Thoreau writes in his journal:
Bangor to Oldtown. The rail-road from Bangor to Oldtown is civilization shooting off in a tangent into the forest. I had much conversation with an old Indian at the latter place, who sat dreaming upon a scow at the water side and striking his deer-skin moccasins against the planks, while his arms hung listlessly by his side. He was the most communicative man I had met . . .
