Concord, March 19, 1861.
FRIEND R,--Your letter reached me in due time, but I had already heard
the bluebirds. They were here on the 26th of February at least,--but
not yet do the larks sing or the flickers call, with us. The bluebirds
come again, as does the same spring, but it does not find the same
mortals here to greet it. You remember Minott's cottage on the
hillside,--well, it finds some change there, for instance. The little
gray hip-roofed cottage was occupied at the beginning of February,
this year, by George Minott and his sister Mary, respectively 78 and
80 years old, and Miss Potter, 74. These had been its permanent
occupants for many years. Minott had been on his last legs for some
time,--at last off his legs, expecting weekly to take his
departure,--a burden to himself and friends,--yet dry and natural as
ever. His sister took care of him, and supported herself and family
with her needle, as usual. He lately willed his little property to
her, as a slight compensation for her care. Feb. 13 their sister, 86
or 87, who lived across the way, died. Miss Minott had taken cold in
visiting her, and was so sick that she could not go to her funeral.
She herself died of lung fever[99] on the 18th (which was said to be
the same disease that her sister had),--having just willed her
property back to George, and added her own mite to it. Miss Potter,
too, had now become ill,--too ill to attend the funeral,--and she died
of the same disease on the 23d. All departed as gently as the sun
goes down, leaving George alone.
I called to see him the other day,--the 27th of February, a remarkably
pleasant spring day,--and as I was climbing the sunny slope to his
strangely deserted house, I heard the first bluebirds upon the elm
that hangs over it. They had come as usual, though some who used to
hear them were gone. Even Minott had not heard them, though the door
was open,--for he was thinking of other things. Perhaps there will be
a time when the bluebirds themselves will not return any more.
I hear that George, a few days after this, called out to his niece,
who had come to take care of him, and was in the next room, to know if
she did not feel lonely? "Yes, I do," said she. "So do I," added he.
He said he was like an old oak, all shattered and decaying. "I am
sure, Uncle," said his niece, "you are not much like an oak!" "I
mean," said he, "that I am like an oak or any other tree, inasmuch as
I cannot stir from where I am."
* * * * *
Either this topic was too pathetic for Thoreau to finish the letter,
or perchance he thought it not likely to interest his friend; for he
threw aside this draft for three days, and then, with the same
beginning, wrote a very different letter. The Minotts were old
familiar acquaintance, and related to that Captain Minott whom
Thoreau's grandmother married as a second husband. George was his "old
man of Verona," who had not left Concord for more than forty years,
except to stray over the town bounds in hunting or wood-ranging; and
Mary was the "tailoress" who for years made Thoreau's garments.