of nature, and the work of self-improvement.

Prudence, which bids us all go to the ant for wisdom and
hoard against the day of sickness, was not a favourite with
Thoreau. He preferred that other, whose name is so much
misappropriated: Faith. When he had secured the necessaries
of the moment, he would not reckon up possible accidents or
torment himself with trouble for the future. He had no
toleration for the man "who ventures to live only by the aid
of the mutual insurance company, which has promised to bury
him decently." He would trust himself a little to the world.
"We may safely trust a good deal more than we do," says he.
"How much is not done by us! or what if we had been taken
sick?" And then, with a stab of satire, he describes
contemporary mankind in a phrase: "All the day long on the
alert, at night we unwillingly say our prayers and commit
ourselves to uncertainties." It is not likely that the
public will be much affected by Thoreau, when they blink the
direct injunctions of the religion they profess; and yet,
whether we will or no, we make the same hazardous ventures;
we back our own health and the honesty of our neighbours for
all that we are worth; and it is chilling to think how many
must lose their wager.

In 1845, twenty-eight years old, an age by which the
liveliest have usually declined into some conformity with the
world, Thoreau, with a capital of something less than five
pounds and a borrowed axe, walked forth into the woods by
Walden Pond, and began his new experiment in life. He built
himself a dwelling, and returned the axe, he says with