harpness of the senses, the keen
instincts (which the fox and the beaver still possess), the ability to
find one's way in the pathless forest, to follow a trail, to circumvent
the wild denizens of the woods; and, on the other hand, there would be
the philosophy of life which the primitive man, with little external
aid, would evolve from original observation and cogitation. It is our
good fortune to know such a man; but it is difficult to present him to
a scientific and caviling generation. He emigrated from somewhat limited
conditions in Vermont, at an early age, nearly half a century ago, and
sought freedom for his natural development backward in the wilds of the
Adirondacks. Sometimes it is a love of adventure and freedom that sends
men out of the more civilized conditions into the less; sometimes it is
a constitutional physical lassitude which leads them to prefer the rod
to the hoe, the trap to the sickle, and the society of bears to town
meetings and taxes. I think that Old Mountain Phelps had merely the
instincts of the primitive man, and never any hostile civilizing intent
as to the wilderness into which he plunged. Why should he want to slash
away the forest and plow up the ancient mould, when it is infinitely
pleasanter to roam about in the leafy solitudes, or sit upon a mossy log
and listen to the chatter of birds and the stir of beasts? Are there not
trout in the streams, gum exuding from the spruce, sugar in the maples,
honey in the hollow trees, fur on the sables, warmth in hickory logs?
Will not a few days' planting and scratching in the "open" yield
potatoes and rye? And, if there is steadier diet needed than venison
and bear, is the pig an expensive animal? If Old Phelps bowed to the
prejudice or fashion of his age (since we have come out of the tertiary
state of things), and reared a family, built a frame house in a
secluded nook by a cold spring, planted about it some apple trees and a
rudimentary garden, and installed a group of flaming sunflowers by the
door, I am convinced that it was a concession that did not touch his
radical character; that is to say, it did not impair his reluctance to
split oven-wood.

He was a true citizen of the wilderness. Thoreau would have liked him,
as he liked Indians and woodchucks, and the smell of pine forests; and,
if Old Phelps had seen Thoreau, he would probably have said to him, "Why
on airth, Mr. Thoreau, don't you live accordin' to your preachin'?"
You might be