Chapter 111 Spring - 7

"The trees on the Niu Mountain are beautiful, because they are effective in a great country. Can they be beautiful when they are cut by an axe? It is their rest day and night, moistened by rain and dew, and they are not born without sprouts. The cattle and sheep are herded. So if he is Zhuozhuo, people see him as Zhuozhuo, and think that he is not talented. This is also the nature of mountains. "Although it exists in human beings, there is no heart of benevolence and righteousness. The reason why they let go of their conscience is like an ax to a tree. Is it beautiful to cut it down at once? The rest of the day and night, the breath of the day How close are their likes and dislikes to human beings? Then what they do in the morning and day will be shackles and perish. If the shackles are repeated, the night air will not be enough to survive, and the night air will not be enough to survive, then it will not be far from the beasts. It's human nature to think that there is no talent when people see their beasts."

When the Golden Age began, there were no Avengers, Loyalty and integrity are automatic without laws, No name, no fear, never was. Threats are not hung high in brass, The beggar does not worry about the word of the judge, All is well, no Avengers. No pine tree has been cut down on the mountain, Waves may flow to a foreign world, Man knows no other but his own shore. Spring never fades away, the gentle breeze blows, Nurturing the flower that grows without sowing. On the twenty-ninth of April I was fishing on the bank near Nine Acre Point Bridge, standing on the wobbly grass and willow-roots where some muskrats were hiding.I heard a strange noise, a little like the sound of sticks that children play with their fingers, when I looked up, and I saw a very small, very beautiful eagle, which looked like Like a nightjar, whirling now like a spray, now dropping a shot or two like a somersault, in turn, showing the inside of its wing, shining in the sun like a ribbon, or like the inside of a shell. layer of pearlescent.This spectacle reminds me of the art of falconry and poultry, and with what lofty sentiments and poems have been written about this sport.This seems to be called a falcon, and I don't care about its name.It was the most nimble flight I have ever seen.Instead of fluttering like a butterfly, or fluttering like some of the larger hawks of prey, it frolics proudly and confidently through space, clucking strangely, flying higher and higher, and again and again at will. Descending gracefully, turning over and over like a kite, and then recovering from its high upheaval, as if it never wanted to land on earth, it seems that there are not many birds of prey in the sky,— There it frolics alone, and seems to need no company but air and dawn.It is not lonely, in contrast, the earth below is unusually lonely.Where is the mother who nursed it?What about its kind, its father in the sky?It is an animal in the air, and it seems that it has only one relationship with the earth, that is, there was such an egg, when it was hatched in a crack in the rock; could it be said that its hometown nest is in the corner of the cloud, named after the rainbow? Is it fringed with sunset sky, and surrounded by a midsummer mist rising from the ground?Its raptors nest in clouds like hanging rocks.

Also, I managed to catch a rare bunch of golden and silver glistening goblets that looked like a string of gems.what!I have penetrated these meadows many early spring dawns, leaping from knoll to knoll, from root of one willow to root of willow, when wild valleys and forests were bathed in such purity and radiance In the light of the sun, if the dead are really as they supposed, if they were only asleep in their graves, they will all be awakened.No stronger proof of immortality is needed!All things must live under such a light.O death, where are your pincers?O Grave, where is your victory? How stagnant our village life would be without some unexplored forest and prairie surrounding the village.We need the wilderness for our nourishment,--sometimes to wade in swampy places where pheasants and herons lurk, to hear the sound of sandpipers, and sometimes to sniff the whispering sedge, where only some wilder and solitary bird builds its nest , and the marten came, crawling on its belly.In our zeal to discover and learn all things, we demand that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that continents and seas be forever wild, unexplored and unexplored, for they are unexplored of.We will never tire of nature.We must be refreshed from infinite energy, from vast colossal figures, from the shore and the wrecks on it, from the wilderness with its living and decaying trees, from the thunderclouds, from the three weeks Rain into floods and get refreshed from it all.We need to see ourselves push our limits and live freely on some pastures where we never drifted.We rejoice when we observe the rotting carrion that disgusts and discourages us being eaten by the hawks, from whom they derive their health and vigor.On the way back to my cabin there was a dead horse in a cave, which often forced me to take a detour, especially at night when the air was stuffy, but it convinced me of the vigor and inviolability of nature health, which gave me a good compensation.I love to see nature teeming with creatures, able to withstand the sacrifice and suffering of countless creatures killing each other, the weakly organized, clarified and squeezed out like soft pulp - the heron swallows the tadpole in one gulp, Turtles and toads are run over by the wheels on the road, and sometimes the flesh rains down!Since it is so easy to encounter accidents, we must understand and don't mind too much.In the impression of a wise man, the universe is universally ignorant.Poison is not necessarily poisonous, and injury is not necessarily fatal.Compassion is a very shaky foundation.It is fleeting.Its approach to compassion cannot be set in stone.

In early May, the oaks, hickories, maples, and others sprouted from the pine forests along the lake, giving the landscape a sunny glow, especially on cloudy days, as if the sun were shining faintly through the clouds. Shining here and there on the hill.On May 3rd or 4th I saw a loon in the lake.During the first week of the month I heard nightjars, brown thrushes, thrushes, flycatchers, finches, and other birds.I have heard about the thrush in the forest.The flycatcher came again to look at my door and window, to see if my log house could serve as his table, and he stopped in the air with rapid flapping of his wings, clutching his talons as if he As if grabbing the air, it took a close look at my room.The sulphur-colored pollen of the pines soon covered the surface of the lake and the boulders and the rotting trees along the lake, so that you could fill a bucket to the brim.This is the so-called "sulfur rain" we have heard.Even in Kalidasa's play "Shakundala", we read, "The gold powder of the lotus has dyed the river yellow." And so the seasons flow, and in summer you roam in the ever-growing and taller feng shui. In the grass.

Thus ended my first year in the woods, and the second was somewhat like it.At last on September 6th, 1847, I left Walden.