harvest of my life," said Thoreau, "is something as intangible and
indescribable as the tints of morning and evening." It was the summary, the
essence, of all his experience. We are like bees foraging in the garden of
the world, and hoarding the honey in the hive of memory. And no hoard is
like any other hoard that ever was or ever will be. The cuckoo calling over
the valley, the blackbird fluting in the low boughs in the evening, the
solemn majesty of the Abbey, the life of the streets, the ebb and flow of
Father Thames--everything whispers to us some secret that it has for no
other ear, and touches a chord of memory that echoes in no other brain.
Those deeps within us find only a crude expression in the vehicle of words
and actions, and our intercourse with men touches but the surface of
ourselves. The rest is "as intangible and indescribable as the tints of
morning and evening." It was one of the most companionable of men, William
Morris, who said:

That God has made each one of us as lone
As He Himself sits.

That is why, in moments of exaltation, our only refuge is silence, and the
world of memory within answers the world of suggestion without.

"And what does the seaweed remind you of?" said one, as I looked up after
smelling it. "It reminds me," I said, "of all the seas that wash our
shores, and of all the brave sailors who are guarding these seas day and
night, while we sit here secure. It reminds me also that I have an article
to write, and that its title is 'A Bit of Seaweed.'"