It Is Not Easy To
Write In A Journal What Interests Us At Any Time, Because To
Write It Is Not What Interests Us.
Whenever we awoke in the night, still eking out our dreams with
half-awakened thoughts, it was not till
After an interval, when
the wind breathed harder than usual, flapping the curtains of the
tent, and causing its cords to vibrate, that we remembered that
we lay on the bank of the Merrimack, and not in our chamber at
home. With our heads so low in the grass, we heard the river
whirling and sucking, and lapsing downward, kissing the shore as
it went, sometimes rippling louder than usual, and again its
mighty current making only a slight limpid, trickling sound, as
if our water-pail had sprung a leak, and the water were flowing
into the grass by our side. The wind, rustling the oaks and
hazels, impressed us like a wakeful and inconsiderate person up
at midnight, moving about, and putting things to rights,
occasionally stirring up whole drawers full of leaves at a puff.
There seemed to be a great haste and preparation throughout
Nature, as for a distinguished visitor; all her aisles had to be
swept in the night, by a thousand hand-maidens, and a thousand
pots to be boiled for the next day's feasting; - such a whispering
bustle, as if ten thousand fairies made their fingers fly,
silently sewing at the new carpet with which the earth was to be
clothed, and the new drapery which was to adorn the trees.
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