Warming the House

In October I went a-graping to the river meadows, and loaded myself with clusters more precious for their beauty and fragrance than for food. There too I admired, though I did not gather, the cranberries, small waxen gems, pendants of the meadow grass, pearly and red, which the farmer plucks with an ugly rake, leaving the smooth meadow in a snarl, heedlessly measuring them by the bushel and the dollar only, and sells the spoils of the meads to Boston and New York; destined to be jammed, to satisfy the tastes of lovers of Nature there. So butchers rake the tongues of bison out of the prairie grass, regardless of the torn and drooping plant. The barberry’s brilliant fruit was likewise food for my eyes merely; but I collected a small store of wild apples for coddling, which the proprietor and travellers had overlooked. When chestnuts were ripe I laid up half a bushel for winter. It was very exciting at that season to roam the then boundless chestnut woods of Lincoln,—they now sleep their long sleep under the railroad,—with a bag on my shoulder, and a stick to open burrs with in my hand, for I did not always wait for the frost, amid the rustling of leaves and the loud reproofs of the red-squirrels and the jays, whose half-consumed nuts I sometimes stole, for the burrs which they had selected were sure to contain sound ones. Occasionally I climbed and shook the trees. They grew also behind my house, and one large tree, which almost overshadowed it, was, when in flower, a bouquet which scented the whole neighborhood, but the squirrels and the jays got most of its fruit; the last coming in flocks early in the morning and picking the nuts out of the burrs before they fell. I relinquished these trees to them and visited the more distant woods composed wholly of chestnut. These nuts, as far as they went, were a good substitute for bread. Many other substitutes might, perhaps, be found. Digging one day for fish-worms, I discovered the ground-nut (Apios tuberosa) on its string, the potato of the aborigines, a sort of fabulous fruit, which I had begun to doubt if I had ever dug and eaten in childhood, as I had told, and had not dreamed it. I had often since seen its crimpled red velvety blossom supported by the stems of other plants without knowing it to be the same. Cultivation has well nigh exterminated it. It has a sweetish taste, much like that of a frostbitten potato, and I found it better boiled than roasted. This tuber seemed like a faint promise of Nature to rear her own children and feed them simply here at some future period. In these days of fatted cattle and waving grain-fields this humble root, which was once the totem of an Indian tribe, is quite forgotten, or known only by its flowering vine; but let wild Nature reign here once more, and the tender and luxurious English grains will probably disappear before a myriad of foes, and without the care of man the crow may carry back even the last seed of corn to the great cornfield of the Indian’s God in the south-west, whence he is said to have brought it; but the now almost exterminated ground-nut will perhaps revive and flourish in spite of frosts and wildness, prove itself indigenous, and resume its ancient importance and dignity as the diet of the hunter tribe. Some Indian Ceres or Minerva must have been the inventor and bestower of it; and when the reign of poetry commences here, its leaves and string of nuts may be represented on our works of art.

In October I went gathering grapes in the river meadows and loaded myself with clusters. Their beauty and fragrance made them more precious than their value as food. There I also admired the cranberries, though I did not gather them. They were small, waxy gems, pearly and red, hanging from the meadow grass. The farmer gathers them with an ugly rake, leaving the smooth meadow tangled. He carelessly measures them only by the bushel and the dollar. He sells the meadows’ plunder to Boston and New York, where the berries are destined to be jammed. They will satisfy the tastes of the Nature lovers there. In the same way, butchers rake bison tongues from the prairie grass, ignoring the torn and drooping plants. The barberry’s brilliant fruit was also food only for my eyes. But I gathered a small supply of wild apples for stewing, overlooked by the landowner and travelers. When chestnuts were ripe, I stored half a bushel for winter. At that season, roaming Lincoln’s then boundless chestnut woods was very exciting. Those woods now sleep their long sleep beneath the railroad. I carried a bag on my shoulder and a stick in my hand to open the prickly burrs. I did not always wait for frost to open them. Leaves rustled around me, while red squirrels and jays scolded loudly. Sometimes I stole their half-eaten nuts, because the burrs they selected were sure to contain good ones. Occasionally I climbed the trees and shook them. Chestnut trees also grew behind my house. One large tree nearly overshadowed the house. In bloom, the tree was a bouquet that scented the whole neighborhood. But the squirrels and jays got most of its nuts. The jays came in flocks early in the morning, picking nuts from the burrs before they fell. I gave up these trees to the squirrels and jays. Instead, I visited the more distant woods made up entirely of chestnut trees. As far as my supply lasted, these nuts were a good substitute for bread. Perhaps many other substitutes could be found. One day, while digging for fishing worms, I discovered the ground-nut (Apios tuberosa) on its string of tubers. This was the potato of the Indigenous people, a food that seemed almost mythical to me. I had begun to doubt whether I had really dug and eaten ground-nuts in childhood, as I had claimed. Perhaps I had only dreamed of doing so. Since childhood, I had often seen its wrinkled, red, velvety blossoms, supported by other plants’ stems. But I had not known those blossoms belonged to the ground-nut. Farming has nearly wiped it out. The ground-nut tastes slightly sweet, much like a frostbitten potato. I found it better boiled than roasted. This tuber seemed like a faint promise from Nature. Perhaps, someday, she would raise her own children here and feed them simply. In these days of fattened cattle and waving grainfields, this humble root is quite forgotten. Once the totem of an Indian tribe, the ground-nut is now known only by its flowering vine, if at all. But let wild Nature rule here again, and the delicate, pampered English grains will probably disappear before countless enemies. Without human care, the crow may carry away even the last seed of corn. He may return it to the great cornfield of the Indian’s God in the southwest. From there, the crow is said to have brought it. But the now nearly vanished ground-nut may revive and flourish despite frost and wilderness. It may prove itself native here and regain its ancient importance and dignity as food for the hunting tribe. Some Indian Ceres or Minerva must have invented and bestowed the ground-nut. And when the reign of poetry begins here, its leaves and string of tubers may appear in our art.

Already, by the first of September, I had seen two or three small maples turned scarlet across the pond, beneath where the white stems of three aspens diverged, at the point of a promontory, next the water. Ah, many a tale their color told! And gradually from week to week the character of each tree came out, and it admired itself reflected in the smooth mirror of the lake. Each morning the manager of this gallery substituted some new picture, distinguished by more brilliant or harmonious coloring, for the old upon the walls.

By September first, I had already seen two or three small maples turn scarlet across the pond. They stood beside the water, at the tip of a point of land. Above them, the white trunks of three aspens spread apart. Ah, how many stories the maples’ color told! Gradually, from week to week, each tree’s character emerged, and each admired its own reflection in the lake’s smooth mirror. Each morning, the manager of this gallery replaced an old picture on the walls with a new one. The new picture had more brilliant or harmonious colors.

The wasps came by thousands to my lodge in October, as to winter quarters, and settled on my windows within and on the walls over-head, sometimes deterring visitors from entering. Each morning, when they were numbed with cold, I swept some of them out, but I did not trouble myself much to get rid of them; I even felt complimented by their regarding my house as a desirable shelter. They never molested me seriously, though they bedded with me; and they gradually disappeared, into what crevices I do not know, avoiding winter and unspeakable cold.

Wasps came by the thousands to my cabin in October, as if settling into winter quarters. They gathered on the inside of my windows and on the walls overhead, sometimes keeping visitors from coming in. Each morning, when the wasps were numb with cold, I swept some out. But I made little effort to get rid of them. I even felt flattered that they considered my house a desirable shelter. They never seriously bothered me, though they shared my bed. And they gradually disappeared into cracks, escaping winter and its unspeakable cold. I do not know which cracks they hid in.

Like the wasps, before I finally went into winter quarters in November, I used to resort to the north-east side of Walden, which the sun, reflected from the pitch-pine woods and the stony shore, made the fire-side of the pond; it is so much pleasanter and wholesomer to be warmed by the sun while you can be, than by an artificial fire. I thus warmed myself by the still glowing embers which the summer, like a departed hunter, had left.

Like the wasps, I often visited the northeast side of Walden before settling into my winter quarters in November. Sunlight reflected from the pitch-pine woods and the rocky shore made that side the pond’s fireside. Being warmed by the sun while you still can is far more pleasant and healthier than sitting by an artificial fire. So I warmed myself by the still-glowing embers that summer, like a hunter who had gone away, had left behind.

When I came to build my chimney I studied masonry. My bricks being second-hand ones required to be cleaned with a trowel, so that I learned more than usual of the qualities of bricks and trowels. The mortar on them was fifty years old, and was said to be still growing harder; but this is one of those sayings which men love to repeat whether they are true or not. Such sayings themselves grow harder and adhere more firmly with age, and it would take many blows with a trowel to clean an old wiseacre of them. Many of the villages of Mesopotamia are built of second-hand bricks of a very good quality, obtained from the ruins of Babylon, and the cement on them is older and probably harder still. However that may be, I was struck by the peculiar toughness of the steel which bore so many violent blows without being worn out. As my bricks had been in a chimney before, though I did not read the name of Nebuchadnezzar on them, I picked out as many fire-place bricks as I could find, to save work and waste, and I filled the spaces between the bricks about the fire-place with stones from the pond shore, and also made my mortar with the white sand from the same place. I lingered most about the fireplace, as the most vital part of the house. Indeed, I worked so deliberately, that though I commenced at the ground in the morning, a course of bricks raised a few inches above the floor served for my pillow at night; yet I did not get a stiff neck for it that I remember; my stiff neck is of older date. I took a poet to board for a fortnight about those times, which caused me to be put to it for room. He brought his own knife, though I had two, and we used to scour them by thrusting them into the earth. He shared with me the labors of cooking. I was pleased to see my work rising so square and solid by degrees, and reflected, that, if it proceeded slowly, it was calculated to endure a long time. The chimney is to some extent an independent structure, standing on the ground and rising through the house to the heavens; even after the house is burned it still stands sometimes, and its importance and independence are apparent. This was toward the end of summer. It was now November.

When I came to build my chimney, I studied bricklaying. My bricks were secondhand and needed cleaning with a trowel. So I learned more than usual about the qualities of bricks and trowels. The mortar on the bricks was fifty years old and was said to be still getting harder. But this is one of those sayings people love to repeat, whether true or not. Such sayings themselves harden and stick more firmly with age. It would take many blows with a trowel to knock them out of an old know-it-all. Many villages in Mesopotamia are built with very good secondhand bricks taken from the ruins of Babylon. The cement on those bricks is older and probably harder still. Whatever the truth about the cement, I was struck by the unusual toughness of the steel in my trowel. The steel took so many violent blows without wearing out. My bricks had been in a chimney before, though I found no name of Nebuchadnezzar on them. So I picked out as many fireplace bricks as I could find, to save work and avoid waste. I filled the gaps between the bricks around the fireplace with stones from the pond shore. I also made my mortar with white sand from the same place. I spent the most time on the fireplace, since it was the most vital part of the house. In fact, I worked so slowly and carefully that I made little progress that first day. I started at ground level in the morning. By night, a row of bricks a few inches above the floor served as my pillow. Yet I don't remember getting a stiff neck from sleeping there. My stiff neck goes back further than that. Around that time, I took in a poet for two weeks, leaving me hard pressed for room. He brought his own knife, though I had two. We used to clean the knives by thrusting them into the earth. He shared the cooking with me. I was pleased to see my work gradually rising, so square and solid. I reflected that, although the work went slowly, it was designed to last a long time. A chimney is, to some extent, an independent structure. It stands on the ground and rises through the house to the heavens. Sometimes the chimney still stands even after the house burns down, making its importance and independence plain. This was toward the end of summer. It was now November.

The north wind had already begun to cool the pond, though it took many weeks of steady blowing to accomplish it, it is so deep. When I began to have a fire at evening, before I plastered my house, the chimney carried smoke particularly well, because of the numerous chinks between the boards. Yet I passed some cheerful evenings in that cool and airy apartment, surrounded by the rough brown boards full of knots, and rafters with the bark on high overhead. My house never pleased my eye so much after it was plastered, though I was obliged to confess that it was more comfortable. Should not every apartment in which man dwells be lofty enough to create some obscurity over-head, where flickering shadows may play at evening about the rafters? These forms are more agreeable to the fancy and imagination than fresco paintings or other the most expensive furniture. I now first began to inhabit my house, I may say, when I began to use it for warmth as well as shelter. I had got a couple of old fire-dogs to keep the wood from the hearth, and it did me good to see the soot form on the back of the chimney which I had built, and I poked the fire with more right and more satisfaction than usual. My dwelling was small, and I could hardly entertain an echo in it; but it seemed larger for being a single apartment and remote from neighbors. All the attractions of a house were concentrated in one room; it was kitchen, chamber, parlor, and keeping-room; and whatever satisfaction parent or child, master or servant, derive from living in a house, I enjoyed it all. Cato says, the master of a family (patremfamilias) must have in his rustic villa “cellam oleariam, vinariam, dolia multa, uti lubeat caritatem expectare, et rei, et virtuti, et gloriæ erit,” that is, “an oil and wine cellar, many casks, so that it may be pleasant to expect hard times; it will be for his advantage, and virtue, and glory.” I had in my cellar a firkin of potatoes, about two quarts of peas with the weevil in them, and on my shelf a little rice, a jug of molasses, and of rye and Indian meal a peck each.

The north wind had already begun to cool the pond. But the pond was so deep that cooling it took many weeks of steady wind. When I began lighting an evening fire, I had not yet plastered my house. The chimney drew smoke especially well because of the many gaps between the boards. Yet I spent some cheerful evenings in that cool, airy room. Around me were rough brown boards full of knots, with bark-covered rafters high overhead. My house never looked as pleasing to me after it was plastered, though I had to admit it was more comfortable. Shouldn't every room people live in have a ceiling high enough to leave some darkness overhead? There, flickering shadows could play around the rafters in the evening. These shapes appeal more to the imagination than frescoes or even the most expensive furnishings. I might say I only truly began living in my house when I used it for warmth as well as shelter. I had found a pair of old andirons to hold the firewood above the hearth. Seeing soot form at the back of the chimney I had built did me good. I poked the fire with a greater sense of ownership and more satisfaction than usual. My home was small, with hardly room for an echo. But having just one room and being far from neighbors made the house seem larger. All the attractions of a house were gathered in that one room. It was a kitchen, bedroom, parlor, and family sitting room. Whatever satisfaction a parent or child, master or servant, gets from living in a house, I enjoyed it all. Cato says the head of a household (patremfamilias) must have certain things at his country home: “cellam oleariam, vinariam, dolia multa, uti lubeat caritatem expectare, et rei, et virtuti, et gloriæ erit,” meaning, “an oil and wine cellar, and many casks, so that looking ahead to hard times may be pleasant. This will benefit his wealth, virtue, and glory.” In my cellar I had a small barrel of potatoes and about two quarts of peas infested with weevils. On my shelf were a little rice, a jug of molasses, and a peck each of rye meal and cornmeal.

I sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials, and without ginger-bread work, which shall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial, primitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and purlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one’s head,—useful to keep off rain and snow; where the king and queen posts stand out to receive your homage, when you have done reverence to the prostrate Saturn of an older dynasty on stepping over the sill; a cavernous house, wherein you must reach up a torch upon a pole to see the roof; where some may live in the fire-place, some in the recess of a window, and some on settles, some at one end of the hall, some at another, and some aloft on rafters with the spiders, if they choose; a house which you have got into when you have opened the outside door, and the ceremony is over; where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and converse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you would be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the essentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping; where you can see all the treasures of the house at one view, and every thing hangs upon its peg, that a man should use; at once kitchen, pantry, parlor, chamber, store-house, and garret; where you can see so necessary a thing as a barrel or a ladder, so convenient a thing as a cupboard, and hear the pot boil, and pay your respects to the fire that cooks your dinner and the oven that bakes your bread, and the necessary furniture and utensils are the chief ornaments; where the washing is not put out, nor the fire, nor the mistress, and perhaps you are sometimes requested to move from off the trap-door, when the cook would descend into the cellar, and so learn whether the ground is solid or hollow beneath you without stamping. A house whose inside is as open and manifest as a bird’s nest, and you cannot go in at the front door and out at the back without seeing some of its inhabitants; where to be a guest is to be presented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully excluded from seven eighths of it, shut up in a particular cell, and told to make yourself at home there,—in solitary confinement. Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance. There is as much secrecy about the cooking as if he had a design to poison you. I am aware that I have been on many a man’s premises, and might have been legally ordered off, but I am not aware that I have been in many men’s houses. I might visit in my old clothes a king and queen who lived simply in such a house as I have described, if I were going their way; but backing out of a modern palace will be all that I shall desire to learn, if ever I am caught in one.

I sometimes dream of a larger house with more people in it, standing in a golden age. It would be built of lasting materials, without fancy decorative woodwork, and would still have only one room. That room would be a vast, rough, solid, primitive hall, without a ceiling or plaster. Bare rafters and roof beams would support a kind of lower heaven overhead, useful for keeping out rain and snow. The upright king and queen posts would stand out for you to honor. First, as you stepped over the threshold, you would bow to the fallen Saturn of an older dynasty. The house would be so cavernous that you would need a torch raised on a pole to see the roof. Some people might live in the fireplace, some in a window recess, and some on wooden benches. Some might live at one end of the hall, some at the other. Some might live up on the rafters with the spiders, if they chose. Once you opened the outside door, you would be inside the house, with all ceremony over. A weary traveler could wash, eat, talk, and sleep without going any farther. You would be glad to reach such a shelter on a stormy night. It would contain all the essentials of a house, and nothing for housekeeping. You could see all the house’s treasures at a glance. Everything a person should use would hang on its own peg. The room would serve as kitchen, pantry, living room, bedroom, storeroom, and attic all at once. You could see necessities like a barrel or a ladder, and conveniences like a cupboard. You could hear the pot boil. You could pay your respects to the fire cooking your dinner and the oven baking your bread. The necessary furniture and utensils would be the main ornaments. Neither the washing, nor the fire, nor the woman of the house would be put out. Perhaps the cook would sometimes ask you to move off the trapdoor so she could go down into the cellar. You would then learn whether the ground beneath you was solid or hollow, without stamping your feet. The house’s interior would be as open and visible as a bird’s nest. You could not enter through the front door and leave through the back without seeing some of the residents. As a guest, you would be given the freedom of the house. You would not be carefully kept out of seven eighths of the house. You would not be shut in one particular cell and told to make yourself at home there, in solitary confinement. Nowadays, your host does not welcome you to his hearth. Instead, he has had a mason build you a separate hearth somewhere in his passageway. Hospitality is now the art of keeping you as far away as possible. The cooking is kept as secret as if your host planned to poison you. I know I have been on many men’s properties, where I could legally have been ordered off. But I cannot say I have been inside many men’s homes. If I were passing their way, I might visit a king and queen living simply in such a house. I might even visit them in my old clothes. But if I am ever caught in a modern palace, all I shall want to learn is how to back out.

It would seem as if the very language of our parlors would lose all its nerve and degenerate into palaver wholly, our lives pass at such remoteness from its symbols, and its metaphors and tropes are necessarily so far fetched, through slides and dumb-waiters, as it were; in other words, the parlor is so far from the kitchen and workshop. The dinner even is only the parable of a dinner, commonly. As if only the savage dwelt near enough to Nature and Truth to borrow a trope from them. How can the scholar, who dwells away in the North West Territory or the Isle of Man, tell what is parliamentary in the kitchen?

It seems as if the very language of our parlors would lose all its strength and become nothing but empty chatter. We live so far from the things our language represents. Its metaphors and figures of speech must necessarily come from far away, as if through serving hatches and dumbwaiters. In other words, the parlor is so far from the kitchen and workshop. Even dinner is usually only a symbolic version of a dinner. As if only the savage lived close enough to Nature and Truth to borrow a figure of speech from them. How can the scholar, living far away in the North West Territory or the Isle of Man, know the kitchen’s rules of debate?

However, only one or two of my guests were ever bold enough to stay and eat a hasty-pudding with me; but when they saw that crisis approaching they beat a hasty retreat rather, as if it would shake the house to its foundations. Nevertheless, it stood through a great many hasty-puddings.

However, only one or two of my guests were ever brave enough to stay and eat hasty pudding with me. But when my guests saw that crisis approaching, they made a hasty retreat instead. It was as if the meal would shake the house to its foundations. Nevertheless, the house survived a great many hasty puddings.

I did not plaster till it was freezing weather. I brought over some whiter and cleaner sand for this purpose from the opposite shore of the pond in a boat, a sort of conveyance which would have tempted me to go much farther if necessary. My house had in the mean while been shingled down to the ground on every side. In lathing I was pleased to be able to send home each nail with a single blow of the hammer, and it was my ambition to transfer the plaster from the board to the wall neatly and rapidly. I remembered the story of a conceited fellow, who, in fine clothes, was wont to lounge about the village once, giving advice to workmen. Venturing one day to substitute deeds for words, he turned up his cuffs, seized a plasterer’s board, and having loaded his trowel without mishap, with a complacent look toward the lathing overhead, made a bold gesture thitherward; and straightway, to his complete discomfiture, received the whole contents in his ruffled bosom. I admired anew the economy and convenience of plastering, which so effectually shuts out the cold and takes a handsome finish, and I learned the various casualties to which the plasterer is liable. I was surprised to see how thirsty the bricks were which drank up all the moisture in my plaster before I had smoothed it, and how many pailfuls of water it takes to christen a new hearth. I had the previous winter made a small quantity of lime by burning the shells of the Unio fluviatilis, which our river affords, for the sake of the experiment; so that I knew where my materials came from. I might have got good limestone within a mile or two and burned it myself, if I had cared to do so.

I did not plaster the house until freezing weather arrived. For the plaster, I brought some whiter, cleaner sand by boat from the pond’s opposite shore. Traveling by boat would have tempted me to go much farther if necessary. Meanwhile, my house had been covered with shingles down to the ground on every side. While putting up the laths, I was pleased to drive each nail home with one hammer blow. My ambition was to transfer the plaster from the board to the wall neatly and quickly. I remembered a story about a conceited fellow who used to lounge around the village in fine clothes, advising workmen. One day, he ventured to replace words with action. He turned up his cuffs, seized a plasterer’s board, and loaded his trowel without mishap. Then, looking smugly at the laths overhead, he swept his arm boldly upward. To his utter embarrassment, the whole load landed inside his ruffled shirt. I admired once again how economical and convenient plastering was. Plaster keeps out the cold so effectively and gives a handsome finish. I also learned about the various mishaps a plasterer faces. I was surprised by how thirsty the bricks were. They drank up all the moisture in my plaster before I could smooth the surface. I was also surprised by how many pails of water are needed to christen a new hearth. The previous winter, as an experiment, I had made a little lime by burning shells of Unio fluviatilis. These mussels are found in our river, so I knew where my materials came from. I could have found good limestone within a mile or two and burned it myself, if I had wanted to.

The pond had in the mean while skimmed over in the shadiest and shallowest coves, some days or even weeks before the general freezing. The first ice is especially interesting and perfect, being hard, dark, and transparent, and affords the best opportunity that ever offers for examining the bottom where it is shallow; for you can lie at your length on ice only an inch thick, like a skater insect on the surface of the water, and study the bottom at your leisure, only two or three inches distant, like a picture behind a glass, and the water is necessarily always smooth then. There are many furrows in the sand where some creature has travelled about and doubled on its tracks; and, for wrecks, it is strewn with the cases of cadis worms made of minute grains of white quartz. Perhaps these have creased it, for you find some of their cases in the furrows, though they are deep and broad for them to make. But the ice itself is the object of most interest, though you must improve the earliest opportunity to study it. If you examine it closely the morning after it freezes, you find that the greater part of the bubbles, which at first appeared to be within it, are against its under surface, and that more are continually rising from the bottom; while the ice is as yet comparatively solid and dark, that is, you see the water through it. These bubbles are from an eightieth to an eighth of an inch in diameter, very clear and beautiful, and you see your face reflected in them through the ice. There may be thirty or forty of them to a square inch. There are also already within the ice narrow oblong perpendicular bubbles about half an inch long, sharp cones with the apex upward; or oftener, if the ice is quite fresh, minute spherical bubbles one directly above another, like a string of beads. But these within the ice are not so numerous nor obvious as those beneath. I sometimes used to cast on stones to try the strength of the ice, and those which broke through carried in air with them, which formed very large and conspicuous white bubbles beneath. One day when I came to the same place forty-eight hours afterward, I found that those large bubbles were still perfect, though an inch more of ice had formed, as I could see distinctly by the seam in the edge of a cake. But as the last two days had been very warm, like an Indian summer, the ice was not now transparent, showing the dark green color of the water, and the bottom, but opaque and whitish or gray, and though twice as thick was hardly stronger than before, for the air bubbles had greatly expanded under this heat and run together, and lost their regularity; they were no longer one directly over another, but often like silvery coins poured from a bag, one overlapping another, or in thin flakes, as if occupying slight cleavages. The beauty of the ice was gone, and it was too late to study the bottom. Being curious to know what position my great bubbles occupied with regard to the new ice, I broke out a cake containing a middling sized one, and turned it bottom upward. The new ice had formed around and under the bubble, so that it was included between the two ices. It was wholly in the lower ice, but close against the upper, and was flattish, or perhaps slightly lenticular, with a rounded edge, a quarter of an inch deep by four inches in diameter; and I was surprised to find that directly under the bubble the ice was melted with great regularity in the form of a saucer reversed, to the height of five eighths of an inch in the middle, leaving a thin partition there between the water and the bubble, hardly an eighth of an inch thick; and in many places the small bubbles in this partition had burst out downward, and probably there was no ice at all under the largest bubbles, which were a foot in diameter. I inferred that the infinite number of minute bubbles which I had first seen against the under surface of the ice were now frozen in likewise, and that each, in its degree, had operated like a burning glass on the ice beneath to melt and rot it. These are the little air-guns which contribute to make the ice crack and whoop.

Meanwhile, a thin layer of ice had formed in the pond’s shadiest and shallowest coves. This happened days or even weeks before the whole pond froze. The first ice is especially interesting and perfect, hard, dark, and transparent. It offers the best possible chance to examine the bottom in shallow water. You can lie stretched out on ice only an inch thick, like a water-striding insect on the water’s surface. You can study the bottom at your leisure, only two or three inches away, like a picture behind glass. The water is necessarily always smooth then. Many grooves mark the sand where some creature has wandered and doubled back over its tracks. Like wreckage, the cases of cadis worms lie scattered across the bottom, made of tiny grains of white quartz. Perhaps these creatures made the grooves, since some of their cases lie in them. Still, the grooves seem too deep and wide for them to have made. But the ice itself is the most interesting thing, though you must take the earliest chance to study it. Examine the ice closely the morning after it freezes. You will find that most bubbles that first seemed to be inside the ice are actually against its underside. More bubbles keep rising from the bottom. At this stage, the ice is still fairly solid and dark, meaning you can see the water through it. These bubbles range from one eightieth to one eighth of an inch across. They are very clear and beautiful, and through the ice you can see your face reflected in them. There may be thirty or forty bubbles per square inch. Already inside the ice are narrow, elongated, upright bubbles about half an inch long. These are pointed cones with their tips facing upward. More often, if the ice is very fresh, tiny round bubbles sit directly above one another, like beads on a string. But the bubbles inside the ice are less numerous and less noticeable than those underneath. I sometimes threw stones onto the ice to test its strength. The stones that broke through carried air with them, forming very large, noticeable white bubbles underneath. One day, I returned to the same place forty-eight hours later and found those large bubbles still perfectly intact. Another inch of ice had formed, though. I could clearly see the added layer from the seam along the edge of a slab. But the last two days had been very warm, like an Indian summer. The ice was no longer transparent, revealing the water’s dark green color and the bottom. Instead, it was opaque and whitish or gray. Though twice as thick, the ice was hardly stronger than before. The heat had greatly expanded the air bubbles, merging them and distorting their shapes. The bubbles no longer sat directly above one another. Instead, they often overlapped like silver coins poured from a bag. Others formed thin flakes, as if filling narrow cracks. The ice’s beauty was gone, and it was too late to study the bottom. Curious about where my large bubbles lay in relation to the new ice, I broke out a slab. The slab contained a medium-sized bubble, and I turned it upside down. The new ice had formed around and beneath the bubble, enclosing it between the two layers. The bubble lay entirely within the lower layer, but right against the upper one. It was rather flat, or perhaps slightly lens-shaped, with a rounded edge. It measured a quarter of an inch deep and four inches across. To my surprise, the ice directly beneath the bubble had melted into the very regular shape of an upside-down saucer. This hollow rose five eighths of an inch at the center. Only a thin wall of ice remained there between the water and the bubble, hardly an eighth of an inch thick. In many places, the small bubbles in this wall had burst downward through the ice. Probably no ice remained at all beneath the largest bubbles, which were a foot across. I concluded that the countless tiny bubbles first seen against the ice’s underside had now frozen into the ice too. Each bubble, in proportion to its size, had acted like a magnifying glass concentrating sunlight, melting and weakening the ice beneath. These are the little air guns that help make the ice crack and whoop.

At length the winter set in in good earnest, just as I had finished plastering, and the wind began to howl around the house as if it had not had permission to do so till then. Night after night the geese came lumbering in in the dark with a clangor and a whistling of wings, even after the ground was covered with snow, some to alight in Walden, and some flying low over the woods toward Fair Haven, bound for Mexico. Several times, when returning from the village at ten or eleven o’clock at night, I heard the tread of a flock of geese, or else ducks, on the dry leaves in the woods by a pond-hole behind my dwelling, where they had come up to feed, and the faint honk or quack of their leader as they hurried off. In 1845 Walden froze entirely over for the first time on the night of the 22d of December, Flint’s and other shallower ponds and the river having been frozen ten days or more; in ’46, the 16th; in ’49, about the 31st; and in ’50, about the 27th of December; in ’52, the 5th of January; in ’53, the 31st of December. The snow had already covered the ground since the 25th of November, and surrounded me suddenly with the scenery of winter. I withdrew yet farther into my shell, and endeavored to keep a bright fire both within my house and within my breast. My employment out of doors now was to collect the dead wood in the forest, bringing it in my hands or on my shoulders, or sometimes trailing a dead pine tree under each arm to my shed. An old forest fence which had seen its best days was a great haul for me. I sacrificed it to Vulcan, for it was past serving the god Terminus. How much more interesting an event is that man’s supper who has just been forth in the snow to hunt, nay, you might say, steal, the fuel to cook it with! His bread and meat are sweet. There are enough fagots and waste wood of all kinds in the forests of most of our towns to support many fires, but which at present warm none, and, some think, hinder the growth of the young wood. There was also the drift-wood of the pond. In the course of the summer I had discovered a raft of pitch-pine logs with the bark on, pinned together by the Irish when the railroad was built. This I hauled up partly on the shore. After soaking two years and then lying high six months it was perfectly sound, though waterlogged past drying. I amused myself one winter day with sliding this piecemeal across the pond, nearly half a mile, skating behind with one end of a log fifteen feet long on my shoulder, and the other on the ice; or I tied several logs together with a birch withe, and then, with a longer birch or alder which had a hook at the end, dragged them across. Though completely waterlogged and almost as heavy as lead, they not only burned long, but made a very hot fire; nay, I thought that they burned better for the soaking, as if the pitch, being confined by the water, burned longer, as in a lamp.

At last winter set in for good, just as I finished plastering. The wind began howling around the house, as if it had only now been given permission. Night after night, geese lumbered in through the dark, honking loudly, their wings whistling, even after snow covered the ground. Some landed on Walden. Others flew low over the woods toward Fair Haven, bound for Mexico. Several times I heard geese, or perhaps ducks, walking on dry leaves as I returned from the village. It was ten or eleven at night. The birds were in the woods beside a small pond behind my house, where they had come ashore to feed. I heard their leader's faint honk or quack as they hurried away. In 1845, Walden first froze over completely on the night of December 22. Flint’s and other shallower ponds, along with the river, had already been frozen for ten days or more. In 1846, Walden froze over on December 16. In 1849, it froze around December 31, and in 1850, around December 27. In 1852, it froze on January 5, and in 1853, on December 31. Snow had already covered the ground since November 25, suddenly surrounding me with a winter landscape. I withdrew still farther into my shell and tried to keep a bright fire both indoors and in my heart. My outdoor work now was gathering dead wood in the forest. I carried the wood in my hands or on my shoulders. Sometimes I dragged a dead pine tree under each arm to my shed. An old fence in the forest, well past its best days, was a great find. I sacrificed the fence to Vulcan, since it could no longer serve Terminus, the god of boundaries. How much more of an occasion supper becomes for someone who has gone out into the snow to find fuel! You might even say he has stolen the fuel to cook his meal. His bread and meat taste sweet. The forests of most of our towns contain enough fallen branches and scrap wood to keep many fires burning. Yet that wood now warms no one, and some think it hinders the growth of young trees. There was also the pond’s driftwood. During the summer, I had discovered a raft of pitch-pine logs with their bark still on. Irish workers had pinned the logs together when the railroad was built. I hauled the raft partly onto the shore. After soaking for two years and then lying above water for six months, the wood was still perfectly sound. But the logs were too waterlogged ever to dry out. One winter day, I amused myself by sliding the logs, one by one, nearly half a mile across the pond. I skated behind a fifteen-foot log, with one end on my shoulder and the other on the ice. Or I tied several logs together with a flexible birch branch. Then I dragged the logs across with a longer birch or alder branch that had a hook at the end. Although completely waterlogged and almost as heavy as lead, the logs burned a long time and produced intense heat. In fact, I thought the soaking made them burn better. It was as if the water held the pitch in, making it burn longer, as in a lamp.

Gilpin, in his account of the forest borderers of England, says that “the encroachments of trespassers, and the houses and fences thus raised on the borders of the forest,” were “considered as great nuisances by the old forest law, and were severely punished under the name of purprestures, as tending ad terrorem ferarum—ad nocumentum forestæ, &c.,” to the frightening of the game and the detriment of the forest. But I was interested in the preservation of the venison and the vert more than the hunters or woodchoppers, and as much as though I had been the Lord Warden himself; and if any part was burned, though I burned it myself by accident, I grieved with a grief that lasted longer and was more inconsolable than that of the proprietors; nay, I grieved when it was cut down by the proprietors themselves. I would that our farmers when they cut down a forest felt some of that awe which the old Romans did when they came to thin, or let in the light to, a consecrated grove (lucum conlucare), that is, would believe that it is sacred to some god. The Roman made an expiatory offering, and prayed, Whatever god or goddess thou art to whom this grove is sacred, be propitious to me, my family, and children, &c.

Gilpin, in his account of people living along England’s forest borders, describes “the intrusion of trespassers, and the houses and fences they built along the forest’s edges.” These were “considered serious nuisances under the old forest law, and severely punished under the name of purprestures. They were seen as tending ad terrorem ferarum, ad nocumentum forestæ, etc.” That is, they frightened the game and harmed the forest. But I cared more about preserving the deer and the forest’s greenery than the hunters or woodcutters did. I cared as much as if I had been the Lord Warden himself. And if any part of the forest burned, even if I had accidentally burned it myself, I grieved. My grief lasted longer and was harder to comfort than the owners’ grief. Indeed, I grieved when the owners themselves cut down the forest. I wish our farmers felt some of the ancient Romans’ awe when cutting down a forest. The Romans felt this awe when thinning a sacred grove, or letting light into it (lucum conlucare). I wish, in other words, that our farmers believed the forest was sacred to some god. The Roman made an offering to seek forgiveness and prayed: Whatever god or goddess you are, to whom this grove is sacred, look kindly on me, my family, and children, etc.

It is remarkable what a value is still put upon wood even in this age and in this new country, a value more permanent and universal than that of gold. After all our discoveries and inventions no man will go by a pile of wood. It is as precious to us as it was to our Saxon and Norman ancestors. If they made their bows of it, we make our gun-stocks of it. Michaux, more than thirty years ago, says that the price of wood for fuel in New York and Philadelphia “nearly equals, and sometimes exceeds, that of the best wood in Paris, though this immense capital annually requires more than three hundred thousand cords, and is surrounded to the distance of three hundred miles by cultivated plains.” In this town the price of wood rises almost steadily, and the only question is, how much higher it is to be this year than it was the last. Mechanics and tradesmen who come in person to the forest on no other errand, are sure to attend the wood auction, and even pay a high price for the privilege of gleaning after the woodchopper. It is now many years that men have resorted to the forest for fuel and the materials of the arts; the New Englander and the New Hollander, the Parisian and the Celt, the farmer and Robinhood, Goody Blake and Harry Gill, in most parts of the world the prince and the peasant, the scholar and the savage, equally require still a few sticks from the forest to warm them and cook their food. Neither could I do without them.

It is remarkable how highly wood is still valued, even in this age and in this new country. Its value is more lasting and universal than gold’s. Despite all our discoveries and inventions, no one will pass a pile of wood without taking notice. Wood is as precious to us as it was to our Saxon and Norman ancestors. If they made their bows from wood, we make our gunstocks from it. More than thirty years ago, Michaux wrote that firewood prices in New York and Philadelphia “nearly equal, and sometimes exceed, the price of the best wood in Paris. Yet that immense capital needs more than three hundred thousand cords each year. Cultivated plains surround Paris for three hundred miles.” In this town, the price of wood rises almost steadily. The only question is how much higher the price will be this year than last. Craftsmen and tradesmen make trips to the forest just to attend the wood auction. They even pay high prices for the right to gather what the woodchopper leaves behind. For many years now, people have gone to the forest for fuel and materials for their crafts. The New Englander and the New Hollander, the Parisian and the Celt, the farmer and Robinhood all still need wood. So do Goody Blake and Harry Gill. In most parts of the world, the prince and the peasant, the scholar and the savage share the same need. All alike still require a few sticks from the forest to warm themselves and cook their food. I could not do without those sticks either.

Every man looks at his wood-pile with a kind of affection. I love to have mine before my window, and the more chips the better to remind me of my pleasing work. I had an old axe which nobody claimed, with which by spells in winter days, on the sunny side of the house, I played about the stumps which I had got out of my bean-field. As my driver prophesied when I was ploughing, they warmed me twice, once while I was splitting them, and again when they were on the fire, so that no fuel could give out more heat. As for the axe, I was advised to get the village blacksmith to “jump” it; but I jumped him, and, putting a hickory helve from the woods into it, made it do. If it was dull, it was at least hung true.

Every man looks at his woodpile with a kind of affection. I love having mine outside my window. The more chips, the better, to remind me of my enjoyable work. I had an old axe nobody claimed. On winter days, I sometimes used it to play around with stumps on the sunny side of the house. I had dug the stumps out of my bean field. As my driver predicted while I was plowing, the stumps warmed me twice. Once while I split them, and again when they burned, so no fuel could give off more heat. As for the axe, someone advised me to have the village blacksmith “jump” it, or give it a new steel edge. But I skipped the blacksmith instead. I fitted the axe with a hickory handle from the woods and made do. If the axe was dull, at least its head was mounted straight.

A few pieces of fat pine were a great treasure. It is interesting to remember how much of this food for fire is still concealed in the bowels of the earth. In previous years I had often gone “prospecting” over some bare hill-side, where a pitch-pine wood had formerly stood, and got out the fat pine roots. They are almost indestructible. Stumps thirty or forty years old, at least, will still be sound at the core, though the sapwood has all become vegetable mould, as appears by the scales of the thick bark forming a ring level with the earth four or five inches distant from the heart. With axe and shovel you explore this mine, and follow the marrowy store, yellow as beef tallow, or as if you had struck on a vein of gold, deep into the earth. But commonly I kindled my fire with the dry leaves of the forest, which I had stored up in my shed before the snow came. Green hickory finely split makes the woodchopper’s kindlings, when he has a camp in the woods. Once in a while I got a little of this. When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I was awake.—

A few pieces of resin-rich pine were a great treasure. It is interesting to remember how much of this food for fire still lies hidden deep in the earth. In earlier years, I had often gone “prospecting” on a bare hillside where a pitch-pine forest once stood. There I dug out the resin-rich pine roots. These roots are almost indestructible. Stumps at least thirty or forty years old will still have solid cores, though all the sapwood has become soil. The thick bark shows where the sapwood once was. Its flakes form a ring level with the ground, four or five inches from the core. With an axe and shovel, you explore this mine, following the rich, marrow-like store deep into the earth. The resin-rich wood is yellow as beef tallow, and you dig as if you had struck a vein of gold. But I usually started my fire with dry forest leaves, stored in my shed before the snow came. Freshly cut hickory, split into thin pieces, serves as kindling for a woodchopper camping in the woods. Once in a while, I got a little of this hickory. When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too announced that I was awake. A trail of smoke from my chimney carried the news to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale.

Hard green wood just cut, though I used but little of that, answered my purpose better than any other. I sometimes left a good fire when I went to take a walk in a winter afternoon; and when I returned, three or four hours afterward, it would be still alive and glowing. My house was not empty though I was gone. It was as if I had left a cheerful housekeeper behind. It was I and Fire that lived there; and commonly my housekeeper proved trustworthy. One day, however, as I was splitting wood, I thought that I would just look in at the window and see if the house was not on fire; it was the only time I remember to have been particularly anxious on this score; so I looked and saw that a spark had caught my bed, and I went in and extinguished it when it had burned a place as big as my hand. But my house occupied so sunny and sheltered a position, and its roof was so low, that I could afford to let the fire go out in the middle of almost any winter day.

Freshly cut green hardwood served my purpose better than any other wood, though I used very little of it. Sometimes I left a good fire burning when I went for a walk on a winter afternoon. When I returned three or four hours later, the fire would still be alive and glowing. My house was not empty even when I was gone. It was as if I had left a cheerful housekeeper behind. Fire and I lived there together, and my housekeeper usually proved trustworthy. One day, however, while splitting wood, I thought I would look through the window to check whether the house was on fire. That was the only time I remember being particularly worried about a fire in the house. So I looked and saw that a spark had set my bed on fire. I went inside and put out the fire after it had burned an area as big as my hand. But my house stood in such a sunny, sheltered spot, and its roof was so low, that I could let the fire go out around midday on almost any winter day.

The moles nested in my cellar, nibbling every third potato, and making a snug bed even there of some hair left after plastering and of brown paper; for even the wildest animals love comfort and warmth as well as man, and they survive the winter only because they are so careful to secure them. Some of my friends spoke as if I was coming to the woods on purpose to freeze myself. The animal merely makes a bed, which he warms with his body, in a sheltered place; but man, having discovered fire, boxes up some air in a spacious apartment, and warms that, instead of robbing himself, makes that his bed, in which he can move about divested of more cumbrous clothing, maintain a kind of summer in the midst of winter, and by means of windows even admit the light, and with a lamp lengthen out the day. Thus he goes a step or two beyond instinct, and saves a little time for the fine arts. Though, when I had been exposed to the rudest blasts a long time, my whole body began to grow torpid, when I reached the genial atmosphere of my house I soon recovered my faculties and prolonged my life. But the most luxuriously housed has little to boast of in this respect, nor need we trouble ourselves to speculate how the human race may be at last destroyed. It would be easy to cut their threads any time with a little sharper blast from the north. We go on dating from Cold Fridays and Great Snows; but a little colder Friday, or greater snow, would put a period to man’s existence on the globe.

The moles nested in my cellar, nibbling every third potato. Even there, they made a snug bed from brown paper and some hair left over from plastering. For even the wildest animals love comfort and warmth as much as people do. They survive the winter only because they take such care to secure both. Some of my friends spoke as if I were going to the woods on purpose to freeze myself. An animal simply makes a bed in a sheltered place and warms the bed with its body. But people, having discovered fire, enclose some air in a spacious room and warm the air. Instead of drawing on their own body heat, they make the warm room their bed. There they can move around without bulky clothing and maintain a kind of summer in the middle of winter. Through windows they can even let in daylight, and with a lamp they can lengthen the day. In this way, people go a step or two beyond instinct and save a little time for the fine arts. Although long exposure to the harshest winds left my whole body numb and sluggish, my house's welcoming warmth soon revived me. I regained my senses and extended my life. But even people in the most luxurious homes have little to boast about in this respect. Nor need we trouble ourselves by wondering how the human race may finally be destroyed. A slightly harsher blast from the north could easily cut the threads of their lives at any time. We go on marking time by Cold Fridays and Great Snows. But a slightly colder Friday, or a greater snowfall, would end human existence on the globe.

The next winter I used a small cooking-stove for economy, since I did not own the forest; but it did not keep fire so well as the open fire-place. Cooking was then, for the most part, no longer a poetic, but merely a chemic process. It will soon be forgotten, in these days of stoves, that we used to roast potatoes in the ashes, after the Indian fashion. The stove not only took up room and scented the house, but it concealed the fire, and I felt as if I had lost a companion. You can always see a face in the fire. The laborer, looking into it at evening, purifies his thoughts of the dross and earthiness which they have accumulated during the day. But I could no longer sit and look into the fire, and the pertinent words of a poet recurred to me with new force.—

The next winter I used a small cooking stove to save money, since I did not own the forest. But the stove did not keep a fire burning as well as the open fireplace. Cooking was then, for the most part, no longer poetic but merely a chemical process. In these days of stoves, people will soon forget how we used to roast potatoes in the ashes, following Native American custom. The stove not only took up room and filled the house with smells, but also hid the fire. I felt as if I had lost a companion. You can always see a face in the fire. A laborer looking into the fire in the evening clears his thoughts of the impurities and earthiness gathered during the day. But I could no longer sit and look into the fire. And a poet’s fitting words came back to me with new force: