The Last Harvest

ks, winter and summer, to the fields and the woods. His was the love of the poet and the idealist, of the man who communes with Nature, and finds a moral and an intellectual tonic in her works

lown, and their shadows waved. Shall I not then call my little book Forest Essays?" He finally called it "Nature." He loves the "her

it is health. "As I walked in the woods I felt what I often feel, that nothing can befall me in life, no calamity, no disgrace (leaving me my eyes) to which Nature will not offer a sweet consolati

odlan

er-grapes, a m

or rock-lov

y worst

ny, physiology, meteorology, picturesque, and poetry together. No bird, no bug, no bud, should be forgotten on his day and hour. To-day the chickadees, the robins, bluebirds and song-sparrows sang to me. I dissected the buds of the birch and the oak; in every one of the last is a star. The crow

he horizon and the sky, and come to feel the wa

ods? Wise are they, the ancient nymphs; pleasing, sober,

nd of an afternoon and read Goe

rue nature-lovers. None knew better than he that nature is not all birds and flowers. His

the evening cry of the whippoorwill, better than all the bellowing

hat his different winter courses of lectures in Boston, usually ten of them, were attende

was published in 1867, he sent fifty copies to friends; one of them went to Walt Whitman. I saw it the day it came. It was in a white dress (silk, I think); very beautiful. He sent