Former Residents and Winter Visitors

I weathered some merry snow storms, and spent some cheerful winter evenings by my fire-side, while the snow whirled wildly without, and even the hooting of the owl was hushed. For many weeks I met no one in my walks but those who came occasionally to cut wood and sled it to the village. The elements, however, abetted me in making a path through the deepest snow in the woods, for when I had once gone through the wind blew the oak leaves into my tracks, where they lodged, and by absorbing the rays of the sun melted the snow, and so not only made a dry bed for my feet, but in the night their dark line was my guide. For human society I was obliged to conjure up the former occupants of these woods. Within the memory of many of my townsmen the road near which my house stands resounded with the laugh and gossip of inhabitants, and the woods which border it were notched and dotted here and there with their little gardens and dwellings, though it was then much more shut in by the forest than now. In some places, within my own remembrance, the pines would scrape both sides of a chaise at once, and women and children who were compelled to go this way to Lincoln alone and on foot did it with fear, and often ran a good part of the distance. Though mainly but a humble route to neighboring villages, or for the woodman’s team, it once amused the traveller more than now by its variety, and lingered longer in his memory. Where now firm open fields stretch from the village to the woods, it then ran through a maple swamp on a foundation of logs, the remnants of which, doubtless, still underlie the present dusty highway, from the Stratton, now the Alms House, Farm, to Brister’s Hill.

I weathered some delightful snowstorms and spent some cheerful winter evenings by my fire. Outside, the snow swirled wildly, and even the owl’s hooting fell silent. For many weeks, the only people I met on my walks came occasionally to cut wood and sled it to the village. The weather, however, helped me make a path through the deepest snow in the woods. Once I had walked through, the wind blew oak leaves into my tracks, where the leaves settled. By absorbing the sun’s rays, the leaves melted the snow and made a dry path for my feet. At night, their dark line also guided me. For human company, I had to call up in my imagination the former residents of these woods. Many of my townspeople could remember when the road near my house rang with residents’ laughter and gossip. Here and there, little gardens and homes broke into and dotted the woods along the road. Yet the forest enclosed the road much more closely then than now. I myself remember places where the pines scraped both sides of a chaise, a light carriage, at once. Women and children who had to walk this road to Lincoln alone were afraid. They often ran much of the way. Though mainly a modest road to neighboring villages, or for a woodcutter’s team, it once offered travelers more variety than now. That variety made the journey more enjoyable, and the road stayed longer in travelers’ memories. Today, firm, open fields stretch from the village to the woods. Back then, the road crossed a maple swamp on a foundation of logs. Remains of those logs doubtless still lie beneath today’s dusty road, from the Stratton Farm to Brister’s Hill. The Stratton Farm is now the Alms House Farm.

East of my bean-field, across the road, lived Cato Ingraham, slave of Duncan Ingraham, Esquire, gentleman, of Concord village, who built his slave a house, and gave him permission to live in Walden Woods;—Cato, not Uticensis, but Concordiensis. Some say that he was a Guinea Negro. There are a few who remember his little patch among the walnuts, which he let grow up till he should be old and need them; but a younger and whiter speculator got them at last. He too, however, occupies an equally narrow house at present. Cato’s half-obliterated cellar hole still remains, though known to few, being concealed from the traveller by a fringe of pines. It is now filled with the smooth sumach (Rhus glabra,) and one of the earliest species of golden-rod (Solidago stricta) grows there luxuriantly.

East of my bean field, across the road, lived Cato Ingraham, enslaved by Duncan Ingraham, Esquire, a Concord village gentleman. Ingraham built Cato a house and gave him permission to live in Walden Woods. This was Cato, not Uticensis, but Concordiensis. Some say he was a Black man from Guinea. A few people remember his little plot among the walnut trees. He let the trees grow until he would be old and need them. But a younger, whiter speculator got them in the end. The speculator, however, now occupies an equally narrow house. Cato’s partly erased cellar hole still remains, though few know about it. A fringe of pines hides it from travelers. The cellar hole is now filled with smooth sumac (Rhus glabra). One of the earliest species of goldenrod (Solidago stricta) grows thickly there.

Here, by the very corner of my field, still nearer to town, Zilpha, a colored woman, had her little house, where she spun linen for the townsfolk, making the Walden Woods ring with her shrill singing, for she had a loud and notable voice. At length, in the war of 1812, her dwelling was set on fire by English soldiers, prisoners on parole, when she was away, and her cat and dog and hens were all burned up together. She led a hard life, and somewhat inhumane. One old frequenter of these woods remembers, that as he passed her house one noon he heard her muttering to herself over her gurgling pot,—“Ye are all bones, bones!” I have seen bricks amid the oak copse there.

Here, right by the corner of my field, even closer to town, Zilpha, a Black woman, had her little house. She spun linen there for the townspeople, making the Walden Woods ring with her shrill singing. Her voice was loud and striking. Eventually, during the War of 1812, English soldiers, prisoners released on parole, set her house on fire while she was away. Her cat, dog, and hens were all burned to death together. She lived a hard and somewhat inhuman life. One old man who often visited these woods remembers passing her house one noon. He heard her muttering to herself over her bubbling pot, “You are all bones, bones!” I have seen bricks among the young oaks there.

Down the road, on the right hand, on Brister’s Hill, lived Brister Freeman, “a handy Negro,” slave of Squire Cummings once,—there where grow still the apple-trees which Brister planted and tended; large old trees now, but their fruit still wild and ciderish to my taste. Not long since I read his epitaph in the old Lincoln burying-ground, a little on one side, near the unmarked graves of some British grenadiers who fell in the retreat from Concord,—where he is styled “Sippio Brister,”—Scipio Africanus he had some title to be called,—“a man of color,” as if he were discolored. It also told me, with staring emphasis, when he died; which was but an indirect way of informing me that he ever lived. With him dwelt Fenda, his hospitable wife, who told fortunes, yet pleasantly,—large, round, and black, blacker than any of the children of night, such a dusky orb as never rose on Concord before or since.

Down the road to the right, on Brister’s Hill, lived Brister Freeman, “a handy Negro,” once enslaved by Squire Cummings. The apple trees Brister planted and tended still grow there. They are large old trees now, but their fruit still tastes wild and cider-like to me. Not long ago, I read his epitaph in the old Lincoln cemetery, a little off to one side. His grave lies near the unmarked graves of some British grenadiers who fell during the retreat from Concord. The epitaph calls him “Sippio Brister.” He had some right to be called Scipio Africanus. It also calls him “a man of color,” as if he were discolored. The inscription also told me, with glaring emphasis, when he died. But his death date was only an indirect way of telling me he had ever lived. With him lived Fenda, his hospitable wife, who told fortunes, but pleasantly. She was large, round, and black, blacker than any of the children of night. No such dusky orb ever rose on Concord before or since.

Farther down the hill, on the left, on the old road in the woods, are marks of some homestead of the Stratton family; whose orchard once covered all the slope of Brister’s Hill, but was long since killed out by pitch pines, excepting a few stumps, whose old roots furnish still the wild stocks of many a thrifty village tree.

Farther down the hill, on the left along the old road in the woods, are traces of a Stratton family homestead. Their orchard once covered all the slope of Brister’s Hill. But pitch pines killed off the orchard long ago, except for a few stumps. The stumps’ old roots still provide wild rootstock for many a thriving village tree.

Nearer yet to town, you come to Breed’s location, on the other side of the way, just on the edge of the wood; ground famous for the pranks of a demon not distinctly named in old mythology, who has acted a prominent and astounding part in our New England life, and deserves, as much as any mythological character, to have his biography written one day; who first comes in the guise of a friend or hired man, and then robs and murders the whole family,—New-England Rum. But history must not yet tell the tragedies enacted here; let time intervene in some measure to assuage and lend an azure tint to them. Here the most indistinct and dubious tradition says that once a tavern stood; the well the same, which tempered the traveller’s beverage and refreshed his steed. Here then men saluted one another, and heard and told the news, and went their ways again.

Closer still to town, you come to Breed’s place, across the road, right at the edge of the woods. The ground is famous for the tricks of a demon not clearly named in ancient mythology. This demon has played a prominent and astonishing role in our New England life. As much as any mythological character, he deserves to have his biography written someday. He first appears as a friend or hired hand, then robs and murders the whole family: New-England Rum. But history must not yet tell the tragedies that happened here. Let some time pass to soften them and give them a blue tint. Here, the vaguest and most uncertain tradition says, a tavern once stood. The same well diluted the traveler’s drink and refreshed his horse. Here, then, men greeted one another, heard and shared the news, and went on their way again.

Breed’s hut was standing only a dozen years ago, though it had long been unoccupied. It was about the size of mine. It was set on fire by mischievous boys, one Election night, if I do not mistake. I lived on the edge of the village then, and had just lost myself over Davenant’s Gondibert, that winter that I labored with a lethargy,—which, by the way, I never knew whether to regard as a family complaint, having an uncle who goes to sleep shaving himself, and is obliged to sprout potatoes in a cellar Sundays, in order to keep awake and keep the Sabbath, or as the consequence of my attempt to read Chalmers’ collection of English poetry without skipping. It fairly overcame my Nervii. I had just sunk my head on this when the bells rung fire, and in hot haste the engines rolled that way, led by a straggling troop of men and boys, and I among the foremost, for I had leaped the brook. We thought it was far south over the woods,—we who had run to fires before,—barn, shop, or dwelling-house, or all together. “It’s Baker’s barn,” cried one. “It is the Codman place,” affirmed another. And then fresh sparks went up above the wood, as if the roof fell in, and we all shouted “Concord to the rescue!” Wagons shot past with furious speed and crushing loads, bearing, perchance, among the rest, the agent of the Insurance Company, who was bound to go however far; and ever and anon the engine bell tinkled behind, more slow and sure; and rearmost of all, as it was afterward whispered, came they who set the fire and gave the alarm. Thus we kept on like true idealists, rejecting the evidence of our senses, until at a turn in the road we heard the crackling and actually felt the heat of the fire from over the wall, and realized, alas! that we were there. The very nearness of the fire but cooled our ardor. At first we thought to throw a frog-pond on to it; but concluded to let it burn, it was so far gone and so worthless. So we stood round our engine, jostled one another, expressed our sentiments through speaking-trumpets, or in lower tone referred to the great conflagrations which the world has witnessed, including Bascom’s shop, and, between ourselves, we thought that, were we there in season with our “tub,” and a full frog-pond by, we could turn that threatened last and universal one into another flood. We finally retreated without doing any mischief,—returned to sleep and Gondibert. But as for Gondibert, I would except that passage in the preface about wit being the soul’s powder,—“but most of mankind are strangers to wit, as Indians are to powder.”

Breed’s hut was still standing only twelve years ago, though it had long been empty. It was about the size of mine. Mischievous boys set it on fire one Election night, if I remember correctly. I lived on the edge of the village then and had just lost myself in Davenant’s Gondibert. That winter I struggled with drowsiness. I never knew, incidentally, whether to consider it a family condition. I have an uncle who falls asleep while shaving. On Sundays, he has to tend sprouting potatoes in a cellar to stay awake while keeping the Sabbath. Or perhaps my drowsiness came from trying to read Chalmers’ collection of English poetry without skipping anything. The reading completely conquered my Nervii, my nervous forces. I had just lowered my head over the book when the bells rang the fire alarm. The fire engines hurried off toward the blaze, following a scattered crowd of men and boys. I was among the first, because I had jumped across the brook. Those of us who had run to fires before thought the blaze was far south, beyond the woods. We imagined a barn, a shop, a house, or all three burning together. “It’s Baker’s barn,” someone cried. “It is the Codman place,” another insisted. Then fresh sparks rose above the woods, as if the roof had fallen in. We all shouted “Concord to the rescue!” Wagons raced past at furious speed, carrying crushing loads. Perhaps among their passengers was the Insurance Company’s agent, who had to go, however far away the fire was. Now and then the fire engine’s bell jingled behind us, advancing more slowly and steadily. Last of all, people whispered afterward, came the boys who had set the fire and raised the alarm. We kept going like true idealists, refusing to believe our senses. Then, at a bend in the road, we heard crackling and actually felt the fire’s heat from beyond the wall. Alas, we realized we had arrived. The fire’s very closeness cooled our enthusiasm. At first we considered throwing a frog pond’s worth of water onto the blaze. But we decided to let the hut burn, since it was already so far gone and worth so little. So we stood around our engine, jostling one another and announcing our opinions through speaking trumpets. In quieter voices, we discussed the great fires the world had witnessed, including the burning of Bascom’s shop. Between ourselves, we thought we could turn the threatened final, worldwide fire into another flood. We would only need to arrive in time with our “tub,” our fire engine, and a full frog pond nearby. At last we withdrew without doing any harm and returned to sleep and Gondibert. But I would make an exception for one passage in Gondibert’s preface, about wit being the soul’s gunpowder: “but most of mankind are strangers to wit, as Indians are to powder.”

It chanced that I walked that way across the fields the following night, about the same hour, and hearing a low moaning at this spot, I drew near in the dark, and discovered the only survivor of the family that I know, the heir of both its virtues and its vices, who alone was interested in this burning, lying on his stomach and looking over the cellar wall at the still smouldering cinders beneath, muttering to himself, as is his wont. He had been working far off in the river meadows all day, and had improved the first moments that he could call his own to visit the home of his fathers and his youth. He gazed into the cellar from all sides and points of view by turns, always lying down to it, as if there was some treasure, which he remembered, concealed between the stones, where there was absolutely nothing but a heap of bricks and ashes. The house being gone, he looked at what there was left. He was soothed by the sympathy which my mere presence implied, and showed me, as well as the darkness permitted, where the well was covered up; which, thank Heaven, could never be burned; and he groped long about the wall to find the well-sweep which his father had cut and mounted, feeling for the iron hook or staple by which a burden had been fastened to the heavy end,—all that he could now cling to,—to convince me that it was no common “rider.” I felt it, and still remark it almost daily in my walks, for by it hangs the history of a family.

By chance, I walked that way across the fields the next night, at about the same hour. Hearing a low moan at the spot, I came closer in the dark. I found the only surviving member of the family that I know of, heir to both its virtues and vices. He alone had any personal interest in the fire. He lay on his stomach, looking over the cellar wall at the embers still smoldering below. He was muttering to himself, as he usually did. He had worked all day far away in the river meadows. He had used his first free moments to visit the home of his ancestors and his youth. He looked into the cellar from every side and angle in turn, always lying down to look. He seemed to remember some treasure hidden between the stones, though there was nothing but a heap of bricks and ashes. With the house gone, he looked at what remained. The sympathy my mere presence suggested comforted him. As well as the darkness allowed, he showed me where the well was covered over. Thank Heaven, the well could never burn. He felt around the wall for a long time, searching for the well-sweep his father had cut and mounted. He wanted to convince me that the long pole used to raise water was no ordinary “rider.” He felt for the iron hook or staple that had held a weight to its heavy end. The well-sweep was all he could cling to now. I felt it, and I still notice it almost daily on my walks. For the history of a family hangs from that pole.

Once more, on the left, where are seen the well and lilac bushes by the wall, in the now open field, lived Nutting and Le Grosse. But to return toward Lincoln.

Again on the left, you can see a well and lilac bushes by the wall in the now open field. Nutting and Le Grosse once lived there. But let's return toward Lincoln.

Farther in the woods than any of these, where the road approaches nearest to the pond, Wyman the potter squatted, and furnished his townsmen with earthen ware, and left descendants to succeed him. Neither were they rich in worldly goods, holding the land by sufferance while they lived; and there often the sheriff came in vain to collect the taxes, and “attached a chip,” for form’s sake, as I have read in his accounts, there being nothing else that he could lay his hands on. One day in midsummer, when I was hoeing, a man who was carrying a load of pottery to market stopped his horse against my field and inquired concerning Wyman the younger. He had long ago bought a potter’s wheel of him, and wished to know what had become of him. I had read of the potter’s clay and wheel in Scripture, but it had never occurred to me that the pots we use were not such as had come down unbroken from those days, or grown on trees like gourds somewhere, and I was pleased to hear that so fictile an art was ever practiced in my neighborhood.

Farther into the woods than any of these, Wyman the potter settled where the road comes closest to the pond. He supplied the townspeople with earthenware and left descendants to carry on his work. They too had few worldly possessions and lived on the land only because they were allowed to stay. The sheriff often came there to collect taxes but found nothing to take. For form’s sake, he “seized a wood chip,” as I have read in his accounts. One midsummer day, while I was hoeing, a man carrying pottery to market stopped his horse beside my field. He asked about Wyman the younger. Long ago, he had bought a potter’s wheel from Wyman and wanted to know what had become of him. I had read about the potter’s clay and wheel in Scripture. But I had never considered that our pots might not have survived unbroken from those days. Or perhaps they grew on trees somewhere, like gourds. I was pleased to hear that such an art of shaping clay had ever been practiced in my neighborhood.

The last inhabitant of these woods before me was an Irishman, Hugh Quoil (if I have spelt his name with coil enough,) who occupied Wyman’s tenement,—Col. Quoil, he was called. Rumor said that he had been a soldier at Waterloo. If he had lived I should have made him fight his battles over again. His trade here was that of a ditcher. Napoleon went to St. Helena; Quoil came to Walden Woods. All I know of him is tragic. He was a man of manners, like one who had seen the world, and was capable of more civil speech than you could well attend to. He wore a great coat in mid-summer, being affected with the trembling delirium, and his face was the color of carmine. He died in the road at the foot of Brister’s Hill shortly after I came to the woods, so that I have not remembered him as a neighbor. Before his house was pulled down, when his comrades avoided it as “an unlucky castle,” I visited it. There lay his old clothes curled up by use, as if they were himself, upon his raised plank bed. His pipe lay broken on the hearth, instead of a bowl broken at the fountain. The last could never have been the symbol of his death, for he confessed to me that, though he had heard of Brister’s Spring, he had never seen it; and soiled cards, kings of diamonds spades and hearts, were scattered over the floor. One black chicken which the administrator could not catch, black as night and as silent, not even croaking, awaiting Reynard, still went to roost in the next apartment. In the rear there was the dim outline of a garden, which had been planted but had never received its first hoeing, owing to those terrible shaking fits, though it was now harvest time. It was over-run with Roman wormwood and beggar-ticks, which last stuck to my clothes for all fruit. The skin of a woodchuck was freshly stretched upon the back of the house, a trophy of his last Waterloo; but no warm cap or mittens would he want more.

The last person to live in these woods before me was an Irishman, Hugh Quoil. (If I have spelled his name with enough coil.) He lived in Wyman’s rented house and was called Col. Quoil. Rumor said he had been a soldier at Waterloo. If he had lived, I would have made him fight his battles again by telling me about them. Here he worked digging ditches. Napoleon went to St. Helena. Quoil came to Walden Woods. All I know of him is tragic. He had polished manners, like someone who had seen the world. He could offer more polite conversation than you could easily listen to. He wore a heavy coat in midsummer because he suffered from delirium tremens, with its shaking fits. His face was crimson. He died in the road at the foot of Brister’s Hill shortly after I came to the woods. So I have no memory of him as a neighbor. Before his house was torn down, I visited it, though his companions avoided it as “an unlucky castle.” His old clothes lay on his raised plank bed, curled into shape by wear, as if they were the man himself. His pipe lay broken on the hearth, instead of a bowl broken at the fountain. That broken bowl could never have symbolized his death. He admitted to me that, although he had heard of Brister’s Spring, he had never seen it. Dirty playing cards, kings of diamonds, spades, and hearts, were scattered across the floor. One black chicken, which the estate administrator could not catch, still roosted in the next room. Black as night and just as silent, without even a croak, the chicken waited for Reynard the fox. Behind the house were the faint outlines of a garden. It had been planted but never hoed even once because of those terrible shaking fits, though now it was harvest time. Roman wormwood and beggar-ticks had overrun the garden. The beggar-ticks stuck to my clothes, the only fruit I gathered. A woodchuck’s skin had been freshly stretched on the back of the house, a trophy of his last Waterloo. But he would never need another warm cap or pair of mittens.

Now only a dent in the earth marks the site of these dwellings, with buried cellar stones, and strawberries, raspberries, thimble-berries, hazel-bushes, and sumachs growing in the sunny sward there; some pitch-pine or gnarled oak occupies what was the chimney nook, and a sweet-scented black-birch, perhaps, waves where the door-stone was. Sometimes the well dent is visible, where once a spring oozed; now dry and tearless grass; or it was covered deep,—not to be discovered till some late day,—with a flat stone under the sod, when the last of the race departed. What a sorrowful act must that be,—the covering up of wells! coincident with the opening of wells of tears. These cellar dents, like deserted fox burrows, old holes, are all that is left where once were the stir and bustle of human life, and “fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,” in some form and dialect or other were by turns discussed. But all I can learn of their conclusions amounts to just this, that “Cato and Brister pulled wool;” which is about as edifying as the history of more famous schools of philosophy.

Now only a hollow in the earth marks where these homes stood, with their cellar stones buried below. Strawberries, raspberries, thimbleberries, hazel bushes, and sumacs grow in the sunny grass there. Some pitch pine or gnarled oak stands where the chimney corner was. Perhaps a sweet-smelling black birch sways where the doorstep once lay. Sometimes the hollow of a well is visible, where a spring once seeped, now filled with dry, tearless grass. Or the well was buried deep beneath a flat stone under the turf when the last of the family departed. Such a well might remain undiscovered until some distant day. What a sorrowful act covering wells must be, just as wells of tears are opening! These cellar hollows, like abandoned fox burrows or old holes, are all that remains of once-busy human lives. Here, people took turns discussing “fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,” in one form and dialect or another. But all I can learn of their conclusions amounts to just this: “Cato and Brister pulled wool.” That is about as enlightening as the history of more famous schools of philosophy.

Still grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel and the sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring, to be plucked by the musing traveller; planted and tended once by children’s hands, in front-yard plots,—now standing by wall-sides in retired pastures, and giving place to new-rising forests;—the last of that stirp, sole survivor of that family. Little did the dusky children think that the puny slip with its two eyes only, which they stuck in the ground in the shadow of the house and daily watered, would root itself so, and outlive them, and house itself in the rear that shaded it, and grown man’s garden and orchard, and tell their story faintly to the lone wanderer a half century after they had grown up and died,—blossoming as fair, and smelling as sweet, as in that first spring. I mark its still tender, civil, cheerful, lilac colors.

The hardy lilac still grows a generation after the door, doorframe, and doorstep are gone. Each spring it opens its sweet-smelling flowers for a thoughtful traveler to pick. Children once planted and tended these lilacs in front yards. Now they stand beside walls in secluded pastures, giving way to newly rising forests. The lilac is the last of its line, the sole survivor of that family. Little did the dark-skinned children know how firmly their tiny cutting, with only two buds, would take root. They planted the cutting in the house’s shadow and watered it daily. Little did they know the lilac would outlive them and the house behind it that gave it shade. It would also outlive the grown man’s garden and orchard. Half a century after the children had grown up and died, the lilac would faintly tell their story to a lone wanderer. Its flowers would bloom as beautifully and smell as sweet as in that first spring. I notice its lilac colors, still tender, gracious, and cheerful.

But this small village, germ of something more, why did it fail while Concord keeps its ground? Were there no natural advantages,—no water privileges, forsooth? Ay, the deep Walden Pond and cool Brister’s Spring,—privilege to drink long and healthy draughts at these, all unimproved by these men but to dilute their glass. They were universally a thirsty race. Might not the basket, stable-broom, mat-making, corn-parching, linen-spinning, and pottery business have thrived here, making the wilderness to blossom like the rose, and a numerous posterity have inherited the land of their fathers? The sterile soil would at least have been proof against a low-land degeneracy. Alas! how little does the memory of these human inhabitants enhance the beauty of the landscape! Again, perhaps, Nature will try, with me for a first settler, and my house raised last spring to be the oldest in the hamlet.

But why did this small village, the seed of something greater, fail while Concord holds its ground? Were there no natural advantages? No water rights, indeed? Yes, there were deep Walden Pond and cool Brister’s Spring, offering the right to drink deeply and healthily. These men made no use of those waters except to dilute their liquor. They were all a thirsty lot. Couldn’t basket-making, stable-broom-making, mat-making, corn-parching, linen-spinning, and pottery have thrived here, making the wilderness bloom like a rose? Couldn’t many descendants have inherited their fathers’ land? The poor soil would at least have protected them against the decline found in the lowlands. Alas, how little the memory of these people adds to the landscape’s beauty! Perhaps Nature will try again, with me as the first settler. Then my house, built last spring, would be the oldest in the hamlet.

I am not aware that any man has ever built on the spot which I occupy. Deliver me from a city built on the site of a more ancient city, whose materials are ruins, whose gardens cemeteries. The soil is blanched and accursed there, and before that becomes necessary the earth itself will be destroyed. With such reminiscences I repeopled the woods and lulled myself asleep.

As far as I know, no one has ever built on the spot where I live. Spare me a city built on the site of an older city, with ruins for building materials and cemeteries for gardens. The soil there is bleached and cursed. Before building such cities becomes necessary, the earth itself will be destroyed. With these memories, I filled the woods with people again and lulled myself to sleep.

At this season I seldom had a visitor. When the snow lay deepest no wanderer ventured near my house for a week or fortnight at a time, but there I lived as snug as a meadow mouse, or as cattle and poultry which are said to have survived for a long time buried in drifts, even without food; or like that early settler’s family in the town of Sutton, in this state, whose cottage was completely covered by the great snow of 1717 when he was absent, and an Indian found it only by the hole which the chimney’s breath made in the drift, and so relieved the family. But no friendly Indian concerned himself about me; nor needed he, for the master of the house was at home. The Great Snow! How cheerful it is to hear of! When the farmers could not get to the woods and swamps with their teams, and were obliged to cut down the shade trees before their houses, and when the crust was harder, cut off the trees in the swamps, ten feet from the ground, as it appeared the next spring.

At this time of year, I seldom had a visitor. When the snow was deepest, no wanderer came near my house for a week or two at a time. But I lived there as snugly as a meadow mouse. I was like cattle and poultry said to have survived a long time buried in snowdrifts, even without food. Or I was like the family of an early settler in Sutton, in this state. Their cottage was completely buried by the great snow of 1717 while the settler was away. An Indian found the cottage only by the hole the chimney’s breath had made in the snowdrift. He then came to the family’s aid. But no friendly Indian troubled himself about me. Nor did anyone need to, for the master of the house was home. The Great Snow! How cheerful it is to hear about! The farmers could not reach the woods and swamps with their teams of animals. They had to cut down the shade trees in front of their houses. Later, when the snow’s crust was harder, they cut down trees in the swamps. As the next spring revealed, they had cut the trees ten feet above the ground.

In the deepest snows, the path which I used from the highway to my house, about half a mile long, might have been represented by a meandering dotted line, with wide intervals between the dots. For a week of even weather I took exactly the same number of steps, and of the same length, coming and going, stepping deliberately and with the precision of a pair of dividers in my own deep tracks,—to such routine the winter reduces us,—yet often they were filled with heaven’s own blue. But no weather interfered fatally with my walks, or rather my going abroad, for I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow-birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines; when the ice and snow causing their limbs to droop, and so sharpening their tops, had changed the pines into fir-trees; wading to the tops of the highest hills when the snow was nearly two feet deep on a level, and shaking down another snow-storm on my head at every step; or sometimes creeping and floundering thither on my hands and knees, when the hunters had gone into winter quarters. One afternoon I amused myself by watching a barred owl (Strix nebulosa) sitting on one of the lower dead limbs of a white-pine, close to the trunk, in broad daylight, I standing within a rod of him. He could hear me when I moved and cronched the snow with my feet, but could not plainly see me. When I made most noise he would stretch out his neck, and erect his neck feathers, and open his eyes wide; but their lids soon fell again, and he began to nod. I too felt a slumberous influence after watching him half an hour, as he sat thus with his eyes half open, like a cat, winged brother of the cat. There was only a narrow slit left between their lids, by which he preserved a peninsular relation to me; thus, with half-shut eyes, looking out from the land of dreams, and endeavoring to realize me, vague object or mote that interrupted his visions. At length, on some louder noise or my nearer approach, he would grow uneasy and sluggishly turn about on his perch, as if impatient at having his dreams disturbed; and when he launched himself off and flapped through the pines, spreading his wings to unexpected breadth, I could not hear the slightest sound from them. Thus, guided amid the pine boughs rather by a delicate sense of their neighborhood than by sight, feeling his twilight way as it were with his sensitive pinions, he found a new perch, where he might in peace await the dawning of his day.

In the deepest snow, my half-mile path from the highway to my house might have looked like a winding dotted line. Wide gaps separated the dots. For a week of steady weather, I took exactly the same number of steps, each the same length, coming and going. I stepped carefully into my own deep tracks, with the precision of a pair of drafting dividers. Winter reduces us to such routines. Yet often my tracks were filled with heaven’s own blue. But no weather ever stopped my walks, or rather, my trips outdoors. I frequently trudged eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech or yellow birch. Or I would visit an old acquaintance among the pines. Ice and snow weighed down the pines’ branches, making their tops more pointed and turning them into fir trees. I waded to the tops of the highest hills when the snow on level ground was nearly two feet deep. At every step, I shook down another snowstorm on my head. Sometimes I crawled and struggled up those hills on my hands and knees, when the hunters had settled indoors for winter. One afternoon, I amused myself by watching a barred owl (Strix nebulosa) in broad daylight. He sat close to the trunk on one of a white pine’s lower dead branches. I stood within about sixteen feet of him. He could hear me when I moved and crunched the snow underfoot, but he could not see me clearly. When I made the most noise, he stretched his neck, raised his neck feathers, and opened his eyes wide. But his eyelids soon dropped again, and he began to nod. After watching him for half an hour, I too began to feel sleepy. He sat with his eyes half open, like a cat, a winged brother of the cat. Only a narrow slit remained between his eyelids, keeping him connected to me as a peninsula is to the mainland. With half-shut eyes, he looked out from the land of dreams and tried to make sense of me. I was a vague object or speck interrupting his visions. At last, some louder noise or my closer approach would make him uneasy. He would turn sluggishly on his perch, as if annoyed at having his dreams disturbed. Then he launched himself into the air and flapped through the pines, spreading his wings wider than I expected. I could not hear the slightest sound from his wings. Among the pine branches, he seemed guided less by sight than by a delicate awareness of the branches around him. He felt his way through the twilight, as it were, with his sensitive wings. He found a new perch where he could peacefully await the dawn of his day.

As I walked over the long causeway made for the railroad through the meadows, I encountered many a blustering and nipping wind, for nowhere has it freer play; and when the frost had smitten me on one cheek, heathen as I was, I turned to it the other also. Nor was it much better by the carriage road from Brister’s Hill. For I came to town still, like a friendly Indian, when the contents of the broad open fields were all piled up between the walls of the Walden road, and half an hour sufficed to obliterate the tracks of the last traveller. And when I returned new drifts would have formed, through which I floundered, where the busy north-west wind had been depositing the powdery snow round a sharp angle in the road, and not a rabbit’s track, nor even the fine print, the small type, of a meadow mouse was to be seen. Yet I rarely failed to find, even in mid-winter, some warm and springly swamp where the grass and the skunk-cabbage still put forth with perennial verdure, and some hardier bird occasionally awaited the return of spring.

As I walked along the long raised railroad path through the meadows, I met many gusty, biting winds. Nowhere could the wind blow more freely. And when the frost struck one cheek, heathen though I was, I turned the other cheek to it too. Nor was the carriage road from Brister’s Hill much better. For I still came to town, like a friendly Indian, even when snow from all the broad, open fields lay piled between the walls of the Walden road. Half an hour was enough to erase the last traveler’s tracks. And when I returned, new drifts would have formed, and I struggled through them. The busy northwest wind had piled powdery snow around a sharp bend in the road. Not a rabbit’s track was visible, nor even the delicate print, the tiny lettering, of a meadow mouse. Yet even in midwinter, I rarely failed to find some warm, springlike swamp. There, the grass and skunk-cabbage still sent up fresh growth, green year-round. And occasionally some hardier bird waited there for spring to return.

Sometimes, notwithstanding the snow, when I returned from my walk at evening I crossed the deep tracks of a woodchopper leading from my door, and found his pile of whittlings on the hearth, and my house filled with the odor of his pipe. Or on a Sunday afternoon, if I chanced to be at home, I heard the cronching of the snow made by the step of a long-headed farmer, who from far through the woods sought my house, to have a social “crack;” one of the few of his vocation who are “men on their farms;” who donned a frock instead of a professor’s gown, and is as ready to extract the moral out of church or state as to haul a load of manure from his barn-yard. We talked of rude and simple times, when men sat about large fires in cold bracing weather, with clear heads; and when other dessert failed, we tried our teeth on many a nut which wise squirrels have long since abandoned, for those which have the thickest shells are commonly empty.

Sometimes, despite the snow, I crossed a woodcutter’s deep tracks leading away from my door when I returned from an evening walk. I found his pile of wood shavings on the hearth, and my house smelled of his pipe. Or on a Sunday afternoon, if I happened to be home, I heard the crunch of a thoughtful farmer’s footsteps in the snow. He came through the woods from far away to visit my house for a friendly “chat.” He was one of the few farmers who were “men on their farms.” He wore a work coat instead of a professor’s gown. He was as ready to draw a moral lesson from church or state as to haul manure from his barnyard. We talked of rough and simple times, when men sat around large fires in cold, bracing weather with clear heads. And when we had no other dessert, we tried our teeth on many nuts that wise squirrels had long since abandoned. For the nuts with the thickest shells are usually empty.

The one who came from farthest to my lodge, through deepest snows and most dismal tempests, was a poet. A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a poet, for he is actuated by pure love. Who can predict his comings and goings? His business calls him out at all hours, even when doctors sleep. We made that small house ring with boisterous mirth and resound with the murmur of much sober talk, making amends then to Walden vale for the long silences. Broadway was still and deserted in comparison. At suitable intervals there were regular salutes of laughter, which might have been referred indifferently to the last uttered or the forth-coming jest. We made many a “bran new” theory of life over a thin dish of gruel, which combined the advantages of conviviality with the clear-headedness which philosophy requires.

The visitor who traveled farthest to my cabin, through the deepest snows and bleakest storms, was a poet. A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher may be discouraged. But nothing can stop a poet, because pure love drives him. Who can predict his comings and goings? His work calls him out at all hours, even when doctors sleep. We filled the little house with loud, lively laughter and the murmur of long, serious conversations. In doing so, we made up for the long silences in Walden valley. Broadway was quiet and deserted by comparison. At fitting intervals, bursts of laughter rang out. The laughter could just as easily have greeted the last joke or the next one. Over a bowl of thin gruel, we came up with many a “brand-new” theory of life. The meal combined the pleasures of good company with the clear thinking philosophy requires.

I should not forget that during my last winter at the pond there was another welcome visitor, who at one time came through the village, through snow and rain and darkness, till he saw my lamp through the trees, and shared with me some long winter evenings. One of the last of the philosophers,—Connecticut gave him to the world,—he peddled first her wares, afterwards, as he declares, his brains. These he peddles still, prompting God and disgracing man, bearing for fruit his brain only, like the nut its kernel. I think that he must be the man of the most faith of any alive. His words and attitude always suppose a better state of things than other men are acquainted with, and he will be the last man to be disappointed as the ages revolve. He has no venture in the present. But though comparatively disregarded now, when his day comes, laws unsuspected by most will take effect, and masters of families and rulers will come to him for advice.—

I should not forget another welcome visitor during my last winter at the pond. Once he came through the village, through snow, rain, and darkness, until he saw my lamp through the trees. He shared some long winter evenings with me. He was one of the last philosophers, a gift from Connecticut to the world. First he peddled goods from Connecticut, then, as he puts it, his brains. He still peddles his brains, prompting God and putting humanity to shame. His only fruit is his mind, just as a nut bears only its kernel. I think he must have more faith than anyone else alive. His words and manner always assume a better state of things than other people know. As the ages pass, he will be the last person to be disappointed. He has nothing invested in the present. But although he receives relatively little attention now, when his day comes, laws most people never suspected will take effect. Then heads of households and rulers will come to him for advice.

A true friend of man; almost the only friend of human progress. An Old Mortality, say rather an Immortality, with unwearied patience and faith making plain the image engraven in men’s bodies, the God of whom they are but defaced and leaning monuments. With his hospitable intellect he embraces children, beggars, insane, and scholars, and entertains the thought of all, adding to it commonly some breadth and elegance. I think that he should keep a caravansary on the world’s highway, where philosophers of all nations might put up, and on his sign should be printed, “Entertainment for man, but not for his beast. Enter ye that have leisure and a quiet mind, who earnestly seek the right road.” He is perhaps the sanest man and has the fewest crotchets of any I chance to know; the same yesterday and tomorrow. Of yore we had sauntered and talked, and effectually put the world behind us; for he was pledged to no institution in it, freeborn, ingenuus. Whichever way we turned, it seemed that the heavens and the earth had met together, since he enhanced the beauty of the landscape. A blue-robed man, whose fittest roof is the overarching sky which reflects his serenity. I do not see how he can ever die; Nature cannot spare him.

A true friend of humanity, almost the only friend of human progress. An Old Mortality, or rather an Immortality, he works with tireless patience and faith to reveal the image carved into human bodies. It is the image of God, of whom people are only damaged and leaning monuments. With his welcoming mind, he embraces children, beggars, the mentally ill, and scholars. He considers everyone’s thoughts, usually adding some breadth and elegance to them. I think he should run an inn on the world’s highway, where philosophers of all nations could stay. His sign should read, “Hospitality for man, but not for his beast. Come in, you who have free time and a quiet mind, who earnestly seek the right road.” He is perhaps the sanest man I happen to know, and has the fewest odd notions. He is the same yesterday and tomorrow. In earlier days, we wandered and talked, truly leaving the world behind us. For he owed allegiance to none of its institutions. He was born free, ingenuus. Whichever way we turned, heaven and earth seemed to meet, because he made the landscape more beautiful. A man dressed in blue, his most fitting roof is the arching sky, which reflects his serenity. I cannot see how he can ever die. Nature cannot spare him.

Having each some shingles of thought well dried, we sat and whittled them, trying our knives, and admiring the clear yellowish grain of the pumpkin pine. We waded so gently and reverently, or we pulled together so smoothly, that the fishes of thought were not scared from the stream, nor feared any angler on the bank, but came and went grandly, like the clouds which float through the western sky, and the mother-o’-pearl flocks which sometimes form and dissolve there. There we worked, revising mythology, rounding a fable here and there, and building castles in the air for which earth offered no worthy foundation. Great Looker! Great Expecter! to converse with whom was a New England Night’s Entertainment. Ah! such discourse we had, hermit and philosopher, and the old settler I have spoken of,—we three,—it expanded and racked my little house; I should not dare to say how many pounds’ weight there was above the atmospheric pressure on every circular inch; it opened its seams so that they had to be calked with much dulness thereafter to stop the consequent leak;—but I had enough of that kind of oakum already picked.

Each of us had some well-dried shingles of thought, and we sat whittling them. We tested our knives and admired the clear, yellowish grain of the pumpkin pine. We waded so gently and reverently, or rowed together so smoothly, that we did not frighten the fish of thought. Nor did those fish fear any angler on the bank. Instead, they came and went majestically, like clouds floating through the western sky. They were like the pearly flocks of clouds that sometimes form and dissolve there. There we worked, revising mythology, shaping a fable here and there, and building castles in the air. For those castles, the earth offered no worthy foundation. Great Looker! Great Expecter! Talking with him was a New England Night’s Entertainment. Ah, what conversations we had, the hermit, the philosopher, and the old settler I have mentioned. The talk of us three stretched and strained my little house. I would not dare say how many pounds above atmospheric pressure pressed on every square inch. Our conversation opened the house’s seams. Afterward, I had to pack those seams with plenty of dullness to stop the resulting leak. But I already had enough of that kind of oakum picked apart and ready.

There was one other with whom I had “solid seasons,” long to be remembered, at his house in the village, and who looked in upon me from time to time; but I had no more for society there.

There was one other person with whom I spent “meaningful hours” at his house in the village. I would remember those hours for a long time. He also visited me from time to time. But that was all the company I had there.

There too, as every where, I sometimes expected the Visitor who never comes. The Vishnu Purana says, “The house-holder is to remain at eventide in his court-yard as long as it takes to milk a cow, or longer if he pleases, to await the arrival of a guest.” I often performed this duty of hospitality, waited long enough to milk a whole herd of cows, but did not see the man approaching from the town.

There too, as everywhere, I sometimes expected the Visitor who never comes. The Vishnu Purana says, “At evening, the householder should stay in his courtyard to wait for a guest. He should wait as long as milking a cow takes, or longer if he wishes.” I often carried out this duty of hospitality, waiting long enough to milk a whole herd of cows. But I did not see the man approaching from town.