Chapter 92 Old Resident; Winter Visitor - 4

And a generation after door-frames, lintels, thresholds have vanished, the lilac still grows vigorously, and every spring unfurls its fragrant blossoms for the brooding traveler; once planted by a child's hand. , in the front yard of the house--all now growing at the foot of the wall in the deserted pasture, and giving way to the new forest;--those Liaoxiang are the only survivors of this one family, a solitary remnant.Those dark-skinned children did not expect that the twigs with only two buds they planted on the ground in the shadows in front of the house, after they watered them every day, took root so deep, lived longer than them, and outlived them. The house behind that shaded them lasted longer even than the man's garden or orchard, and half a century after they grew up and died, and the lilac still told their story to a lonely traveler Listen,—and how beautifully they bloom, and how sweetly their scent, as in the first spring.I see the tint of the lilac knot, still soft, unassuming and cheery.

But this small village should be a sprout that can develop. Why did it fail when Concord was still in the old place?Isn't the right time and place—for example, bad water conservancy?Ah, the depth of Walden, the coldness of Brister's Spring,--how rich, and healthfully drunk, and yet these people make no use of it except to dilute their wine.They're all just thirsty guys.Why weaving baskets, making stable brooms, weaving mats, drying corn, weaving linen, making pottery, these trades cannot develop here, make the wilderness bloom like roses, why there are no children and grandchildren to inherit the land of their ancestors Woolen cloth?The thin land is at least resistant to the degradation of the lowlands.What a pity!The memories of these human inhabitants contribute nothing to the beauty of the landscape!Perhaps nature will try me again, calling me the first immigrant, and making the house I built last spring the oldest building in the village.

I don't know of anyone who has built a house before on the land I occupy.Don't let me live in a city built on an ancient city, with ruins as its material and cemeteries as its gardens.The land there was terrified and cursed, and before this could happen, the land itself would probably perish.With this memory in my mind, I relocated these people in the forest to lull myself to sleep. In this season, it is rare for me to have guests over there.When the snow is the deepest, no one will come near my house for a week or even half a month, but I live very comfortably, like a mouse or a cow or a chicken on the prairie. It is said that even if they grow I was buried in the snow for a period of time, and could survive without food; or, I am like the earliest settlers in the city of Sutton in this state. It is said that he was not at home in the snow in 1717. But the heavy snow completely covered his thatched hut. Later, thanks to an Indian, he recognized a hole in the snow melted by the heat from the chimney, and rescued his family.But I have no friendly Indian friends to take care of me, and he doesn't have to, because the owner of the house is at home now.heavy snow!How pleasant it sounds!The peasants could not bring their donkeys and horses into the forest or the swamp, and they had to cut down the trees that shaded the sun at the door, and when the snow hardened, they went to the swamp and felled some trees, and in the second I went to see it last spring, they cut the trees ten feet above the ground.