No longer the flock huddles up in the stall, the plowman bends
over the fire,
No longer frost whitens the meadow;
But the goddess of love, while the moon shines above,
Sets us dancing in light and in shadow.
When Robin Redbreast brings back the springtime, I trust that you will
lay your school duties aside, cast off care, and venture to be gay now
and then; roaming with me in the woods, or climbing the Fair Haven
cliffs,--or else, in my boat on Walden, let the water kiss your hand,
or gaze at your image in the wave.
Bulwer is to me a name unknown,--one of the unnoticed crowd,
attracting neither blame nor praise. To be sure, I hold any one in
some esteem who is helpless in the grasp of the writing demon.
Does not the image of the Lexington afire trouble your dreams?[14] But
we may not, like the superstitious mob, blame Vulcan or
Neptune,--neither fire nor water was in fault. Nature takes as much
care for midgets as for mankind; she is our friend in storm and in
calm.
If you like history, and the exploits of the brave, don't give up
Rollin, I beg; thus would you displease Clio, who might not forgive
you hereafter. What Latin are you reading? I mean _reading_, not
studying. Blessed is the man who can have his library at hand, and oft
peruse the books, without the fear of a taskmaster! he is far enough
from harmful idleness, who can call in and dismiss these friends when
he pleases. An honest book's the noblest work of man. There's a
reason, now, not only for your reading, but for writing something,
too. You will not lack readers,--here am I, for one. If you cannot
compose a volume, then try a tract. It will do the world no good,
hereafter, if you merely exist, and pass life smoothly or roughly; but
to have thoughts, and write them down, that helps greatly.
I fear you will tire of this epistle; the light of day is dwindling,
too,--
And longer fall the shadows of the hills.
Therefore, good-by; fare ye well, and sleep in quiet, both my sisters!
Don't forget to write.