Page:Winter - from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau.djvu/56

42 One while we do not wonder that so many commit suicide, life is so barren and worthless. We only live on by an effort of the will. Suddenly our condition is ameliorated, and even the barking of a dog is a pleasure to us. So closely is our happiness bound up with our physical condition, and one reacts on the other.

Do not despair of your life. You have no doubt force enough to overcome your obstacles. Think of the fox prowling through wood and field in a winter night for something to satisfy his hunger. Notwithstanding cold and the hounds and traps, his race survives. I do not believe any of them ever committed suicide. I saw this afternoon where probably a fox had rolled some small carcass in the snow.

I am disappointed by most essays and lectures. I find that I had expected the authors would have some life, some very private experience to report, which would make it comparatively unimportant in what style they expressed themselves, but commonly they have only a talent to exhibit. The new magazines which all had been expecting may contain only another love story, as naturally told as the last, perchance, but without the slightest novelty in it. It may be a mere vehicle for Yankee phrases.

What interesting contrasts our climate affords. In July you rush panting into the pond to cool