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    A few pieces of fat pine were a great treasure.  It is interesting to remember how much of this food for fire is still concealed in the bowels of the earth.  In previous years I had often gone prospecting over some bare hillside, where a pitch pine wood had formerly stood, and got out the fat pine roots.  They are almost indestructible.  Stumps thirty or forty years old, at least, will still be sound at the core, though the sapwood has all become vegetable mould, as appears by the scales of the thick bark forming a ring level with the earth four or five inches distant from the heart.  With axe and shovel you explore this mine, and follow the marrowy store, yellow as beef tallow, or as if you had struck on a vein of gold, deep into the earth.  But commonly I kindled my fire with the dry leaves of the forest, which I had stored up in my shed before the snow came.  Green hickory finely split makes the woodchopper's kindlings, when he has a camp in the woods.  Once in a while I got a little of this.  When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I was awake.--

           Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
           Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
           Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
           Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
           Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
           Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
           By night star-veiling, and by day
           Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
           Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
           And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
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