I’m really enjoying reading Thoreau’s Walden at the moment.
“Was that a farmer’s noon horn which sounded from beyond the woods just now? The hands are coming in to boiled salt beef and cider and Indian bread. Why will men worry themselves so? He that does not eat need not work.”
“For my panacea*, instead of one of those quack vials of a mixture dipped from Acheron and the Dead Sea, which come out of those long shallow black-schooner looking wagons which we sometimes see made to carry bottles, let me have a draught of undiluted morning air. Morning air!”
*A panacea is a cure-all, either physical medication or a solution to a problem. The term is mostly used in the negative sense of an illusory solution to all problems.(Wikipedia)
