Spring

The opening of large tracts by the ice-cutters commonly causes a pond to break up earlier; for the water, agitated by the wind, even in cold weather, wears away the surrounding ice. But such was not the effect on Walden that year, for she had soon got a thick new garment to take the place of the old. This pond never breaks up so soon as the others in this neighborhood, on account both of its greater depth and its having no stream passing through it to melt or wear away the ice. I never knew it to open in the course of a winter, not excepting that of ’52–3, which gave the ponds so severe a trial. It commonly opens about the first of April, a week or ten days later than Flint’s Pond and Fair-Haven, beginning to melt on the north side and in the shallower parts where it began to freeze. It indicates better than any water hereabouts the absolute progress of the season, being least affected by transient changes of temperature. A severe cold of a few days’ duration in March may very much retard the opening of the former ponds, while the temperature of Walden increases almost uninterruptedly. A thermometer thrust into the middle of Walden on the 6th of March, 1847, stood at 32°, or freezing point; near the shore at 33°; in the middle of Flint’s Pond, the same day, at 32½°; at a dozen rods from the shore, in shallow water, under ice a foot thick, at 36°. This difference of three and a half degrees between the temperature of the deep water and the shallow in the latter pond, and the fact that a great proportion of it is comparatively shallow, show why it should break up so much sooner than Walden. The ice in the shallowest part was at this time several inches thinner than in the middle. In mid-winter the middle had been the warmest and the ice thinnest there. So, also, every one who has waded about the shores of the pond in summer must have perceived how much warmer the water is close to the shore, where only three or four inches deep, than a little distance out, and on the surface where it is deep, than near the bottom. In spring the sun not only exerts an influence through the increased temperature of the air and earth, but its heat passes through ice a foot or more thick, and is reflected from the bottom in shallow water, and so also warms the water and melts the under side of the ice, at the same time that it is melting it more directly above, making it uneven, and causing the air bubbles which it contains to extend themselves upward and downward until it is completely honeycombed, and at last disappears suddenly in a single spring rain. Ice has its grain as well as wood, and when a cake begins to rot or “comb,” that is, assume the appearance of honey-comb, whatever may be its position, the air cells are at right angles with what was the water surface. Where there is a rock or a log rising near to the surface the ice over it is much thinner, and is frequently quite dissolved by this reflected heat; and I have been told that in the experiment at Cambridge to freeze water in a shallow wooden pond, though the cold air circulated underneath, and so had access to both sides, the reflection of the sun from the bottom more than counterbalanced this advantage. When a warm rain in the middle of the winter melts off the snow-ice from Walden, and leaves a hard dark or transparent ice on the middle, there will be a strip of rotten though thicker white ice, a rod or more wide, about the shores, created by this reflected heat. Also, as I have said, the bubbles themselves within the ice operate as burning-glasses to melt the ice beneath.

When ice-cutters open large areas of a pond, the remaining ice usually breaks up earlier. Even in cold weather, wind stirs the exposed water, wearing away the surrounding ice. But Walden did not respond that way that year. She soon put on a thick new garment of ice to replace the old one. Walden never breaks up as early as the other ponds nearby. This is partly because Walden is deeper and partly because no stream flows through it to melt or wear away the ice. I have never known Walden to open during winter, not even during the winter of 1852 to 1853. That winter put the ponds to a severe test. Walden usually opens around April 1, a week or ten days later than Flint’s Pond and Fair-Haven. The ice begins melting on the north side and in the shallower areas, where freezing first began. Walden shows the season’s steady progress better than any other body of water nearby. Short-lived temperature changes affect it least. A few days of severe cold in March may greatly delay the opening of Flint’s Pond and Fair-Haven. Meanwhile, Walden’s temperature rises almost without interruption. On March 6, 1847, a thermometer placed in the middle of Walden read 32°, the freezing point. Near the shore, the reading was 33°. In the middle of Flint’s Pond that same day, the temperature was 32½°. About twelve rods from shore, in shallow water beneath a foot of ice, the reading was 36°. The shallow water in Flint’s Pond was thus three and a half degrees warmer than the deep water. Much of Flint’s Pond is relatively shallow. Together, these facts explain why its ice should break up so much sooner than Walden’s. At that time, the ice in the shallowest area was several inches thinner than in the middle. In midwinter, the middle had been warmest, with the thinnest ice. Likewise, anyone who has waded along the pond’s shores in summer must have noticed how much warmer the shoreline water is. There, the water is only three or four inches deep, and much warmer than a little farther out. In deep areas, too, the surface water is much warmer than the water near the bottom. In spring, the sun does more than warm the air and earth. Its heat passes through ice a foot or more thick and reflects off the bottom in shallow water. This reflected heat also warms the water and melts the underside of the ice. At the same time, the sun melts the ice more directly from above. This melting makes the ice uneven and causes the trapped air bubbles to extend upward and downward. Eventually, the ice becomes completely honeycombed and suddenly disappears in a single spring rain. Ice has a grain, just as wood does. When a block of ice begins to decay or “comb,” it takes on the appearance of a honeycomb. Whatever the block’s position, its air cells run at right angles to what was once the water’s surface. Where a rock or log rises near the surface, the ice above is much thinner. The reflected heat often melts that ice completely. I have been told of an experiment at Cambridge to freeze water in a shallow wooden pond. Cold air circulated underneath, allowing the cold to reach both sides. Yet sunlight reflected from the bottom more than canceled out that advantage. Sometimes a warm rain in midwinter melts the snow-ice off Walden, leaving hard, dark or transparent ice in the middle. When this happens, a strip of decaying white ice remains along the shores, a rod or more wide. Although thicker, this white ice has been weakened by the reflected heat. Also, as I have said, the bubbles inside the ice act like magnifying glasses, melting the ice beneath them.

The phenomena of the year take place every day in a pond on a small scale. Every morning, generally speaking, the shallow water is being warmed more rapidly than the deep, though it may not be made so warm after all, and every evening it is being cooled more rapidly until the morning. The day is an epitome of the year. The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer. The cracking and booming of the ice indicate a change of temperature. One pleasant morning after a cold night, February 24th, 1850, having gone to Flint’s Pond to spend the day, I noticed with surprise, that when I struck the ice with the head of my axe, it resounded like a gong for many rods around, or as if I had struck on a tight drum-head. The pond began to boom about an hour after sunrise, when it felt the influence of the sun’s rays slanted upon it from over the hills; it stretched itself and yawned like a waking man with a gradually increasing tumult, which was kept up three or four hours. It took a short siesta at noon, and boomed once more toward night, as the sun was withdrawing his influence. In the right stage of the weather a pond fires its evening gun with great regularity. But in the middle of the day, being full of cracks, and the air also being less elastic, it had completely lost its resonance, and probably fishes and muskrats could not then have been stunned by a blow on it. The fishermen say that the “thundering of the pond” scares the fishes and prevents their biting. The pond does not thunder every evening, and I cannot tell surely when to expect its thundering; but though I may perceive no difference in the weather, it does. Who would have suspected so large and cold and thick-skinned a thing to be so sensitive? Yet it has its law to which it thunders obedience when it should as surely as the buds expand in the spring. The earth is all alive and covered with papillæ. The largest pond is as sensitive to atmospheric changes as the globule of mercury in its tube.

The changes of the year happen every day on a small scale in a pond. Generally, shallow water warms faster than deep water each morning, though it may not end up as warm. Each evening, shallow water cools faster, and continues cooling faster until morning. The day is the year in miniature. Night is winter, morning and evening are spring and fall, and noon is summer. The cracking and booming of the ice signal a change in temperature. On February 24th, 1850, a pleasant morning after a cold night, I went to Flint’s Pond to spend the day. I was surprised when I struck the ice with the head of my axe. The ice rang like a gong for many yards around, or as if I had struck a tightly stretched drumhead. The pond began to boom about an hour after sunrise. It felt the sun’s rays falling at an angle over the hills. The pond stretched and yawned like a waking man, making a growing uproar that lasted three or four hours. It took a short nap at noon, then boomed again toward night as the sun withdrew its influence. In the right weather conditions, a pond fires its evening gun with great regularity. But by midday, the ice was full of cracks, and the air was also less elastic. The ice had completely lost its ability to ring. Probably, a blow on the ice could no longer have stunned fish and muskrats. The fishermen say the “thundering of the pond” scares the fish and keeps them from biting. The pond does not thunder every evening, and I cannot say for sure when to expect the thunder. But although I may notice no difference in the weather, the pond does. Who would have suspected that something so large, cold, and thick-skinned could be so sensitive? Yet the pond follows its own law, thundering in obedience at the proper time, as surely as buds open in spring. The earth is all alive and covered with tiny, sensitive projections. The largest pond is as sensitive to changes in the atmosphere as the drop of mercury in a thermometer’s tube.

One attraction in coming to the woods to live was that I should have leisure and opportunity to see the spring come in. The ice in the pond at length begins to be honey-combed, and I can set my heel in it as I walk. Fogs and rains and warmer suns are gradually melting the snow; the days have grown sensibly longer; and I see how I shall get through the winter without adding to my wood-pile, for large fires are no longer necessary. I am on the alert for the first signs of spring, to hear the chance note of some arriving bird, or the striped squirrel’s chirp, for his stores must be now nearly exhausted, or see the woodchuck venture out of his winter quarters. On the 13th of March, after I had heard the bluebird, song-sparrow, and red-wing, the ice was still nearly a foot thick. As the weather grew warmer it was not sensibly worn away by the water, nor broken up and floated off as in rivers, but, though it was completely melted for half a rod in width about the shore, the middle was merely honey-combed and saturated with water, so that you could put your foot through it when six inches thick; but by the next day evening, perhaps, after a warm rain followed by fog, it would have wholly disappeared, all gone off with the fog, spirited away. One year I went across the middle only five days before it disappeared entirely. In 1845 Walden was first completely open on the 1st of April; in ’46, the 25th of March; in ’47, the 8th of April; in ’51, the 28th of March; in ’52, the 18th of April; in ’53, the 23d of March; in ’54, about the 7th of April.

One attraction of moving to the woods was having the time and opportunity to watch spring arrive. The pond ice finally begins to fill with honeycomb-like holes, and my heel sinks into it as I walk. Fog, rain, and warmer sunshine are gradually melting the snow. The days have grown noticeably longer. And I can see how I will get through the winter without adding to my woodpile. Large fires are no longer necessary. I am watching and listening for the first signs of spring. I hope to hear a stray note from some arriving bird or the striped squirrel’s chirp. His stored food must now be nearly exhausted. Or I may see the woodchuck venture out of his winter shelter. On March 13, after I had heard the bluebird, song-sparrow, and red-wing, the ice was still nearly a foot thick. As the weather warmed, the water did not noticeably wear away the ice. Nor did the ice break up and float away as river ice does. Although the ice had melted completely for about eight feet out from shore, the middle was only honeycombed and waterlogged. You could put your foot through the ice even when it was six inches thick. But perhaps by the following evening, after warm rain followed by fog, the ice would have disappeared entirely. All of it would have vanished with the fog, as if spirited away. One year I crossed the middle only five days before the ice disappeared entirely. In 1845, Walden was first completely free of ice on April 1. In 1846, the date was March 25. In 1847, April 8. In 1851, March 28. In 1852, April 18. In 1853, March 23. In 1854, about April 7.

Every incident connected with the breaking up of the rivers and ponds and the settling of the weather is particularly interesting to us who live in a climate of so great extremes. When the warmer days come, they who dwell near the river hear the ice crack at night with a startling whoop as loud as artillery, as if its icy fetters were rent from end to end, and within a few days see it rapidly going out. So the alligator comes out of the mud with quakings of the earth. One old man, who has been a close observer of Nature, and seems as thoroughly wise in regard to all her operations as if she had been put upon the stocks when he was a boy, and he had helped to lay her keel,—who has come to his growth, and can hardly acquire more of natural lore if he should live to the age of Methuselah,—told me, and I was surprised to hear him express wonder at any of Nature’s operations, for I thought that there were no secrets between them, that one spring day he took his gun and boat, and thought that he would have a little sport with the ducks. There was ice still on the meadows, but it was all gone out of the river, and he dropped down without obstruction from Sudbury, where he lived, to Fair-Haven Pond, which he found, unexpectedly, covered for the most part with a firm field of ice. It was a warm day, and he was surprised to see so great a body of ice remaining. Not seeing any ducks, he hid his boat on the north or back side of an island in the pond, and then concealed himself in the bushes on the south side, to await them. The ice was melted for three or four rods from the shore, and there was a smooth and warm sheet of water, with a muddy bottom, such as the ducks love, within, and he thought it likely that some would be along pretty soon. After he had lain still there about an hour he heard a low and seemingly very distant sound, but singularly grand and impressive, unlike any thing he had ever heard, gradually swelling and increasing as if it would have a universal and memorable ending, a sullen rush and roar, which seemed to him all at once like the sound of a vast body of fowl coming in to settle there, and, seizing his gun, he started up in haste and excited; but he found, to his surprise, that the whole body of the ice had started while he lay there, and drifted in to the shore, and the sound he had heard was made by its edge grating on the shore,—at first gently nibbled and crumbled off, but at length heaving up and scattering its wrecks along the island to a considerable height before it came to a stand still.

Every event connected with rivers and ponds thawing and the weather becoming settled is especially interesting to us. We live in a climate of such great extremes. When warmer days arrive, people living near the river hear the ice crack at night. The cracks make a startling whoop as loud as artillery, as if the river’s icy chains were breaking from end to end. Within a few days, these people see the ice rapidly clearing out. In the same way, the alligator emerges from the mud with tremors of the earth. One old man told me a story. He had closely observed Nature and seemed thoroughly familiar with all her workings. It was as if Nature were a ship begun when he was a boy, and he had helped lay her keel. His knowledge had fully matured. He could hardly learn more about Nature even if he lived to the age of Methuselah. I was surprised to hear him express wonder at anything Nature did. I had thought there were no secrets between them. One spring day, he told me, he took his gun and boat, thinking he would do a little duck hunting. Ice still covered the meadows, but the river was entirely clear. He drifted downstream without obstruction from Sudbury, where he lived, to Fair-Haven Pond. To his surprise, most of the pond was covered with a solid sheet of ice. The day was warm, and he was surprised that so much ice remained. Seeing no ducks, he hid his boat on the north, or back, side of an island in the pond. Then he hid in the bushes on the south side to wait for ducks. The ice had melted for three or four rods, about fifty to sixty-six feet, out from shore. Between the shore and the ice lay smooth, warm water over a muddy bottom, just as ducks like. He thought some ducks would probably come along soon. After lying still for about an hour, he heard a low sound that seemed very distant. Yet the sound was strangely grand and impressive, unlike anything he had ever heard. It gradually swelled and grew, as if building toward an ending that would affect everything and be remembered. The sound was a deep, ominous rush and roar. Suddenly, he thought it sounded like a vast flock of birds coming in to land. He seized his gun and sprang up, hurried and excited. But to his surprise, the entire sheet of ice had begun moving while he lay there and had drifted ashore. The sound came from its edge scraping against the shore. At first, the edge had been gently chipped and crumbled away. But finally, the ice had heaved upward, scattering broken pieces to a considerable height along the island before coming to rest.

At length the sun’s rays have attained the right angle, and warm winds blow up mist and rain and melt the snow banks, and the sun dispersing the mist smiles on a checkered landscape of russet and white smoking with incense, through which the traveller picks his way from islet to islet, cheered by the music of a thousand tinkling rills and rivulets whose veins are filled with the blood of winter which they are bearing off.

At last, the sun’s rays strike at the right angle. Warm winds bring mist and rain and melt the snowbanks. The sun clears away the mist and smiles on a patchwork of reddish-brown and white, steaming like incense. Through this landscape, the traveler picks a path from one small island to another. The traveler is cheered by the music of a thousand tinkling streams and brooks. Their veins are full of winter’s blood, which the streams carry away.

Few phenomena gave me more delight than to observe the forms which thawing sand and clay assume in flowing down the sides of a deep cut on the railroad through which I passed on my way to the village, a phenomenon not very common on so large a scale, though the number of freshly exposed banks of the right material must have been greatly multiplied since railroads were invented. The material was sand of every degree of fineness and of various rich colors, commonly mixed with a little clay. When the frost comes out in the spring, and even in a thawing day in the winter, the sand begins to flow down the slopes like lava, sometimes bursting out through the snow and overflowing it where no sand was to be seen before. Innumerable little streams overlap and interlace one with another, exhibiting a sort of hybrid product, which obeys half way the law of currents, and half way that of vegetation. As it flows it takes the forms of sappy leaves or vines, making heaps of pulpy sprays a foot or more in depth, and resembling, as you look down on them, the laciniated, lobed, and imbricated thalluses of some lichens; or you are reminded of coral, of leopard’s paws or birds’ feet, of brains or lungs or bowels, and excrements of all kinds. It is a truly grotesque vegetation, whose forms and color we see imitated in bronze, a sort of architectural foliage more ancient and typical than acanthus, chiccory, ivy, vine, or any vegetable leaves; destined perhaps, under some circumstances, to become a puzzle to future geologists. The whole cut impressed me as if it were a cave with its stalactites laid open to the light. The various shades of the sand are singularly rich and agreeable, embracing the different iron colors, brown, gray, yellowish, and reddish. When the flowing mass reaches the drain at the foot of the bank it spreads out flatter into strands, the separate streams losing their semi-cylindrical form and gradually becoming more flat and broad, running together as they are more moist, till they form an almost flat sand, still variously and beautifully shaded, but in which you can trace the original forms of vegetation; till at length, in the water itself, they are converted into banks, like those formed off the mouths of rivers, and the forms of vegetation are lost in the ripple marks on the bottom.

Few sights delighted me more than the shapes that thawing sand and clay formed while flowing down a railroad cutting. I passed through this deep cutting on my way to the village. Such a sight is uncommon on so large a scale. Yet railroads must have greatly increased the number of freshly exposed banks made of the right material. The sand ranged from fine to coarse and came in various rich colors, usually mixed with a little clay. When the ground thaws in spring, the sand begins to flow down the slopes like lava. The same happens even on a thawing winter day. Sometimes the sand bursts through the snow and spreads over places where no sand was visible before. Countless little streams overlap and weave together, producing a kind of hybrid form. Their shapes follow partly the laws of flowing water and partly those of plant growth. As the sand flows, it takes the shapes of fleshy leaves or vines. These form heaps of soft, branching sprays a foot or more deep. Seen from above, the heaps resemble the deeply cut, lobed, overlapping bodies of some lichens. Or they remind you of coral, leopard’s paws or birds’ feet, brains or lungs or intestines, and excrement of all kinds. This is truly grotesque plant life, with shapes and colors we see imitated in bronze. It is a kind of architectural foliage, more ancient and more fundamental than acanthus, chicory, ivy, grapevine, or any plant leaves. Perhaps, under some circumstances, these forms are destined to puzzle future geologists. The whole cutting struck me as a cave with its stalactites exposed to the light. The sand’s varied shades are unusually rich and pleasing. They include the different colors of iron: brown, gray, yellowish, and reddish. When the flowing sand reaches the drain at the bank’s foot, it spreads into flatter strands. The separate streams lose their half-cylindrical shape and gradually grow flatter and wider. As the streams become wetter, they merge until they form an almost flat sand. This sandy stretch still has varied, beautiful shades, and you can trace the original plant forms in it. Finally, in the water itself, the streams become banks, like those that form off river mouths. There, the plant forms disappear into the ripple marks on the bottom.

The whole bank, which is from twenty to forty feet high, is sometimes overlaid with a mass of this kind of foliage, or sandy rupture, for a quarter of a mile on one or both sides, the produce of one spring day. What makes this sand foliage remarkable is its springing into existence thus suddenly. When I see on the one side the inert bank,—for the sun acts on one side first,—and on the other this luxuriant foliage, the creation of an hour, I am affected as if in a peculiar sense I stood in the laboratory of the Artist who made the world and me,—had come to where he was still at work, sporting on this bank, and with excess of energy strewing his fresh designs about. I feel as if I were nearer to the vitals of the globe, for this sandy overflow is something such a foliaceous mass as the vitals of the animal body. You find thus in the very sands an anticipation of the vegetable leaf. No wonder that the earth expresses itself outwardly in leaves, it so labors with the idea inwardly. The atoms have already learned this law, and are pregnant by it. The overhanging leaf sees here its prototype. Internally, whether in the globe or animal body, it is a moist thick lobe, a word especially applicable to the liver and lungs and the leaves of fat, (λείβω, labor, lapsus, to flow or slip downward, a lapsing; λοβος, globus, lobe, globe; also lap, flap, and many other words,) externally a dry thin leaf, even as the f and v are a pressed and dried b. The radicals of lobe are lb, the soft mass of the b (single lobed, or B, double lobed,) with the liquid l behind it pressing it forward. In globe, glb, the guttural g adds to the meaning the capacity of the throat. The feathers and wings of birds are still drier and thinner leaves. Thus, also, you pass from the lumpish grub in the earth to the airy and fluttering butterfly. The very globe continually transcends and translates itself, and becomes winged in its orbit. Even ice begins with delicate crystal leaves, as if it had flowed into moulds which the fronds of water plants have impressed on the watery mirror. The whole tree itself is but one leaf, and rivers are still vaster leaves whose pulp is intervening earth, and towns and cities are the ova of insects in their axils.

The whole bank is twenty to forty feet high. Sometimes this leaflike mass, or burst of sand, covers a quarter mile of the bank on one or both sides. All of it forms in a single spring day. What makes this sandy foliage remarkable is how suddenly it appears. I see the lifeless bank on one side, since the sun reaches one side first. On the other side, I see this lush foliage, created in an hour. I feel as if, in a special sense, I stood in the workshop of the Artist who made the world and me. It is as if I had found him still at work, playing on this bank. With overflowing energy, he scatters his fresh designs around him. I feel as if I were closer to the earth’s vital organs. This overflow of sand forms a leaflike mass resembling the vital organs of an animal’s body. So even in the sand, you find a form that anticipates the plant leaf. No wonder the earth expresses itself outwardly in leaves, when it works so hard on the idea within. The atoms have already learned this law and are pregnant with it. The leaf hanging overhead finds its original model here. Internally, whether in the earth or an animal’s body, this form is a moist, thick lobe. That word applies especially to the liver, lungs, and leaves of fat. (Related words include λείβω, labor, lapsus, meaning to flow or slip downward, a slipping. There are also λοβος, globus, lobe, globe, along with lap, flap, and many other words.) Externally, the form is a dry, thin leaf, just as f and v are a pressed and dried b. The root letters of lobe are lb. The b forms a soft mass, with one lobe, or two lobes in B. Behind that mass, the flowing l presses it forward. In globe, glb, the throaty g adds the sense of the throat’s capacity. Birds’ feathers and wings are still drier and thinner leaves. In the same way, you move from the lumpy grub underground to the light, fluttering butterfly. The globe itself continually goes beyond its own form, transforming itself and becoming winged in its orbit. Even ice begins with delicate crystal leaves. It is as if the ice had flowed into molds left by water-plant fronds on the water’s mirror. The whole tree itself is only one leaf. Rivers are still larger leaves, with the earth between them as their pulp. Towns and cities are insect eggs in the angles where these leaves meet their stems.

When the sun withdraws the sand ceases to flow, but in the morning the streams will start once more and branch and branch again into a myriad of others. You here see perchance how blood vessels are formed. If you look closely you observe that first there pushes forward from the thawing mass a stream of softened sand with a drop-like point, like the ball of the finger, feeling its way slowly and blindly downward, until at last with more heat and moisture, as the sun gets higher, the most fluid portion, in its effort to obey the law to which the most inert also yields, separates from the latter and forms for itself a meandering channel or artery within that, in which is seen a little silvery stream glancing like lightning from one stage of pulpy leaves or branches to another, and ever and anon swallowed up in the sand. It is wonderful how rapidly yet perfectly the sand organizes itself as it flows, using the best material its mass affords to form the sharp edges of its channel. Such are the sources of rivers. In the silicious matter which the water deposits is perhaps the bony system, and in the still finer soil and organic matter the fleshy fibre or cellular tissue. What is man but a mass of thawing clay? The ball of the human finger is but a drop congealed. The fingers and toes flow to their extent from the thawing mass of the body. Who knows what the human body would expand and flow out to under a more genial heaven? Is not the hand a spreading palm leaf with its lobes and veins? The ear may be regarded, fancifully, as a lichen, umbilicaria, on the side of the head, with its lobe or drop. The lip—labium, from labor (?)—laps or lapses from the sides of the cavernous mouth. The nose is a manifest congealed drop or stalactite. The chin is a still larger drop, the confluent dripping of the face. The cheeks are a slide from the brows into the valley of the face, opposed and diffused by the cheek bones. Each rounded lobe of the vegetable leaf, too, is a thick and now loitering drop, larger or smaller; the lobes are the fingers of the leaf; and as many lobes as it has, in so many directions it tends to flow, and more heat or other genial influences would have caused it to flow yet farther.

When the sun retreats, the sand stops flowing. But in the morning, the streams will start again, branching and branching into countless others. Here you may perhaps see how blood vessels form. If you look closely, you first see a stream of softened sand pushing out from the thawing mass. Its tip is rounded like a drop, like the pad of a finger, feeling its way slowly and blindly downward. As the sun rises higher, bringing more heat and moisture, the most fluid sand separates from the rest. It does so in obedience to the same law that governs even the least movable material. The fluid sand forms a winding channel or artery within the larger stream. Inside this channel, a little silvery stream flashes like lightning from one level of pulpy leaves or branches to another. Every now and then, the stream disappears into the sand. It is wonderful how quickly yet perfectly the flowing sand organizes itself. It uses the best material in its mass to form the sharp edges of its channel. Such are the sources of rivers. Perhaps the silica-rich material deposited by the water is the skeleton. And perhaps the still finer soil and organic matter are the flesh or cellular tissue. What is a human being but a mass of thawing clay? The pad of a human finger is only a hardened drop. The fingers and toes flow out to their full length from the thawing mass of the body. Who knows how far the human body would expand and flow under a more favorable sky? Isn't the hand a spreading palm leaf, with its lobes and veins? We may fancifully see the ear as a lichen, umbilicaria, on the side of the head, with its lobe or drop. The lip (labium, from labor (?)) laps or slips down from the sides of the cavernous mouth. The nose is clearly a hardened drop or stalactite. The chin is a still larger drop, formed by the face's drippings flowing together. The cheeks slide down from the brows into the valley of the face. The cheekbones resist and spread this downward flow. Each rounded lobe of a plant's leaf is also a thick drop, large or small, whose flow has now slowed. The lobes are the leaf's fingers. The leaf tends to flow in as many directions as it has lobes. More heat or other favorable influences would have caused the leaf to flow still farther.

Thus it seemed that this one hillside illustrated the principle of all the operations of Nature. The Maker of this earth but patented a leaf. What Champollion will decipher this hieroglyphic for us, that we may turn over a new leaf at last? This phenomenon is more exhilarating to me than the luxuriance and fertility of vineyards. True, it is somewhat excrementitious in its character, and there is no end to the heaps of liver lights and bowels, as if the globe were turned wrong side outward; but this suggests at least that Nature has some bowels, and there again is mother of humanity. This is the frost coming out of the ground; this is Spring. It precedes the green and flowery spring, as mythology precedes regular poetry. I know of nothing more purgative of winter fumes and indigestions. It convinces me that Earth is still in her swaddling clothes, and stretches forth baby fingers on every side. Fresh curls spring from the baldest brow. There is nothing inorganic. These foliaceous heaps lie along the bank like the slag of a furnace, showing that Nature is “in full blast” within. The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit,—not a fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic. Its throes will heave our exuviæ from their graves. You may melt your metals and cast them into the most beautiful moulds you can; they will never excite me like the forms which this molten earth flows out into. And not only it, but the institutions upon it, are plastic like clay in the hands of the potter.

So this one hillside seemed to show the principle behind all of Nature’s workings. The Maker of this earth merely patented a leaf. What Champollion will decode this hieroglyph for us, so that we may turn over a new leaf at last? This sight excites me more than the lush growth and fertility of vineyards. True, it looks somewhat like excrement. There is no end to the heaps of livers, lungs, and guts, as if the globe were turned inside out. But this suggests at least that Nature has some guts, and here again is humanity’s mother. This is the frost leaving the ground. This is Spring. It comes before the green and flowering spring, as mythology comes before formal poetry. I know of nothing better for clearing away winter’s fumes and indigestion. This sight convinces me that Earth is still wrapped in a baby’s blankets, stretching out baby fingers on every side. Fresh curls spring from the baldest forehead. Nothing is inorganic. These leaflike heaps lie along the bank like waste from a furnace, showing that Nature is “in full blast” within. The earth is not merely a piece of dead history, layer upon layer like pages in a book. It is not chiefly something for geologists and students of antiquity to study. Instead, it is living poetry, like a tree’s leaves, which come before flowers and fruit. It is not a fossil earth, but a living earth. Compared with the earth’s great central life, all animal and plant life is merely parasitic. The earth’s convulsions will thrust our cast-off remains from their graves. You may melt your metals and cast them into the most beautiful molds you can. Those shapes will never excite me like the forms this molten earth flows into. And not only the earth, but the institutions upon it, can be reshaped like clay in a potter’s hands.

Ere long, not only on these banks, but on every hill and plain and in every hollow, the frost comes out of the ground like a dormant quadruped from its burrow, and seeks the sea with music, or migrates to other climes in clouds. Thaw with his gentle persuasion is more powerful than Thor with his hammer. The one melts, the other but breaks in pieces.

Soon, frost rises from the ground, not only on these banks, but on every hill and plain and in every hollow. The frost emerges like a sleeping four-legged animal from its burrow. Then it flows toward the sea with music, or travels to other climates in clouds. Thaw, with his gentle persuasion, is more powerful than Thor with his hammer. Thaw melts, while Thor only breaks things into pieces.

When the ground was partially bare of snow, and a few warm days had dried its surface somewhat, it was pleasant to compare the first tender signs of the infant year just peeping forth with the stately beauty of the withered vegetation which had withstood the winter,—life-everlasting, golden-rods, pinweeds, and graceful wild grasses, more obvious and interesting frequently than in summer even, as if their beauty was not ripe till then; even cotton-grass, cat-tails, mulleins, johnswort, hard-hack, meadow-sweet, and other strong stemmed plants, those unexhausted granaries which entertain the earliest birds,—decent weeds, at least, which widowed Nature wears. I am particularly attracted by the arching and sheaf-like top of the wool-grass; it brings back the summer to our winter memories, and is among the forms which art loves to copy, and which, in the vegetable kingdom, have the same relation to types already in the mind of man that astronomy has. It is an antique style older than Greek or Egyptian. Many of the phenomena of Winter are suggestive of an inexpressible tenderness and fragile delicacy. We are accustomed to hear this king described as a rude and boisterous tyrant; but with the gentleness of a lover he adorns the tresses of Summer.

When the snow had partly melted, a few warm days dried the ground’s surface a little. Then it was pleasant to compare the new year’s first tender growth with the stately beauty of winter’s surviving plants. There were life-everlasting, golden-rods, pinweeds, and graceful wild grasses. These withered plants were often more noticeable and interesting than even in summer, as if their beauty only now matured. There were even cotton-grass, cat-tails, mulleins, johnswort, hard-hack, meadow-sweet, and other plants with sturdy stems. These plants were storehouses of grain, still holding food for the earliest birds. At least they made respectable mourning clothes for widowed Nature. I am especially drawn to the arching top of wool-grass, shaped like a sheaf of grain. It brings summer back to our winter memories and is one of the forms artists love to copy. In the plant world, such forms relate to patterns already in the human mind in the same way astronomy does. This is an ancient style, older than Greek or Egyptian styles. Many of Winter’s sights suggest an indescribable tenderness and fragile delicacy. We are used to hearing this king described as a rough and blustering tyrant. But with a lover’s gentleness, Winter decorates Summer’s hair.

At the approach of spring the red-squirrels got under my house, two at a time, directly under my feet as I sat reading or writing, and kept up the queerest chuckling and chirruping and vocal pirouetting and gurgling sounds that ever were heard; and when I stamped they only chirruped the louder, as if past all fear and respect in their mad pranks, defying humanity to stop them. No you don’t—chickaree—chickaree. They were wholly deaf to my arguments, or failed to perceive their force, and fell into a strain of invective that was irresistible.

As spring approached, red squirrels came under my house, two at a time. They were right beneath my feet as I sat reading or writing. They kept up the strangest chuckling, chirping, vocal twists and turns, and gurgling sounds ever heard. And when I stamped my feet, they only chirped louder. Their wild pranks seemed beyond all fear and respect, as if they dared humanity to stop them. No you don’t, chickaree, chickaree. They were completely deaf to my arguments, or failed to see their force. Then they launched into a stream of insults that was impossible to resist.

The first sparrow of spring! The year beginning with younger hope than ever! The faint silvery warblings heard over the partially bare and moist fields from the blue-bird, the song-sparrow, and the red-wing, as if the last flakes of winter tinkled as they fell! What at such a time are histories, chronologies, traditions, and all written revelations? The brooks sing carols and glees to the spring. The marsh-hawk sailing low over the meadow is already seeking the first slimy life that awakes. The sinking sound of melting snow is heard in all dells, and the ice dissolves apace in the ponds. The grass flames up on the hillsides like a spring fire,—“et primitus oritur herba imbribus primoribus evocata,”—as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame;—the symbol of perpetual youth, the grass-blade, like a long green ribbon, streams from the sod into the summer, checked indeed by the frost, but anon pushing on again, lifting its spear of last year’s hay with the fresh life below. It grows as steadily as the rill oozes out of the ground. It is almost identical with that, for in the growing days of June, when the rills are dry, the grass blades are their channels, and from year to year the herds drink at this perennial green stream, and the mower draws from it betimes their winter supply. So our human life but dies down to its root, and still puts forth its green blade to eternity.

The first sparrow of spring! The year begins with a younger hope than ever! Faint, silvery songs drift over the damp, partly bare fields from the bluebird, song sparrow, and red-winged blackbird. The songs sound as if winter’s last flakes were tinkling as they fell! At such a time, what do histories, chronologies, traditions, and all written revelations matter? The brooks sing carols and joyful songs to spring. The marsh hawk, gliding low over the meadow, is already searching for the first slimy life to awaken. In every hollow, you can hear melting snow settling, and the ice in the ponds dissolves quickly. The grass flares up on the hillsides like a spring fire. “And first the grass springs up, called forth by the earliest rains.” It is as if the earth were sending out an inner warmth to greet the returning sun. The flame’s color is not yellow but green. The blade of grass, a symbol of eternal youth, streams like a long green ribbon from the turf into summer. Frost holds it back, but soon it pushes forward again. Fresh life below lifts the spear of last year’s dried grass. The grass grows as steadily as the little stream seeps from the ground. The grass is almost the same as that stream. For during June’s growing days, when the little streams are dry, the grass blades become their channels. Year after year, the herds drink from this everlasting green stream. In due season, the mower draws their winter supply from it. So our human life only dies back to its root, and keeps sending up its green blade into eternity.

Walden is melting apace. There is a canal two rods wide along the northerly and westerly sides, and wider still at the east end. A great field of ice has cracked off from the main body. I hear a song-sparrow singing from the bushes on the shore,—olit, olit, olit,—chip, chip, chip, che char,—che wiss, wiss, wiss. He too is helping to crack it. How handsome the great sweeping curves in the edge of the ice, answering somewhat to those of the shore, but more regular! It is unusually hard, owing to the recent severe but transient cold, and all watered or waved like a palace floor. But the wind slides eastward over its opaque surface in vain, till it reaches the living surface beyond. It is glorious to behold this ribbon of water sparkling in the sun, the bare face of the pond full of glee and youth, as if it spoke the joy of the fishes within it, and of the sands on its shore,—a silvery sheen as from the scales of a leuciscus, as it were all one active fish. Such is the contrast between winter and spring. Walden was dead and is alive again. But this spring it broke up more steadily, as I have said.

Walden is melting fast. A channel of water about thirty-three feet wide runs along the northern and western sides, and widens at the eastern end. A great sheet of ice has cracked off from the main mass. I hear a song sparrow singing from the bushes on the shore: olit, olit, olit, chip, chip, chip, che char, che wiss, wiss, wiss. He too is helping to crack the ice. How beautiful the great sweeping curves along the ice’s edge are! They echo the curves of the shore somewhat, but are more regular. The ice is unusually hard because of the recent severe but brief cold. Its surface is patterned all over with ripples and waves, like a palace floor. But the wind slides eastward over the opaque ice without effect until it reaches the living water beyond. It is glorious to see this ribbon of water sparkling in the sun. The pond’s exposed face is full of joy and youth. It seems to express the joy of the fish beneath it and the sands along its shore. Its silvery sheen resembles the scales of a leuciscus, as if the whole pond were one lively fish. Such is the contrast between winter and spring. Walden was dead and is alive again. But this spring the ice broke up more steadily, as I have said.

The change from storm and winter to serene and mild weather, from dark and sluggish hours to bright and elastic ones, is a memorable crisis which all things proclaim. It is seemingly instantaneous at last. Suddenly an influx of light filled my house, though the evening was at hand, and the clouds of winter still overhung it, and the eaves were dripping with sleety rain. I looked out the window, and lo! where yesterday was cold gray ice there lay the transparent pond already calm and full of hope as in a summer evening, reflecting a summer evening sky in its bosom, though none was visible overhead, as if it had intelligence with some remote horizon. I heard a robin in the distance, the first I had heard for many a thousand years, methought, whose note I shall not forget for many a thousand more,—the same sweet and powerful song as of yore. O the evening robin, at the end of a New England summer day! If I could ever find the twig he sits upon! I mean he; I mean the twig. This at least is not the Turdus migratorius. The pitch-pines and shrub-oaks about my house, which had so long drooped, suddenly resumed their several characters, looked brighter, greener, and more erect and alive, as if effectually cleansed and restored by the rain. I knew that it would not rain any more. You may tell by looking at any twig of the forest, ay, at your very wood-pile, whether its winter is past or not. As it grew darker, I was startled by the honking of geese flying low over the woods, like weary travellers getting in late from southern lakes, and indulging at last in unrestrained complaint and mutual consolation. Standing at my door, I could hear the rush of their wings; when, driving toward my house, they suddenly spied my light, and with hushed clamor wheeled and settled in the pond. So I came in, and shut the door, and passed my first spring night in the woods.

The change from winter storms to calm, mild weather is a memorable turning point that all things announce. Dark, sluggish hours give way to bright, lively ones. When the change finally comes, it seems instantaneous. Suddenly, light flooded my house, though evening was near. Winter clouds still hung overhead, and sleety rain dripped from the eaves. I looked out the window, and there it was! Where cold gray ice had lain yesterday, the clear pond was already calm and full of hope. It looked as it would on a summer evening. The water reflected a summer evening sky, though no such sky was visible overhead. It was as if the pond were in touch with some distant horizon. I heard a robin in the distance. It seemed to me the first I had heard in many thousands of years. I would not forget its song for many thousands more. It was the same sweet, powerful song as long ago. Oh, the evening robin at the end of a New England summer day! If only I could find the twig he sits on! I mean he. I mean the twig. This, at least, is not the Turdus migratorius. The pitch-pines and shrub-oaks around my house had drooped for so long. Suddenly, each regained its own character. They looked brighter, greener, more upright, and more alive, as if the rain had thoroughly washed and restored them. I knew there would be no more rain. You can tell by looking at any forest twig whether its winter is over. Yes, even your woodpile can tell you. As darkness fell, I was startled by the honking of geese flying low over the woods. They sounded like weary travelers arriving late from southern lakes, finally complaining freely and comforting one another. Standing at my door, I could hear the rush of their wings. As they flew toward my house, they suddenly spotted my light. Their cries grew quiet as they turned and settled on the pond. So I went inside, shut the door, and spent my first spring night in the woods.

In the morning I watched the geese from the door through the mist, sailing in the middle of the pond, fifty rods off, so large and tumultuous that Walden appeared like an artificial pond for their amusement. But when I stood on the shore they at once rose up with a great flapping of wings at the signal of their commander, and when they had got into rank circled about over my head, twenty-nine of them, and then steered straight to Canada, with a regular honk from the leader at intervals, trusting to break their fast in muddier pools. A “plump” of ducks rose at the same time and took the route to the north in the wake of their noisier cousins.

In the morning I watched the geese through the mist from my doorway. They sailed in the middle of the pond, about 275 yards away. The geese were so large and noisy that Walden seemed like an artificial pond made for their amusement. But when I stood on the shore, they immediately rose at their commander's signal, with a great flapping of wings. Once in formation, all twenty-nine circled above my head and then headed straight for Canada. Their leader gave a regular honk at intervals, and the geese counted on finding breakfast in muddier pools. A “plump” of ducks rose at the same time and headed north, following their noisier cousins.

For a week I heard the circling, groping clangor of some solitary goose in the foggy mornings, seeking its companion, and still peopling the woods with the sound of a larger life than they could sustain. In April the pigeons were seen again flying express in small flocks, and in due time I heard the martins twittering over my clearing, though it had not seemed that the township contained so many that it could afford me any, and I fancied that they were peculiarly of the ancient race that dwelt in hollow trees ere white men came. In almost all climes the tortoise and the frog are among the precursors and heralds of this season, and birds fly with song and glancing plumage, and plants spring and bloom, and winds blow, to correct this slight oscillation of the poles and preserve the equilibrium of Nature.

For a week, on foggy mornings, I heard the loud cries of a lone goose circling, searching for its companion. Its cries kept filling the woods with the sound of a larger life than the woods could support. In April, pigeons appeared again, flying swiftly in small flocks. In time, I heard martins twittering over my clearing. Yet the township had not seemed to hold enough martins to spare me any. I imagined these birds belonged especially to the ancient line that lived in hollow trees before white men came. In almost all climates, the tortoise and the frog are among the first signs and messengers of this season. Birds fly with songs and flashing feathers, plants sprout and bloom, and winds blow. All these correct this slight wobble of the poles and keep Nature in balance.

As every season seems best to us in its turn, so the coming in of spring is like the creation of Cosmos out of Chaos and the realization of the Golden Age.—

Each season seems best to us in its turn. Likewise, spring’s arrival feels like Cosmos emerging from Chaos and the Golden Age becoming real.

A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten on the influx of better thoughts. We should be blessed if we lived in the present always, and took advantage of every accident that befell us, like the grass which confesses the influence of the slightest dew that falls on it; and did not spend our time in atoning for the neglect of past opportunities, which we call doing our duty. We loiter in winter while it is already spring. In a pleasant spring morning all men’s sins are forgiven. Such a day is a truce to vice. While such a sun holds out to burn, the vilest sinner may return. Through our own recovered innocence we discern the innocence of our neighbors. You may have known your neighbor yesterday for a thief, a drunkard, or a sensualist, and merely pitied or despised him, and despaired of the world; but the sun shines bright and warm this first spring morning, re-creating the world, and you meet him at some serene work, and see how his exhausted and debauched veins expand with still joy and bless the new day, feel the spring influence with the innocence of infancy, and all his faults are forgotten. There is not only an atmosphere of good will about him, but even a savor of holiness groping for expression, blindly and ineffectually perhaps, like a new-born instinct, and for a short hour the south hill-side echoes to no vulgar jest. You see some innocent fair shoots preparing to burst from his gnarled rind and try another year’s life, tender and fresh as the youngest plant. Even he has entered into the joy of his Lord. Why the jailer does not leave open his prison doors,—why the judge does not dismis his case,—why the preacher does not dismiss his congregation! It is because they do not obey the hint which God gives them, nor accept the pardon which he freely offers to all.

A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. In the same way, our prospects brighten when better thoughts flow in. We would be blessed if we always lived in the present and made the most of every chance event. We would be like grass that shows the effect of even the slightest dew. We would not spend our time making up for missed opportunities, calling that effort our duty. We linger in winter when spring has already come. On a pleasant spring morning, everyone’s sins are forgiven. Such a day brings a truce with wrongdoing. As long as such a sun keeps burning, even the worst sinner may return to goodness. Through our own renewed innocence, we recognize the innocence of our neighbors. Yesterday, you may have known your neighbor as a thief, a drunkard, or someone devoted to sensual pleasures. You may have only pitied or despised him and lost hope for the world. But the sun shines bright and warm on this first spring morning, creating the world anew. You find your neighbor quietly at work. You see his veins, worn out by excess, swell with quiet joy and welcome the new day. He feels the influence of spring with the innocence of a baby, and all his faults are forgotten. An air of goodwill surrounds him. There is even a hint of holiness struggling to express itself, perhaps blindly and ineffectively, like a newborn instinct. And for one brief hour, no crude joke echoes across the south-facing hillside. You see some beautiful, innocent shoots preparing to break through his rough bark and try another year of life. They are as tender and fresh as the youngest plant. Even he has entered into the joy of his Lord. Why doesn’t the jailer leave his prison doors open? Why doesn’t the judge dismiss his case? Why doesn’t the preacher send his congregation home? Because they do not follow the hint God gives them or accept the pardon he freely offers to all.

“A return to goodness produced each day in the tranquil and beneficent breath of the morning, causes that in respect to the love of virtue and the hatred of vice, one approaches a little the primitive nature of man, as the sprouts of the forest which has been felled. In like manner the evil which one does in the interval of a day prevents the germs of virtues which began to spring up again from developing themselves and destroys them.

“Each morning’s peaceful, refreshing air brings a return to goodness. As we love virtue and hate vice, we move a little closer to our original human nature. We are like new shoots in a forest that has been cut down. In the same way, the evil we do during the day stops the seeds of virtue from growing. Those seeds had begun to sprout again, but our evil actions destroy them.

“After the germs of virtue have thus been prevented many times from developing themselves, then the beneficent breath of evening does not suffice to preserve them. As soon as the breath of evening does not suffice longer to preserve them, then the nature of man does not differ much from that of the brute. Men seeing the nature of this man like that of the brute, think that he has never possessed the innate faculty of reason. Are those the true and natural sentiments of man?”

“After the seeds of virtue have repeatedly been kept from growing in this way, evening’s gentle breath cannot preserve them. As soon as evening’s breath can no longer preserve them, human nature differs little from an animal’s. People see that this man’s nature is like an animal’s and think he never had an inborn ability to reason. Are those feelings truly natural to human beings?”

On the 29th of April, as I was fishing from the bank of the river near the Nine-Acre-Corner bridge, standing on the quaking grass and willow roots, where the muskrats lurk, I heard a singular rattling sound, somewhat like that of the sticks which boys play with their fingers, when, looking up, I observed a very slight and graceful hawk, like a night-hawk, alternately soaring like a ripple and tumbling a rod or two over and over, showing the underside of its wings, which gleamed like a satin ribbon in the sun, or like the pearly inside of a shell. This sight reminded me of falconry and what nobleness and poetry are associated with that sport. The Merlin it seemed to me it might be called: but I care not for its name. It was the most ethereal flight I had ever witnessed. It did not simply flutter like a butterfly, nor soar like the larger hawks, but it sported with proud reliance in the fields of air; mounting again and again with its strange chuckle, it repeated its free and beautiful fall, turning over and over like a kite, and then recovering from its lofty tumbling, as if it had never set its foot on terra firma. It appeared to have no companion in the universe,—sporting there alone,—and to need none but the morning and the ether with which it played. It was not lonely, but made all the earth lonely beneath it. Where was the parent which hatched it, its kindred, and its father in the heavens? The tenant of the air, it seemed related to the earth but by an egg hatched some time in the crevice of a crag;—or was its native nest made in the angle of a cloud, woven of the rainbow’s trimmings and the sunset sky, and lined with some soft midsummer haze caught up from earth? Its eyry now some cliffy cloud.

On April 29, I was fishing from the riverbank near the Nine-Acre-Corner bridge. I stood on trembling grass and willow roots, where muskrats hide. I heard a strange rattling sound, somewhat like the sticks boys rattle between their fingers. Looking up, I saw a very slender, graceful hawk, like a nighthawk. The hawk alternated between rising like a ripple and tumbling over and over for sixteen or thirty feet. As the hawk tumbled, the undersides of its wings gleamed like a satin ribbon in the sun. They also shone like the pearly inside of a shell. The sight reminded me of falconry and the nobility and poetry associated with that sport. I thought the bird might be called the Merlin, but I did not care about its name. Its flight was the most ethereal I had ever seen. The hawk did not simply flutter like a butterfly or soar like the larger hawks. Instead, the bird played with proud confidence in the fields of air. Rising again and again with its strange chuckle, the hawk repeated its free and beautiful fall. The bird turned over and over like a kite, then recovered from its high tumbling. It was as if the hawk had never set foot on solid ground. The bird seemed to have no companion in the universe, playing there alone. The hawk seemed to need nothing but the morning and the open air with which it played. The bird was not lonely, but made all the earth beneath it seem lonely. Where was the parent that had hatched the hawk, its relatives, and its father in the heavens? This dweller in the air seemed connected to earth only through an egg once hatched in a rocky crevice. Or had its first nest been built in the corner of a cloud? Was the nest woven from scraps of rainbow and the sunset sky? Was it lined with some soft midsummer haze gathered up from earth? Now the hawk's nest was some cloud shaped like a cliff.

Beside this I got a rare mess of golden and silver and bright cupreous fishes, which looked like a string of jewels. Ah! I have penetrated to those meadows on the morning of many a first spring day, jumping from hummock to hummock, from willow root to willow root, when the wild river valley and the woods were bathed in so pure and bright a light as would have waked the dead, if they had been slumbering in their graves, as some suppose. There needs no stronger proof of immortality. All things must live in such a light. O Death, where was thy sting? O Grave, where was thy victory, then?

Besides this, I caught a fine haul of golden, silver, and bright copper-colored fish, like a string of jewels. Ah! On many an early spring morning, I have made my way into those meadows. I jumped from grassy mound to grassy mound, from willow root to willow root. The wild river valley and the woods were bathed in a light so pure and bright it would have awakened the dead, if they were sleeping in their graves, as some suppose. No stronger proof of immortality is needed. All things must live in such a light. O Death, where was your sting? O Grave, where was your victory then?

Our village life would stagnate if it were not for the unexplored forests and meadows which surround it. We need the tonic of wildness,—to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground. At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be infinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of Nature. We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor, vast and Titanic features, the sea-coast with its wrecks, the wilderness with its living and its decaying trees, the thunder cloud, and the rain which lasts three weeks and produces freshets. We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander. We are cheered when we observe the vulture feeding on the carrion which disgusts and disheartens us and deriving health and strength from the repast. There was a dead horse in the hollow by the path to my house, which compelled me sometimes to go out of my way, especially in the night when the air was heavy, but the assurance it gave me of the strong appetite and inviolable health of Nature was my compensation for this. I love to see that Nature is so rife with life that myriads can be afforded to be sacrificed and suffered to prey on one another; that tender organizations can be so serenely squashed out of existence like pulp,—tadpoles which herons gobble up, and tortoises and toads run over in the road; and that sometimes it has rained flesh and blood! With the liability to accident, we must see how little account is to be made of it. The impression made on a wise man is that of universal innocence. Poison is not poisonous after all, nor are any wounds fatal. Compassion is a very untenable ground. It must be expeditious. Its pleadings will not bear to be stereotyped.

Our village life would stagnate without the unexplored forests and meadows around it. We need the refreshing power of wildness. We need to wade sometimes through marshes where bitterns and meadow-hens hide, and hear the booming of snipe. We need to smell the rustling sedge where only some wilder, more solitary bird builds her nest. There, the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground. Even as we eagerly explore and learn everything, we need everything to remain mysterious and beyond exploration. We need land and sea to be endlessly wild, unmeasured and unfathomed by us because they cannot be fully understood. We can never have enough of Nature. We must be refreshed by the sight of endless energy and vast, gigantic forms. We need the coast with its shipwrecks, the wilderness with its living and decaying trees, and the thundercloud. We need the rain that lasts three weeks and causes floods. We need to see our own limits exceeded, and some life grazing freely where we never wander. We are heartened to see the vulture feeding on the dead flesh that disgusts and discourages us. From that meal, the vulture gains health and strength. There was a dead horse in the hollow beside the path to my house. The horse sometimes forced me to take a detour, especially at night when the air was heavy. But the horse also assured me of Nature’s strong appetite and unshakable health, and that assurance made up for the inconvenience. I love seeing that Nature is so full of life that countless creatures can be sacrificed and allowed to devour one another. I love seeing how delicate living bodies can be so calmly crushed out of existence like pulp. Herons gobble up tadpoles, and tortoises and toads are run over in the road. And sometimes flesh and blood have rained down! Given how vulnerable life is to accidents, we must see how little importance to attach to them. A wise person’s impression is that of universal innocence. Poison is not poisonous after all, and no wounds are fatal. Compassion is a very difficult position to maintain. Compassion must act quickly. Its appeals cannot be made into fixed formulas.

Early in May, the oaks, hickories, maples, and other trees, just putting out amidst the pine woods around the pond, imparted a brightness like sunshine to the landscape, especially in cloudy days, as if the sun were breaking through mists and shining faintly on the hill-sides here and there. On the third or fourth of May I saw a loon in the pond, and during the first week of the month I heard the whippoorwill, the brown-thrasher, the veery, the wood-pewee, the chewink, and other birds. I had heard the wood-thrush long before. The phœbe had already come once more and looked in at my door and window, to see if my house was cavern-like enough for her, sustaining herself on humming wings with clinched talons, as if she held by the air, while she surveyed the premises. The sulphur-like pollen of the pitch-pine soon covered the pond and the stones and rotten wood along the shore, so that you could have collected a barrel-ful. This is the “sulphur showers” we hear of. Even in Calidas’ drama of Sacontala, we read of “rills dyed yellow with the golden dust of the lotus.” And so the seasons went rolling on into summer, as one rambles into higher and higher grass.

Early in May, the oaks, hickories, maples, and other trees were just leafing out among the pines around the pond. Their new leaves gave the landscape a brightness like sunshine, especially on cloudy days. It was as if the sun were breaking through mist and shining faintly here and there on the hillsides. On the third or fourth of May, I saw a loon in the pond. During the first week, I heard the whippoorwill, the brown-thrasher, the veery, the wood-pewee, the chewink, and other birds. I had heard the wood-thrush long before. The phoebe had already returned and looked in at my door and window. She wanted to see if my house was enough like a cave for her. She hovered on humming wings with her claws clenched, as if gripping the air, while she inspected the place. The pitch-pine’s pollen, yellow like sulphur, soon covered the pond, the stones, and the rotting wood along the shore. You could have collected a barrelful. These are the “sulphur showers” we hear about. Even in Calidas’ play Sacontala, we read of “rills dyed yellow with the golden dust of the lotus.” And so the seasons kept rolling on into summer, as someone might wander into taller and taller grass.

Thus was my first year’s life in the woods completed; and the second year was similar to it. I finally left Walden September 6th, 1847.

That was how my first year in the woods ended. My second year was similar to the first. I finally left Walden on September 6, 1847.