoreau however caught 3 very small frogs two of them in the very act of chirping. While bringing them home one of them chirped in his hat. He carried them to Mr Emerson in a tumbler of water. They chirped there also.

  On Sunday morning I believe he put them into a barrel with some rainwater in it. he threw in some sticks for them to rest on. They some times rested on these sticks. They sometimes crawled up the side of the barrel. I saw one of them chirping he had swelled out the loose skin of his chest like a little bladder.

  Vague rumors of your success as a lawyer in Springfield have reached our ears in Concord from time to time, and lately I have heard other news of interest regarding you from our mutual acquaintance Mrs. Jackson of Boston—All which concerns an old school—and classmate. Davis too is with you seeking his fortune also—please give my respects to him.

  The last time you wrote to me in days gone by, I think you asked me to write you some political news, to enliven your residence in that drear Chenango country—but alas I could hardly be sure who was President already—still less who was about to be—And now I have to trouble yon with matters of far different tenor,—To be short—my sisters—whom perhaps you remember—who for the last three or four years have been teaching a young-ladies school in Roxbury—with some eclat and satisfaction, and latterly have passed a long vacation here, are desirous to establish themselves in one of those pleasant Connecticut river towns—if possible, in Springfield. They would like, either to take charge of some young-ladies school already established, or else, commencing; with the few scholars that might be secured, to build up such an institution bv their own efforts—Teaching, besides the common English branches, French, Music, Drawing, and Painting.

  And now I wish to ask if you will take the trouble to ascertain if there is any opening of the kind in your town, or if a few scholars can be had which will warrant making a beginning.

  Perhaps Davis’ profession acquaints him with this portion of the statistics of Springfield—and he will assist us with his advice.

  Mr [Samuel] Hoar, Mr Emerson and other good men will stand as referees.

  I hear of no news of importance to write you—unless it may be news to you that the Boston and Fitchburg railroad passing through this town, is to be contracted for directly—I am going to reside in Staten Island this summer. If you will answer this as soon as convenient you will oblige

Your Classmate and well-wisher
Henry D. Thoreau.

  Parting with Mr. Thoreau, I spent half an hour in chipping wood, when Molly informed me that Mr. [Ralph Waldo] Emerson wished to see me.

  It has been written by one who had the poet’s understanding of human nature, that

  “Man the hermit pined, till woman smiled”—and that sentiment may well be taken as a guide for all such peculiar subjects as this of which we now speak. It is a law of nature to be social, to seek communion, to gather friends; and the history of man is fraught with examples which prove that they who are the readiest to seek solitude and separate themselves from the world, have had bitter experience as the moving impulse, and checked and dried-up sympathies to make them weak enough to forego companionship. The would-be hermit of Concord may or may not be a worldly-disappointed man: better for him that he were, then he should deliberately sit down in the woods, A Timon without cause, to reject and despise the common charities and duties, the pleasures and pains of life, among his fellow men. We would not be thought worldly beyond bounds; but in our estimation, every man should make his life useful to the extent of his ability.—there is upon us all the obligation of labor; it is the command of the Creator: but let it be supposed that each individual following the example of this idle young student, were simply to comply with the duty as he has done,—hide away in the bush, laboring no more than barely to maintain his own single, selfish existence,—where, then, would be obedience to the divine command and all the immense and beneficent consequences of obedience—the increase and happiness of the human race—union, communion, civilization to the masses; with—to the individual—all those sweet amenities, the silent but powerful influences which exalt as well as restrain; which give to morality her sway and to religion her true observance? Where would be the gentle ties of kindred, the love which glows around the family hearth, and the confidence which derives support from the faith and truth of other? Where would be the learning which has attested the power, at the same time that it has elevated the ming?—the healing arts,—the knowledge which has resolved the uses and the order of elements, the planets and the stars? What would follow, but mental and moral degradation? What is such solitary life, after all, but a voluntary abandonment of civilization and return to barbarism?

  Reason this subject as they may, those who encourage such economic and philosophic perversion of life, encourage idleness and the most egotistic meanness, and the exemplification is given by the young student himself. Does he live for others or for himself? For himself solely; and if his own statement be true, while starving his body and depriving himself of the opportunities of doing any good service to his fellow man, he has been continually dependent, himself, upon the kindness of others for his subsistence. He “squats” upon another man’s land, where he is permitted to live rent-free; but something more is necessary to supply even his narrow wants than his garden and his own solitary effort can supply. He flies his philosophic cell, at intervals, to seek the aid of those who live by aiding one another—to ask the place of the prodigal or the beggar among the swine and their husks, or at the foot of the rich man’s—or the poor man’s table,—to purchase with his labor, or obtain from their liberality, the necessaries of life which the desert refuses,—then, suddenly, to turn his back upon the world which had befriended him in his hour of need, and resume the life of fancied independence and philosophy, which is only of uselessness, folly and mendicancy. What can there be in a mind, so trained, in the slightest degree tinctured with one generous sentiment? Such a life affords no example that can be imitated or ought to be imitated,—that can be or ought to be tolerated, or spoken of in any terms short of censure, Such a life is, indeed, above all other lives,

  It is a weakness of mind to be afraid of annoyances; and they who look upon evils and afflictions and meet them with the boldest aspect and the stoutest heart, will have a far greater and more keenly appreciated allotment of pleasure than those who flee from pain and trouble by self-isolation.

  The remark at the close of the paragraph quoted, conveys a just and proper warning. But while it is a perilous adventure often too rashly resolved on by young men who rush from the country into crowded cities, or spread their sails for California, in the quest of sudden wealth, it would be an infinitely worse and more dangerous speculation to abscond from society and attempt the existence of a wild Indian in the forest, in the dream of happiness and conceit of merit. He who lives thus for himself alone, should expect to forego the needed aid of friends to meliorate the bed of sickness by patient care and assiduous kindness, and, on that of death should hope for no hand of affection to close the filming eye, and no voice of love to sob the last farewell to the fleeting spirit. There can be no fate more terrible than that of him who finds that, having, miser-like, hoarded up, during life, his sympathies and refused all exchange of regard with others, he is himself at length deserted at that moment when he would give worlds for the support of one friendly, or the devotion of one living spirit. There must come a day in the existence of every solitary man when the scales will fall from his eyes, and in bitterness of regret, he will be forced to say, as was said, in the beginning of the world, by Him who rules it,—“it is not good that man should be alone.”

  The ground is now for the most part bare, though I went through drifts three feet deep in some places. I hear that Simmonds had planted his potatoes (! !) before the snow a week ago. As I go over the railroad bridge, I hear the pewee singing pewet pewee, pee-wet pee-wee. The last time rising on the last syllable . . .

  I asked W. E. C. yesterday if he had acquired fame. He answered that, giving his name at some place, the bystanders said: “Yes, sir, we have heard of you. We know you here, sir. Your name is mentioned in Mr. ————’s book.” That’s all the fame I have had,—to be made known by another man . . .

  P.M.—Surveying in Lincoln . . .

  Evening on river.

  Fine full moon; river smooth . . .