Being so pervious to
air-currents, it was just the nook, too, for the enjoyment of a cigar.
This hermitage was my one exclusive possession while I counted
myself a brother of the socialists. It symbolized my individuality,
and aided me in keeping it inviolate. None ever found me out in it,
except, once, a squirrel. I brought thither no guest, because, after
Hollingsworth failed me, there was no longer the man alive with whom
I could think of sharing all. So there I used to sit, owl-like, yet
not without liberal and hospitable thoughts. I counted the
innumerable clusters of my vine, and fore-reckoned the abundance of
my vintage. It gladdened me to anticipate the surprise of the
Community, when, like an allegorical figure of rich October, I should
make my appearance, with shoulders bent beneath the burden of ripe
grapes, and some of the crushed ones crimsoning my brow as with a
bloodstain.
Ascending into this natural turret, I peeped in turn out of several
of its small windows. The pine-tree, being ancient, rose high above
the rest of the wood, which was of comparatively recent growth. Even
where I sat, about midway between the root and the topmost bough, my
position was lofty enough to serve as an observatory, not for starry
investigations, but for those sublunary matters in which lay a lore
as infinite as that of the planets. Through one loophole I saw the
river lapsing calmly onward, while in the meadow, near its brink, a
few of the brethren were digging peat for our winter's fuel.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129