You say you are in the hay field: how I envy you! Methinks I see thee stretched at thy ease by the side of a fragrant rick with a mighty flagon in one hand, a cold slice in the other, and a most ravenous appetite to boot. So much for haying. Now I cannot hay nor scratch dirt, I manage to keep should and body together another way. I have been manufacturing a sort of vessel in miniature, not a ευσσελμον νεα [well-benched ship] as Homer has it, but a kind of oblong bread-trough.

  In days of yore, ’tis said, the swimming alder

  Fashioned rude, with branches lopped and stript of its smooth coat, Where fallen tree was not and rippling stream’s vast breadth Forbade adventurous leap, the brawny swain did bear

  Secure to farthest shore.

  The book has passed away, and with the book the lay, Which in my youthful days I loved to ponder. Of curious things it told, how wise men 3 of Gotham In bowl did venture out to sea,

  And darkly hints their awful fate.

  If men have dared the main to tempt in such frail barks, Why may not wash-tub round or bread-trough square oblong Suffice to cross the purling wave and gain the destin’d port?

  What do you think these capitals mean? When I begin to feel bluey, I just step into my hog-trough, leave care behind, and drift along our sluggish stream at the mercy of the winds and waves.

  The following is an extract from the log-book of the Red Jacket, Captain Thoreau:

  Set sail from the island—the Island! how expressive—reached Thayer’s after a tedious voyage, having encountered a head wind during the whole passage—waves running mountain high, with breakers to the leeward—however, arrived safe, and after a thorough refit, being provided with extra cables, and a first-rate birch mainmast, weighed anchor at 3 p.m. August 1, 1836, N.S., wind blowing N.N.E.

  The breeze having increased to a gale, tack’d ship stationed myself at the helm and prepared for emergencies. Just as the ship was rounding point Dennis a squall stuck [sic] her, under a cloud of canvas, which swept the deck. The aforesaid mast went by the board, carrying with it the only mainsail. The vessel being at the mercy of the waves was cast ashore on Nashawtuck beach. Natives—harmless, unoffensive, principally devoted to agricultural pursuits—appeared some what astonished that a stranger should land so unceremoniously on their coast.

  Got her off at twenty minutes of four, and after a short and pleasant passage of ten minutes arrived safely in port with a valuable cargo.

  “Epistolary matter,” says Lamb, “usually comprises three topics, news, sentiment and puns.” Now as to news I don’t know the coin—the newspapers take care of that. Puns I abhor and more especially deliberate ones. Sentiment alone is immortal, the rest are short-lived—evanescent.

  Now this is neither matter-of-fact, nor pungent, nor yet sentimental—it is neither one thing nor the other, but a kind of hodge-podge, put together in much the same style that mince pies are fabled to have been made, i.e. by opening the oven door, and from the further end of the room, casting in the various ingredients—a little lard here, a little flour there—now a round of beef, and then a cargo of spices—helter skelter.

  I should like to crawl into those holes you describe—what a crowd of associations ’twould give rise to! “One to once, gentlemen.”

  As to Indian remains, the season is past with me, the Doctor having expressly forbidden both digging and chopping.

  My health is so much improved that I shall return to C. next term if they will receive me. French I have certainly neglected, Dan Homer is all the rage at present.

This from your friend and classmate,
D. H. Thoreau

P.S. It would afford me much pleasure if you would visit our good old town this vacation; in other words, myself.

  Don’t fail to answer this forthwith; ’tis a good thing to persevere in well doing.

  How true it is that the postscript contains the most important matter, invariably.