my left, about fourteen or fifteen rods distant, a grove of those tall "arrowy" pines, such as Thoreau used for his house-building twenty-nine years ago. There is apparently not a breath of air stirring. Birds are singing about me and even the hum of an occasional mosquito is still heard. I left the pond, passing out by the beanfield. The grove of trees that Thoreau planted thereon in payment for his occupancy, looked quite sorry from the effects of a fire that had run through there some time previously.
A very genial last visit to X. He gave me a number of books, just as he had done at my first visit. As I bade him good bye, saying this would be my last visit to Concord—that I should not see it again, he answered: "Oh, yes, you will."
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