"Time," wrote contemplative Henry David Thoreau (1817-62), "is but the stream I go a-fishing in." Recluse Thoreau (Walden, 1854), who lived for 26 months in a spare, do-it-yourself hut (cost: $28.12) in the serene wilderness of Massachusetts' Walden Pond, might have locked his creaky door had he caught a glimpse of the U.S. last week. It was a remarkable sight. In the heat of this midsummer, the nation looked upon time not as a quiet stream but as a bubbling spring from which it might satisfy an endless thirst for motion.
Unquenchable millions of Americans packed their children into sedans...
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