Walden

the Saint Vitus’ dance, and cannot possibly keep our heads still. If I
should only give a few pulls at the parish bell-rope, as for a fire,
that is, without setting the bell, there is hardly a man on his farm in
the outskirts of Concord, notwithstanding that press of engagements
which was his excuse so many times this morning, nor a boy, nor a
woman, I might almost say, but would forsake all and follow that sound,
not mainly to save property from the flames, but, if we will confess
the truth, much more to see it burn, since burn it must, and we, be it
known, did not set it on fire,—or to see it put out, and have a hand in
it, if that is done as handsomely; yes, even if it were the parish
church itself. Hardly a man takes a half hour’s nap after dinner, but
when he wakes he holds up his head and asks, “What’s the news?” as if
the rest of mankind had stood his sentinels. Some give directions to be
waked every half hour, doubtless for no other purpose; and then, to pay
for it, they tell what they have dreamed. After a night’s sleep the
news is as indispensable as the breakfast. “Pray tell me any thing new
that has happened to a man any where on this globe,”—and he reads it