As for Waldo, he died as the mist rises from the brook, which the sun will soon dart his rays through. Do not the flowers die every autumn? He had not even taken root here. I was not startled to hear that he was dead: it seemed the most natural event that could happen. His fine organization demanded it, and nature gently yielded its request. It would have been strange if he had lived. Neither will nature manifest any sorrow at his death, but soon the note of the lark will be heard down in the meadow, and fresh dandelions will spring from the old stocks where he plucked them last summer.
I have been living ill of late, but am now doing better. How do you live in that Plymouth world, now-a-days? Please remember me to M R. You must not blame me if I do talk to the clouds, for I remain
Your friend,
HENRY D. THOREAU.
TO MR. FULLER.
Concord, January 16, 1843.
Dear Richard:—
I need not thank you for your present, for I hear its music, which seems to be playing just for us two pilgrims marching over hill and dale of a
