File:Old Concord, her highways and byways; (1892) (14593957199).jpg

Identifier: oldconcordherhig00sidna (find matches)
Title: Old Concord, her highways and byways;
Year: 1892 (1890s)
Authors: Sidney, Margaret, 1844-1924
Subjects: Concord (Mass.) -- Description and travel
Publisher: Boston, D. Lothrop company
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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d the messaorethat the young worker had for them, and proudlythey intrusted to him their greatest commission.Here was the Minute Man breathed into the clay,till the rough block spoke and told the story of ourfathers struggle for a home and a country. Continuing on the road toward Walden Pondwe are presently entangled in a thick growth ofshrubbery, through which the faintest trace of apath is visible. Here the aboriginal settlers musthave dwelt in comparative safety from their whitebrethrens envious eyes, so shut in is it, so thor-oughly secluded from all haunts of men. Afterassuring ourselves over and over in needlessly loudtones that we are not afraid, we plunge in, bestowa gentle reminder on the unresisting horse, andgive ourselves up to our determination to find thesite of Thoreaus hut, the Cove, and as much elseas is possible, of Lake Walden. A whirrincr in the bushes starts our resolution,and makes it pale a bit, but as we cannot turnback because of the narrowness of the path, we
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Her Highways and Byways. 93 make a show of courao-e and dri\c on with tioht-ened rein, A woodchuck, suggests our companion, com-fortingly. We never knew what it was that disturl^ed ourpeace; and presently after much tearing of thecarriage wheels through the undergrowth, and acorresponding amount of head-ducking to avoidthe drooping untrimmed branches that insist inrecklessly striking our faces, we come suddenlyupon, not what we fondly hoped to see, but therailroad track ! We look into each others faces in despair. W ould you attempt it t asks one ; which one,shall remain in oblivion. There is no place to turn off; we must retraceour way if we give up, says the other. We have come to see Lake Walden, and thesite of Thoreaus hut, and give up as you put it,hasnt a nice sound. By this time we are over the track, and a smoth-ered toot somewhere down the shining railssends us at a brisk pace tearing a trail for our-selves through the forest. Walden Pond, lying in a deep wood between g^ Old

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