I am not worth seeing personally, the stuttering, blundering clod-hopper that I am. Even poetry, you know, is in one sense an infinite brag and exaggeration. Not that I do not stand on all that I have written—but what am I to the truth I feebly utter!
I like the name of your county—may it grow men as sturdy as its trees. Methinks I hear your flute echo amid the oaks. Is not yours, too, a good place to study theology? I hope that you will erelong recover your turtle-dove, and that it may bring you glad tidings out of that heaven in which it disappeared.
Yours sincerely,
Henry D. Thoreau.
["I am not sure but authors must turn booksellers themselves." Indeed!
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