Walden

in his father’s day. Among the rest was a dried tapeworm. And now,
after lying half a century in his garret and other dust holes, these
things were not burned; instead of a _bonfire_, or purifying
destruction of them, there was an _auction_, or increasing of them. The
neighbors eagerly collected to view them, bought them all, and
carefully transported them to their garrets and dust holes, to lie
there till their estates are settled, when they will start again. When
a man dies he kicks the dust.

The customs of some savage nations might, perchance, be profitably
imitated by us, for they at least go through the semblance of casting
their slough annually; they have the idea of the thing, whether they
have the reality or not. Would it not be well if we were to celebrate
such a “busk,” or “feast of first fruits,” as Bartram describes to have
been the custom of the Mucclasse Indians? “When a town celebrates the
busk,” says he, “having previously provided themselves with new
clothes, new pots, pans, and other household utensils and furniture,
they collect all their worn out clothes and other despicable things,
sweep and cleanse their houses, squares, and the whole town of their