Animal Neighbors

Sometimes I had a companion in my fishing, who came through the village to my house from the other side of the town, and the catching of the dinner was as much a social exercise as the eating of it.

Sometimes I had a fishing companion who came through the village to my house from the other side of town. Catching our dinner was as much a social activity as eating it.

Hermit. I wonder what the world is doing now. I have not heard so much as a locust over the sweet-fern these three hours. The pigeons are all asleep upon their roosts,—no flutter from them. 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. I wonder how much they have reaped. Who would live there where a body can never think for the barking of Bose? And O, the housekeeping! to keep bright the devil’s door-knobs, and scour his tubs this bright day! Better not keep a house. Say, some hollow tree; and then for morning calls and dinner-parties! Only a woodpecker tapping. O, they swarm; the sun is too warm there; they are born too far into life for me. I have water from the spring, and a loaf of brown bread on the shelf.—Hark! I hear a rustling of the leaves. Is it some ill-fed village hound yielding to the instinct of the chase? or the lost pig which is said to be in these woods, whose tracks I saw after the rain? It comes on apace; my sumachs and sweet-briers tremble.—Eh, Mr. Poet, is it you? How do you like the world to-day?

Hermit. I wonder what the world is doing now. For three hours I haven’t heard even a locust over the sweet-fern. The pigeons are all asleep on their roosts. Not a flutter from them. Was that a farmer’s noon horn I just heard beyond the woods? The farm workers are coming in for boiled salt beef, cider, and cornmeal bread. Why do men wear themselves out worrying? Anyone who doesn’t eat need not work. I wonder how much they’ve harvested. Who would live where you can never think because Bose keeps barking? And oh, the housekeeping! Polishing the devil’s doorknobs and scrubbing his tubs on this bright day! Better not to keep a house at all. A hollow tree, perhaps. And then what morning visits and dinner parties! Just a woodpecker tapping. Oh, the people swarm. The sun is too warm there. They are born too deeply into the business of life for me. I have water from the spring and a loaf of brown bread on the shelf. Listen! I hear leaves rustling. Is it some underfed village hound following its hunting instinct? Or the lost pig said to be in these woods, whose tracks I saw after the rain? Whatever it is, it’s coming fast. My sumacs and sweetbriers tremble. Ah, Mr. Poet, is it you? How do you like the world today?

Poet. See those clouds; how they hang! That’s the greatest thing I have seen to-day. There’s nothing like it in old paintings, nothing like it in foreign lands,—unless when we were off the coast of Spain. That’s a true Mediterranean sky. I thought, as I have my living to get, and have not eaten to-day, that I might go a-fishing. That’s the true industry for poets. It is the only trade I have learned. Come, let’s along.

Poet. Look at those clouds, how they hang! That’s the greatest sight I’ve seen today. There’s nothing like it in old paintings or foreign lands, except when we were off the coast of Spain. That’s a true Mediterranean sky. Since I have to earn a living and haven’t eaten today, I thought I might go fishing. Fishing is the right kind of work for poets. It’s the only trade I’ve learned. Come on, let’s go.

Hermit. I cannot resist. My brown bread will soon be gone. I will go with you gladly soon, but I am just concluding a serious meditation. I think that I am near the end of it. Leave me alone, then, for a while. But that we may not be delayed, you shall be digging the bait meanwhile. Angle-worms are rarely to be met with in these parts, where the soil was never fattened with manure; the race is nearly extinct. The sport of digging the bait is nearly equal to that of catching the fish, when one’s appetite is not too keen; and this you may have all to yourself to-day. I would advise you to set in the spade down yonder among the ground-nuts, where you see the johnswort waving. I think that I may warrant you one worm to every three sods you turn up, if you look well in among the roots of the grass, as if you were weeding. Or, if you choose to go farther, it will not be unwise, for I have found the increase of fair bait to be very nearly as the squares of the distances.

Hermit. I cannot resist. My brown bread will soon be gone. I will gladly go with you soon, but I am just finishing a serious meditation. I think I am near the end of it. Leave me alone for a while, then. But so we won’t be delayed, you can dig the bait in the meantime. Earthworms are rarely found around here, where the soil has never been enriched with manure. The species is nearly extinct. Digging bait is almost as much fun as catching fish, when you are not too hungry. And you may have that pleasure all to yourself today. I suggest digging down there among the groundnuts, where you see the St. John’s wort waving. I think I can promise you one worm for every three clumps of turf you turn over. That is, if you look carefully among the grass roots, as if you were weeding. Or, if you choose to go farther, that would not be unwise. I have found that the supply of good bait increases almost in proportion to the square of the distance.

Hermit alone. Let me see; where was I? Methinks I was nearly in this frame of mind; the world lay about at this angle. Shall I go to heaven or a-fishing? If I should soon bring this meditation to an end, would another so sweet occasion be likely to offer? I was as near being resolved into the essence of things as ever I was in my life. I fear my thoughts will not come back to me. If it would do any good, I would whistle for them. When they make us an offer, is it wise to say, We will think of it? My thoughts have left no track, and I cannot find the path again. What was it that I was thinking of? It was a very hazy day. I will just try these three sentences of Con-fut-see; they may fetch that state about again. I know not whether it was the dumps or a budding ecstasy. Mem. There never is but one opportunity of a kind.

Hermit alone. Let me see. Where was I? I think I was almost in this state of mind. The world lay around me at this angle. Shall I go to heaven or go fishing? If I ended this meditation soon, would another opportunity so sweet be likely to come? I was as close to dissolving into the essence of things as I had ever been. I fear my thoughts will not return. If whistling would do any good, I would whistle for them. When our thoughts make us an offer, is it wise to say, We will think about it? My thoughts have left no trail, and I cannot find the path again. What was I thinking about? It was a very hazy day. I will just try these three sentences of Con-fut-see. They may bring that state of mind back. I don't know whether I was feeling low or beginning to feel ecstatic. Note to self: There is never more than one opportunity of any kind.

Poet. How now, Hermit, is it too soon? I have got just thirteen whole ones, beside several which are imperfect or undersized; but they will do for the smaller fry; they do not cover up the hook so much. Those village worms are quite too large; a shiner may make a meal off one without finding the skewer.

Poet. Well, Hermit, is it too soon? I have exactly thirteen whole worms, plus several damaged or undersized ones. But those will do for the smaller fish, since they don’t cover the hook so much. Those village worms are far too large. A shiner may make a meal of one without ever finding the hook.

Hermit. Well, then, let’s be off. Shall we to the Concord? There’s good sport there if the water be not too high.

Hermit. Well, then, let’s go. Shall we head to the Concord? There’s good fishing there if the water isn’t too high.

Why do precisely these objects which we behold make a world? Why has man just these species of animals for his neighbors; as if nothing but a mouse could have filled this crevice? I suspect that Pilpay & Co. have put animals to their best use, for they are all beasts of burden, in a sense, made to carry some portion of our thoughts.

Why do these exact things we see make up a world? Why do humans have these particular species of animals as neighbors, as if only a mouse could fill this crevice? I suspect Pilpay & Co. have put animals to their best use. For all animals are, in a sense, beasts of burden, made to carry some part of our thoughts.

The mice which haunted my house were not the common ones, which are said to have been introduced into the country, but a wild native kind not found in the village. I sent one to a distinguished naturalist, and it interested him much. When I was building, one of these had its nest underneath the house, and before I had laid the second floor, and swept out the shavings, would come out regularly at lunch time and pick up the crumbs at my feet. It probably had never seen a man before; and it soon became quite familiar, and would run over my shoes and up my clothes. It could readily ascend the sides of the room by short impulses, like a squirrel, which it resembled in its motions. At length, as I leaned with my elbow on the bench one day, it ran up my clothes, and along my sleeve, and round and round the paper which held my dinner, while I kept the latter close, and dodged and played at bopeep with it; and when at last I held still a piece of cheese between my thumb and finger, it came and nibbled it, sitting in my hand, and afterward cleaned its face and paws, like a fly, and walked away.

The mice that lived in my house were not the common kind, said to have been brought into the country. They were a wild native kind not found in the village. I sent one to a well-known naturalist, who found it very interesting. While I was building, one of these mice had a nest beneath the house. Before I had laid the second floor and swept out the wood shavings, the mouse came out regularly at lunchtime. It picked up crumbs at my feet. The mouse had probably never seen a person before, and it soon grew quite comfortable with me. It would run over my shoes and up my clothes. It could easily climb the walls in short bursts, like a squirrel, which it resembled in its movements. One day, as I leaned with my elbow on the bench, the mouse ran up my clothes and along my sleeve. Then it ran around and around the paper holding my dinner. I kept my dinner close, dodging the mouse and playing peekaboo with it. At last, I held a piece of cheese still between my thumb and finger. The mouse came and nibbled the cheese while sitting in my hand. Afterward, it cleaned its face and paws like a fly, then walked away.

A phœbe soon built in my shed, and a robin for protection in a pine which grew against the house. In June the partridge (Tetrao umbellus,) which is so shy a bird, led her brood past my windows, from the woods in the rear to the front of my house, clucking and calling to them like a hen, and in all her behavior proving herself the hen of the woods. The young suddenly disperse on your approach, at a signal from the mother, as if a whirlwind had swept them away, and they so exactly resemble the dried leaves and twigs that many a traveler has placed his foot in the midst of a brood, and heard the whir of the old bird as she flew off, and her anxious calls and mewing, or seen her trail her wings to attract his attention, without suspecting their neighborhood. The parent will sometimes roll and spin round before you in such a dishabille, that you cannot, for a few moments, detect what kind of creature it is. The young squat still and flat, often running their heads under a leaf, and mind only their mother’s directions given from a distance, nor will your approach make them run again and betray themselves. You may even tread on them, or have your eyes on them for a minute, without discovering them. I have held them in my open hand at such a time, and still their only care, obedient to their mother and their instinct, was to squat there without fear or trembling. So perfect is this instinct, that once, when I had laid them on the leaves again, and one accidentally fell on its side, it was found with the rest in exactly the same position ten minutes afterward. They are not callow like the young of most birds, but more perfectly developed and precocious even than chickens. The remarkably adult yet innocent expression of their open and serene eyes is very memorable. All intelligence seems reflected in them. They suggest not merely the purity of infancy, but a wisdom clarified by experience. Such an eye was not born when the bird was, but is coeval with the sky it reflects. The woods do not yield another such a gem. The traveller does not often look into such a limpid well. The ignorant or reckless sportsman often shoots the parent at such a time, and leaves these innocents to fall a prey to some prowling beast or bird, or gradually mingle with the decaying leaves which they so much resemble. It is said that when hatched by a hen they will directly disperse on some alarm, and so are lost, for they never hear the mother’s call which gathers them again. These were my hens and chickens.

A phoebe soon built a nest in my shed. A robin nested for protection in a pine growing against the house. In June, the partridge (Tetrao umbellus), a very shy bird, led her brood past my windows. She brought them from the woods behind my house to the front. She clucked and called to them like a hen. In everything she did, she showed herself to be the hen of the woods. When you approach, the young suddenly scatter at a signal from their mother, as if a whirlwind had swept them away. They look so much like dried leaves and twigs that many a traveler has stepped into a brood without knowing. The traveler has heard the mother’s wings whir as she flew away, and her anxious calls and mewing cries. Or he has seen her drag her wings to draw his attention, without suspecting her young were nearby. Sometimes the mother will roll and spin before you, looking so disheveled you cannot immediately tell what kind of creature she is. The young crouch flat and still, often tucking their heads under a leaf. They follow only their mother’s instructions, called from a distance. Your approach will not make them run again and give themselves away. You may even step on them, or look straight at them for a minute, without discovering them. At such times, I have held them in my open hand. Still, obeying their mother and their instinct, their only concern was to crouch there without fear or trembling. This instinct is so perfect that once, after I put them back on the leaves, one accidentally fell on its side. Ten minutes later, that chick was found with the others in exactly the same position. These young birds are not bare and helpless like the young of most birds. They are more fully developed and mature earlier even than chickens. Their clear, peaceful eyes have a remarkably adult yet innocent expression that is hard to forget. All intelligence seems reflected in those eyes. They suggest not just the purity of infancy, but wisdom made clear by experience. Such an eye was not born when the bird was born. It is as old as the sky it reflects. The woods offer no other gem like it. A traveler does not often look into so clear a well. An ignorant or reckless hunter often shoots the mother at such a time. He leaves these innocents to become prey for some prowling animal or bird. Or they slowly blend into the decaying leaves they so closely resemble. It is said that when a hen hatches these young birds, they scatter immediately at some alarm. They are then lost, because they never hear the mother’s call that gathers them together again. These were my hens and chickens.

It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free though secret in the woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood of towns, suspected by hunters only. How retired the otter manages to live here! He grows to be four feet long, as big as a small boy, perhaps without any human being getting a glimpse of him. I formerly saw the raccoon in the woods behind where my house is built, and probably still heard their whinnering at night. Commonly I rested an hour or two in the shade at noon, after planting, and ate my lunch, and read a little by a spring which was the source of a swamp and of a brook, oozing from under Brister’s Hill, half a mile from my field. The approach to this was through a succession of descending grassy hollows, full of young pitch-pines, into a larger wood about the swamp. There, in a very secluded and shaded spot, under a spreading white-pine, there was yet a clean, firm sward to sit on. I had dug out the spring and made a well of clear gray water, where I could dip up a pailful without roiling it, and thither I went for this purpose almost every day in midsummer, when the pond was warmest. Thither, too, the wood-cock led her brood, to probe the mud for worms, flying but a foot above them down the bank, while they ran in a troop beneath; but at last, spying me, she would leave her young and circle round and round me, nearer and nearer till within four or five feet, pretending broken wings and legs, to attract my attention, and get off her young, who would already have taken up their march, with faint wiry peep, single file through the swamp, as she directed. Or I heard the peep of the young when I could not see the parent bird. There too the turtle-doves sat over the spring, or fluttered from bough to bough of the soft white-pines over my head; or the red squirrel, coursing down the nearest bough, was particularly familiar and inquisitive. You only need sit still long enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants may exhibit themselves to you by turns.

It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free in the woods, yet remain hidden. They survive even near towns, with only hunters suspecting their presence. How well the otter keeps out of sight here! He grows to four feet long, as big as a small boy, perhaps without anyone ever glimpsing him. I used to see raccoons in the woods behind the spot where I built my house. I probably still heard their whinnying cries at night. After planting, I usually rested for an hour or two in the shade at noon. I ate my lunch and read a little beside a spring half a mile from my field. The spring seeped out from under Brister’s Hill and fed a swamp and a brook. To reach the spring, I passed through a series of grassy hollows sloping downward, full of young pitch-pines. The hollows led into a larger wood surrounding the swamp. There, in a deeply secluded and shaded spot beneath a spreading white-pine, clean, firm grass still offered a seat. I had dug out the spring to make a well of clear gray water. I could dip up a bucketful without stirring up the mud. I went there for water almost every day in midsummer, when the pond was warmest. The woodcock also led her brood there to probe the mud for worms. She flew down the bank just a foot above her young as they ran together beneath her. But when she finally spotted me, she would leave her young and circle around me. She came closer and closer, until she was within four or five feet. She pretended to have broken wings and legs to draw my attention and let her young escape. Her young would already have begun marching single file through the swamp, giving faint, thin peeps as she directed them. Or I heard the young peeping when I could not see the parent bird. Turtle-doves also perched above the spring or fluttered between the branches of the soft white-pines overhead. Or a red squirrel would race down the nearest branch, especially friendly and curious. You only need to sit still long enough in some inviting woodland spot. Then all its inhabitants may show themselves to you in turn.

I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a duellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other’s embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at noon-day prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary’s front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already divested him of several of his members. They fought with more pertinacity than bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was Conquer or die. In the mean while there came along a single red ant on the hill-side of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat from afar,—for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red,—he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his operations near the root of his right fore-leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, if in the history of America, that will bear a moment’s comparison with this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots’ side, and Luther Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick,—“Fire! for God’s sake fire!”—and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least.

I also witnessed events of a less peaceful kind. One day I went out to my woodpile, or rather my pile of stumps. I noticed two large ants fighting fiercely. One was red. The other was black and much larger, nearly half an inch long. Once they had gripped each other, neither let go. They struggled, wrestled, and rolled endlessly over the wood chips. Looking farther, I was surprised to see the chips covered with fighting ants. This was not a duel, but a war between two races of ants. The red always fought the black, often with two red ants attacking one black ant. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and valleys in my wood yard. The ground was already scattered with the dead and dying, both red and black. This was the only battle I had ever witnessed. It was the only battlefield I had ever walked across while the fighting raged. It was a war of mutual destruction, with red republicans on one side and black imperialists on the other. Everywhere, ants fought to the death, yet I could hear no sound. Human soldiers never fought with such determination. I watched two ants locked tightly together in a little sunny valley among the chips. It was noon, and they were ready to fight until the sun went down or life gave out. The smaller red champion had clamped himself like a vise onto the front of his opponent. Through all their tumbling across the battlefield, he never stopped gnawing at the base of one antenna. He had already bitten off the other. Meanwhile, the stronger black ant flung him from side to side. Looking closer, I saw that the black ant had already torn off several of the red ant’s limbs. They fought more stubbornly than bulldogs. Neither showed the slightest wish to retreat. Clearly, their battle cry was Conquer or die. Meanwhile, a lone red ant appeared on the hillside above this valley, plainly full of excitement. He had either killed his enemy or had not yet joined the battle. Probably the latter, since he had lost none of his limbs. His mother had charged him to return with his shield or on it. Or perhaps he was an Achilles, who had kept apart, nursing his anger. Now he had come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus. From a distance, he saw this unequal fight, for the black ants were nearly twice the size of the red. He hurried closer, then stood on guard within half an inch of the fighters. Watching for his chance, he sprang onto the black warrior. He began his attack near the base of the black ant’s right front leg. He left his enemy to choose which of his own limbs to attack. Now the three were joined for life. It was as if a new force of attraction had been invented, putting all other locks and glues to shame. By now, I would not have been surprised to find their military bands stationed on some high wood chip. The bands would be playing their national tunes to spur on the sluggish and cheer the dying fighters. I felt somewhat stirred myself, almost as if the ants had been men. The more you think about it, the smaller the difference becomes. Certainly no battle recorded in Concord’s history, or perhaps even America’s, can compare for a moment with this one. That is true both of the numbers fighting and of the patriotism and heroism they displayed. In numbers and slaughter, it was an Austerlitz or Dresden. The Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots’ side, and Luther Blanchard wounded! Why, here every ant was a Buttrick, crying, “Fire! for God’s sake fire!” Thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. Not one was a hired soldier. I have no doubt these ants fought for a principle, as much as our ancestors did. They were not fighting to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea. For those concerned, this battle’s results will be at least as important and memorable as those of Bunker Hill.

I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described were struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tumbler on my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was assiduously gnawing at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed his remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what vitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose breastplate was apparently too thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the sufferer’s eyes shone with ferocity such as war only could excite. They struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I looked again the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from their bodies, and the still living heads were hanging on either side of him like ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as firmly fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not how many other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, after half an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the glass, and he went off over the window-sill in that crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat, and spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not know; but I thought that his industry would not be worth much thereafter. I never learned which party was victorious, nor the cause of the war; but I felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle, the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle before my door.

I picked up the wood chip where the three ants I have described in detail were struggling. I carried the chip into my house and placed it under a drinking glass on my windowsill to see the outcome. Through a microscope, I examined the first red ant I mentioned. Although he kept gnawing at his enemy’s nearest front leg, his own chest had been entirely torn away. He had already cut off his enemy’s remaining feeler. Now the vital organs in his chest lay exposed to the black warrior’s jaws. The black warrior’s chest armor was apparently too thick for the red ant to pierce. The suffering ant’s dark, jewel-like eyes shone with a ferocity that only war could stir. The ants struggled for another half hour under the glass. When I looked again, the black soldier had cut his enemies’ heads from their bodies. The still-living heads hung on either side of him like gruesome trophies on the front of a saddle. The heads still seemed as firmly attached to him as ever. He struggled weakly to shake them off. He had no feelers, only the remains of one leg, and I do not know how many other wounds. At last, after another half hour, he freed himself of the heads. I lifted the glass, and he crawled away across the windowsill in his crippled state. I do not know whether he survived the battle and spent his remaining days in some Hotel des Invalides. But I thought he would not be worth much as a worker after that. I never learned which side won or what caused the war. But for the rest of that day, I felt shaken and distressed by the struggle I had witnessed. It was as if I had watched the ferocity and slaughter of a human battle outside my door.

Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that Huber is the only modern author who appears to have witnessed them. “Æneas Sylvius,” say they, “after giving a very circumstantial account of one contested with great obstinacy by a great and small species on the trunk of a pear tree,” adds that “‘This action was fought in the pontificate of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an eminent lawyer, who related the whole history of the battle with the greatest fidelity.’ A similar engagement between great and small ants is recorded by Olaus Magnus, in which the small ones, being victorious, are said to have buried the bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of their giant enemies a prey to the birds. This event happened previous to the expulsion of the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden.” The battle which I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five years before the passage of Webster’s Fugitive-Slave Bill.

Kirby and Spence tell us that battles between ants have long been celebrated, with their dates recorded. Yet they say Huber is the only modern author who seems to have witnessed such battles. “Æneas Sylvius,” they say, “gives a very detailed account of a fiercely fought battle on a pear tree trunk. The battle was between a large species and a small one. He adds, ‘This battle was fought during the papacy of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence of Nicholas Pistoriensis. This distinguished lawyer recounted the whole battle with the greatest accuracy.’ Olaus Magnus records a similar battle between large and small ants. The victorious small ants are said to have buried their own soldiers’ bodies. But they left the bodies of their giant enemies for the birds to eat. This battle happened before the tyrant Christiern the Second was driven out of Sweden.” The battle I witnessed took place during Polk’s presidency, five years before Webster’s Fugitive-Slave Bill was passed.

Many a village Bose, fit only to course a mud-turtle in a victualling cellar, sported his heavy quarters in the woods, without the knowledge of his master, and ineffectually smelled at old fox burrows and woodchucks’ holes; led perchance by some slight cur which nimbly threaded the wood, and might still inspire a natural terror in its denizens;—now far behind his guide, barking like a canine bull toward some small squirrel which had treed itself for scrutiny, then, cantering off, bending the bushes with his weight, imagining that he is on the track of some stray member of the jerbilla family. Once I was surprised to see a cat walking along the stony shore of the pond, for they rarely wander so far from home. The surprise was mutual. Nevertheless the most domestic cat, which has lain on a rug all her days, appears quite at home in the woods, and, by her sly and stealthy behavior, proves herself more native there than the regular inhabitants. Once, when berrying, I met with a cat with young kittens in the woods, quite wild, and they all, like their mother, had their backs up and were fiercely spitting at me. A few years before I lived in the woods there was what was called a “winged cat” in one of the farm-houses in Lincoln nearest the pond, Mr. Gilian Baker’s. When I called to see her in June, 1842, she was gone a-hunting in the woods, as was her wont, (I am not sure whether it was a male or female, and so use the more common pronoun,) but her mistress told me that she came into the neighborhood a little more than a year before, in April, and was finally taken into their house; that she was of a dark brownish-gray color, with a white spot on her throat, and white feet, and had a large bushy tail like a fox; that in the winter the fur grew thick and flatted out along her sides, forming stripes ten or twelve inches long by two and a half wide, and under her chin like a muff, the upper side loose, the under matted like felt, and in the spring these appendages dropped off. They gave me a pair of her “wings,” which I keep still. There is no appearance of a membrane about them. Some thought it was part flying-squirrel or some other wild animal, which is not impossible, for, according to naturalists, prolific hybrids have been produced by the union of the marten and domestic cat. This would have been the right kind of cat for me to keep, if I had kept any; for why should not a poet’s cat be winged as well as his horse?

Many a village Bose lumbered through the woods without his master’s knowledge, though fit only to chase a mud-turtle in a food cellar. He sniffed uselessly at old fox burrows and woodchucks’ holes. Perhaps some little mongrel led him, slipping nimbly through the woods and still capable of frightening the creatures living there. Now Bose lagged far behind his guide, bellowing like a canine bull at some small squirrel. The squirrel had climbed a tree to take a look. Then he cantered off, bending the bushes under his weight, imagining himself tracking some stray member of the jerbilla family. Once I was surprised to see a cat walking along the pond’s stony shore. Cats rarely wander so far from home. The cat was equally surprised. Yet even the most thoroughly domesticated cat, who has spent all her days on a rug, seems at home in the woods. Her sly, stealthy movements make her seem more native to the woods than their usual inhabitants. Once, while picking berries, I came across a cat with young kittens in the woods, all quite wild. Like their mother, all the kittens arched their backs and hissed fiercely at me. A few years before I lived in the woods, a so-called “winged cat” lived at Mr. Gilian Baker’s farmhouse. His was one of the farmhouses in Lincoln nearest the pond. When I visited to see her in June, 1842, she was out hunting in the woods, as usual. (I am not sure whether the cat was male or female, so I use the more usual pronoun.) But her mistress told me the cat had appeared in the neighborhood a little over a year earlier, in April. Eventually, the household took her in. The cat was dark brownish-gray, with a white spot on her throat, white feet, and a large, bushy, foxlike tail. In winter, her fur grew thick and spread flat along her sides. The fur formed strips ten or twelve inches long and two and a half inches wide. Fur also grew under her chin like a muff. These growths were loose on top and matted like felt underneath. In spring, these extra growths fell off. The family gave me a pair of her “wings,” and I still keep them. The “wings” show no sign of any membrane. Some people thought the cat was part flying-squirrel or some other wild animal. Such a cross is not impossible. According to naturalists, martens and domestic cats have produced offspring that could themselves reproduce. This would have been the right kind of cat for me, if I had kept one. For why shouldn’t a poet’s cat have wings, just as his horse does?

In the fall the loon (Colymbus glacialis) came, as usual, to moult and bathe in the pond, making the woods ring with his wild laughter before I had risen. At rumor of his arrival all the Mill-dam sportsmen are on the alert, in gigs and on foot, two by two and three by three, with patent rifles and conical balls and spy-glasses. They come rustling through the woods like autumn leaves, at least ten men to one loon. Some station themselves on this side of the pond, some on that, for the poor bird cannot be omnipresent; if he dive here he must come up there. But now the kind October wind rises, rustling the leaves and rippling the surface of the water, so that no loon can be heard or seen, though his foes sweep the pond with spy-glasses, and make the woods resound with their discharges. The waves generously rise and dash angrily, taking sides with all water-fowl, and our sportsmen must beat a retreat to town and shop and unfinished jobs. But they were too often successful. When I went to get a pail of water early in the morning I frequently saw this stately bird sailing out of my cove within a few rods. If I endeavored to overtake him in a boat, in order to see how he would manœuvre, he would dive and be completely lost, so that I did not discover him again, sometimes, till the latter part of the day. But I was more than a match for him on the surface. He commonly went off in a rain.

In the fall the loon (Colymbus glacialis) came, as usual, to shed his feathers and bathe in the pond. Before I had risen, his wild laughter made the woods ring. At word of his arrival, all the Mill-dam hunters are on the alert. They come in light carriages and on foot, in twos and threes, with patented rifles, cone-shaped bullets, and telescopes. They rustle through the woods like autumn leaves, at least ten men to one loon. Some take their places on this side of the pond, some on the other. The poor bird cannot be everywhere at once. If he dives here, he must surface there. But now the kind October wind rises, rustling the leaves and rippling the water. No loon can be heard or seen, though his enemies scan the pond through telescopes. Their gunfire makes the woods echo. The waves generously rise and crash angrily, taking sides with all waterbirds. So our hunters must retreat to town, their shops, and their unfinished jobs. But they were too often successful. When I went to fetch a pail of water early in the morning, I frequently saw this stately bird. He would be sailing out of my cove, only a few dozen feet away. Sometimes I tried to catch up with him in a boat to see how he would maneuver. But he would dive and vanish completely. Sometimes I did not spot him again until late in the day. But on the surface, I was more than a match for him. He usually went away in the rain.

As I was paddling along the north shore one very calm October afternoon, for such days especially they settle on to the lakes, like the milkweed down, having looked in vain over the pond for a loon, suddenly one, sailing out from the shore toward the middle a few rods in front of me, set up his wild laugh and betrayed himself. I pursued with a paddle and he dived, but when he came up I was nearer than before. He dived again, but I miscalculated the direction he would take, and we were fifty rods apart when he came to the surface this time, for I had helped to widen the interval; and again he laughed long and loud, and with more reason than before. He manœuvred so cunningly that I could not get within half a dozen rods of him. Each time, when he came to the surface, turning his head this way and that, he cooly surveyed the water and the land, and apparently chose his course so that he might come up where there was the widest expanse of water and at the greatest distance from the boat. It was surprising how quickly he made up his mind and put his resolve into execution. He led me at once to the widest part of the pond, and could not be driven from it. While he was thinking one thing in his brain, I was endeavoring to divine his thought in mine. It was a pretty game, played on the smooth surface of the pond, a man against a loon. Suddenly your adversary’s checker disappears beneath the board, and the problem is to place yours nearest to where his will appear again. Sometimes he would come up unexpectedly on the opposite side of me, having apparently passed directly under the boat. So long-winded was he and so unweariable, that when he had swum farthest he would immediately plunge again, nevertheless; and then no wit could divine where in the deep pond, beneath the smooth surface, he might be speeding his way like a fish, for he had time and ability to visit the bottom of the pond in its deepest part. It is said that loons have been caught in the New York lakes eighty feet beneath the surface, with hooks set for trout,—though Walden is deeper than that. How surprised must the fishes be to see this ungainly visitor from another sphere speeding his way amid their schools! Yet he appeared to know his course as surely under water as on the surface, and swam much faster there. Once or twice I saw a ripple where he approached the surface, just put his head out to reconnoitre, and instantly dived again. I found that it was as well for me to rest on my oars and wait his reappearing as to endeavor to calculate where he would rise; for again and again, when I was straining my eyes over the surface one way, I would suddenly be startled by his unearthly laugh behind me. But why, after displaying so much cunning, did he invariably betray himself the moment he came up by that loud laugh? Did not his white breast enough betray him? He was indeed a silly loon, I thought. I could commonly hear the splash of the water when he came up, and so also detected him. But after an hour he seemed as fresh as ever, dived as willingly and swam yet farther than at first. It was surprising to see how serenely he sailed off with unruffled breast when he came to the surface, doing all the work with his webbed feet beneath. His usual note was this demoniac laughter, yet somewhat like that of a water-fowl; but occasionally, when he had balked me most successfully and come up a long way off, he uttered a long-drawn unearthly howl, probably more like that of a wolf than any bird; as when a beast puts his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls. This was his looning,—perhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here, making the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he laughed in derision of my efforts, confident of his own resources. Though the sky was by this time overcast, the pond was so smooth that I could see where he broke the surface when I did not hear him. His white breast, the stillness of the air, and the smoothness of the water were all against him. At length, having come up fifty rods off, he uttered one of those prolonged howls, as if calling on the god of loons to aid him, and immediately there came a wind from the east and rippled the surface, and filled the whole air with misty rain, and I was impressed as if it were the prayer of the loon answered, and his god was angry with me; and so I left him disappearing far away on the tumultuous surface.

I was paddling along the north shore one very calm October afternoon. Loons settle on the lakes especially on such days, like milkweed fluff. I had searched the pond for a loon without success. Suddenly, one glided out from shore toward the middle, a few rods ahead of me. He gave his wild laugh and revealed himself. I paddled after him, and he dived. But when he surfaced, I was closer than before. He dived again, but I misjudged his direction. When he surfaced this time, we were fifty rods apart, for I had helped widen the gap. Again he laughed long and loud, with more reason than before. He maneuvered so cleverly that I could not get within six rods of him. Each time he surfaced, he turned his head from side to side, calmly surveying the water and land. He apparently chose his course so he could surface in the widest stretch of water, farthest from the boat. It was surprising how quickly he decided and acted. He led me straight to the widest part of the pond, and I could not drive him away from it. While he was forming a plan in his mind, I was trying to guess his thoughts in mine. It was a fine game on the pond’s smooth surface, a man against a loon. Suddenly your opponent’s checker disappears beneath the board. Your challenge is to place your checker nearest the spot where his will reappear. Sometimes he surfaced unexpectedly on the opposite side of me, apparently having passed directly beneath the boat. He could hold his breath so long and seemed so tireless that even after his longest swim, he immediately dived again. Then no amount of cleverness could tell where he might be speeding like a fish beneath the pond’s smooth surface. He had the time and ability to reach the bottom of the pond at its deepest point. People say loons have been caught in New York lakes eighty feet below the surface, on hooks set for trout. Walden, though, is deeper than that. How surprised the fish must be to see this awkward visitor from another world speeding among their schools! Yet he seemed to know his way as surely underwater as on the surface, and he swam much faster below. Once or twice I saw a ripple as he approached the surface. He put only his head out to look around, then instantly dived again. I found I did just as well resting on my oars and waiting as trying to predict where he would surface. Again and again, I strained my eyes across the water in one direction. Then his unearthly laugh suddenly startled me from behind. But after showing so much cleverness, why did he always give himself away with that loud laugh when he surfaced? Didn’t his white breast give him away enough? He was a foolish loon indeed, I thought. I could usually hear the splash when he surfaced, so I could find him that way too. But after an hour, he seemed as fresh as ever. He dived just as willingly and swam even farther than at first. It was surprising how calmly he glided away when he surfaced, his breast unruffled. His webbed feet did all the work beneath the water. His usual call was this devilish laughter, though it sounded somewhat like a waterbird’s cry. But occasionally, after outwitting me especially well and surfacing far away, he gave a long, unearthly howl. The howl probably sounded more like a wolf than any bird. It was like a beast lowering its muzzle to the ground and deliberately howling. This was his looning, perhaps the wildest sound ever heard here, making the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he was laughing at my efforts, confident in his own abilities. Though the sky was now overcast, the pond remained so smooth that I could see him surface without hearing him. His white breast, the still air, and the smooth water were all against him. At last he surfaced fifty rods away and gave one of those long howls. He sounded as if he were calling on the god of loons for help. Immediately, an east wind rose and rippled the surface, filling the air with misty rain. I felt as if the loon’s prayer had been answered and his god was angry with me. So I left him disappearing far away across the rough water.

For hours, in fall days, I watched the ducks cunningly tack and veer and hold the middle of the pond, far from the sportsman; tricks which they will have less need to practise in Louisiana bayous. When compelled to rise they would sometimes circle round and round and over the pond at a considerable height, from which they could easily see to other ponds and the river, like black motes in the sky; and, when I thought they had gone off thither long since, they would settle down by a slanting flight of a quarter of a mile on to a distant part which was left free; but what beside safety they got by sailing in the middle of Walden I do not know, unless they love its water for the same reason that I do.

For hours on fall days, I watched the ducks cleverly change course and keep to the pond’s middle, far from hunters. They will have less need for these tricks in Louisiana bayous. When forced to take flight, the ducks would sometimes circle high above the pond, like black specks in the sky. From that height, they could easily see other ponds and the river. I would think they had long since flown off to those waters. But then they would glide down at an angle for a quarter of a mile, landing in a distant, undisturbed spot. Yet I do not know what, besides safety, the ducks gained by floating in the middle of Walden. Unless they love its water for the same reason I do.