11
God’s Drop
神的一滴
When I first paddled a boat on Walden， it was completely surrounded by thick and lofty pine and oak woods， and in some of its coves grapevines had run over the trees next the water and formed bowers under which a boat could pass. The hills which form its shores are so steep， and the woods on them were then so high， that， as you looked down from the west end， it had the appearance of an amphitheatre for some land of sylvan spectacle. I have spent many an hour， when I was younger， floating over its surface as the zephyr willed， having paddled my boat to the middle， and lying on my back across the seats， in a summer forenoon， dreaming awake， until I was aroused by the boat touching the sand， and I arose to see what shore my fates had impelied me to； days when idleness was the most attractive and productive industry. Many a forenoon have I stolen away， preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day； for I was rich， if not in money， in sunny hours and summer days， and spent them lavishly； nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher’s desk. But since I left those shores the woodchoppers have still further laid them waste， and now for many a year there will be no more rambling through the aisles of the wood， with occasional vistas through which you see the water. My Muse may be excused if she is silent henceforth. How can you expect the birds to sing when their groves are cut down？
Now the trunks of trees on the bottom， and the old log canoe， and the dark surrounding woods， are gone， and the villagers， who scarcely knowwhere it lies， instead of going to the pond to bathe or drink， are thinking to bring its water， which should be as sacred as the Ganges at least， to the village in a pipe， to wash their dishes with！ — to earn their Walden by the turning of a cock or drawing of a plug！ That devilish Iron Horse， whose ear-rending neigh is heard throughout the town， has muddied the Boiling Spring with his foot， and he it is that has browsed off all the woods on Walden shore， that Trojan horse， with a thousand men in his belly， introduced by mercenary Greeks！ Where is the country’s champion， the Moore of Moore Hill， to meet him at the Deep Cut and thrust an avenging lance between the ribs of the bloated pest？
Nevertheless， of all the characters I have known， perhaps Walden wears best， and best preserves its purity. Many men have been likened to it， but few deserve that honor. Though the woodchoppers have laid bare first this shore and then that， and the Irish have built their sties by it， and the railroad has infringed on its border， and the ice-men have skimmed it once， it is itself unchanged， the same water which my youthful eyes fell on； all the change is in me. It has not acquired one permanent wrinkle after all its ripples. It is perennially young， and I may stand and see a swallow dip apparently to pick an insect from its surface as of yore. It struck me again tonight， as if I had not seen it almost daily for more than twenty years— why， here is Walden， the same woodland lake that I discovered so many years ago； where a forest was cut down last winter another is springing up by its shore as lustily as ever； the same thought is welling up to its surface that was then； it is the same liquid joy and happiness to itself and its Maker， ay， and it may be to me. It is the work of a brave man surely， in whom there was no guile！ He rounded this water with his hand， deepened and clarified it in his thought， and in his will bequeathed it to Concord. I see by its face that it is visited by the same reflection； and I can almost say， Walden， is it you？
It is no dream of mine， To ornament a line；I cannot come nearer to God and Heaven Than I live to Walden even.
I am its stony shore，
And the breeze that passes o’er； In the hollow of my handAre its water and its sand， And its deepest resortLies high in my thought.
The cars never pause to look at it； yet I fancy that the engineers and firemen and brakemen， and those passengers who have a season ticket and see it often， are better men for the sight. The engineer does not forget at night， or his nature does not， that he has beheld this vision of serenity and purity once at least during the day. Though seen but once， it helps to wash out State Street and the engine’s soot. One proposes that it be called “God’s Drop.”
12
Thinking Like a Mountain
像山那样思考
A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock， rolls down the mountain， and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow and of contempt for all the adversities of the world.
Every living thing （and perhaps many a dead one as well） pays heed to that call. To the deer it is a reminder of the way of all flesh， to the pine a forecast of midnight scuffles and of blood upon the snow， to the coyote a promise of gleanings to come， to the cowman a threat of red ink at the bank， to the hunter a challenge of fang against bullet. Yet behind these obvious and immediate hopes and fears there lies a deeper meaning， known only to the mountain itself. Only the mountain has lived long enough to 1isten objectively to the howl of a wolf.
Those unable to decipher the hidden meaning know nevertheless that it is there， for it is felt in all wolf country， and distinguishes that country from all other land. It tingles in the spine of all who hear wolves by night， or who scan their tracks by day. Even without sight or sound of wolf， it is implicit in a hundred small events：the midnight whinny of a pack horse， the rattle of rolling rocks， the bound of a fleeing deer， the way shadows lie under the spruces. Only the ineducable tyro can fail to sense the presence or absence of wolves， or the fact that mountains have a secret opinion about them.
