Chapter 91 Old Resident; Winter Visitor - 3

On the left, where the well and the lilac bushes along the wall can be seen, in the present clearing, Nadine and Le Gros once lived.But let's go back to Lincoln. In the forest, farther than any of the above-mentioned places, at the point where the road is closest to the lake, the potter Weiman squatted there, made pottery to supply the people of the town, and left his descendants to continue his business.They were also very poor in worldly things, and when they were alive, they were reluctantly allowed to own that piece of land: the mayor often came to collect taxes, but it was for nothing, and he could only "drag away some worthless things. "Things", doing form, because he is really penniless; I found the above-mentioned work from his report.One day in midsummer, as I was hoeing, a man who was going to the market with a lot of pottery reined in his horse and asked me how little Weiman was doing by the side of my field.He had bought him a potter's wheel long ago, and he wished to know how he was now.I have only read about pottery clay and reels in the scriptures, but I have never noticed that the pottery we use is not the ancient pottery that has been handed down from then to today without any damage, or where it is like a gourd. On trees, I am glad to hear that such an art of shaping is practiced in our neighbourhood.

The last resident of the woods before my eyes was the Irishman Hugh Quarr (that is if I roll my tongue enough to say his name), who lodged with Weymans,--they called him Colonel Quarr .Legend has it that he once participated in the Battle of Waterloo as a soldier.If he's still alive, I'm sure he'll fight the war again.His business here is digging ditches.Napoleon was in St. Helena, and Quarle was in Walden Forest.Everything I know about him is tragic.He's a very nice man, just a man of the world, with a far more refined speech than you'll ever hear.In the summer he wore a coat because he had delirium tremens and his face was carmine.He died on the road below Brister Hill shortly after I was in the woods, so I don't remember him as a neighbour.Before his house was demolished, his friends thought it was "a dangerous fortress" and they couldn't avoid it. I went in and took a look, and saw that his old clothes were all wrinkled inside. As if it were himself, on a raised plank bed.His broken pipe stood on the fire instead of his broken bowl by the spring.The so-called spring cannot be used as a symbol of death, because he told me that although he had heard the name of Brister Spring for a long time, he had never visited it; besides, the floor was full of dirty cards and cubes.The old K of spades and hearts and so on.A chick with black feathers, which was not captured by the magistrate, was as black as night, too quiet to cluck, was waiting for Reynard, and it still roosted in the next room.Behind the house there was a vaguely garden-like outline. Something had been planted, but he hadn't hoeed it once, because his hands were shaking badly, and now he didn't feel it was time to harvest.Roman wormwood and beggar-weed were overgrown, and the tiny fruits of beggar-weed stuck to my clothes.A woodchuck hide was recently stretched across the back of the house, the prize of his last Waterloo, but he needed no warm hat, or warm gloves now.

Now only a dent marks the dwellings, and the stones in the cellars are sunken deep, while weed, raspberry, raspberry, hazel, and sumac grow together in the sunny meadow; the corner of the chimney is now A spruce or gnarled oak has taken it, and where the threshold used to be, there may still be a rich black poplar swaying.Sometimes the dent of a well is clearly seen, where once there was spring water, now it is dry grass without tears; perhaps it is hidden by long grass, - it will be a long time before someone finds it, - under the long grass There was a flat stone which had been carried by one of them who had left last.Covering up the well--what a sad thing!Simultaneously with it, the fountain of tears began to flow.The dents in these cellars, like some abandoned fox holes, ancient holes, are the relics of the bustling human beings who used to discuss in different forms and dialects at that time, what "fate, Free will, absolute foreknowledge", etc.But the result of their discussion, as far as I know, is this, "Cato and Brister pulled the wool"; which is as illuminating as the history of the more famous schools of philosophy.