Thoreau writes in his journal:
In running a line through a wood-lot in the southwest part of Lincoln to-day, I started from an old pine stump, now mostly crumbled away, though a part of the wood was still hard above ground, which was described in his [sic] deed of 1813 (forty-six years ago) as a pine stump . . . Mr. Haines, who travelled over the lots with us this very cold and blustering day, was over eighty . . .
