Winter Animals

When the ponds were firmly frozen, they afforded not only new and shorter routes to many points, but new views from their surfaces of the familiar landscape around them. When I crossed Flint’s Pond, after it was covered with snow, though I had often paddled about and skated over it, it was so unexpectedly wide and so strange that I could think of nothing but Baffin’s Bay. The Lincoln hills rose up around me at the extremity of a snowy plain, in which I did not remember to have stood before; and the fishermen, at an indeterminable distance over the ice, moving slowly about with their wolfish dogs, passed for sealers or Esquimaux, or in misty weather loomed like fabulous creatures, and I did not know whether they were giants or pygmies. I took this course when I went to lecture in Lincoln in the evening, travelling in no road and passing no house between my own hut and the lecture room. In Goose Pond, which lay in my way, a colony of muskrats dwelt, and raised their cabins high above the ice, though none could be seen abroad when I crossed it. Walden, being like the rest usually bare of snow, or with only shallow and interrupted drifts on it, was my yard, where I could walk freely when the snow was nearly two feet deep on a level elsewhere and the villagers were confined to their streets. There, far from the village street, and except at very long intervals, from the jingle of sleigh-bells, I slid and skated, as in a vast moose-yard well trodden, overhung by oak woods and solemn pines bent down with snow or bristling with icicles.

When the ponds froze solid, they offered new, shorter routes to many places. Their frozen surfaces also gave new views of the familiar landscape around them. When I crossed Flint’s Pond after snow had covered it, the pond seemed unexpectedly wide and strange. Though I had often paddled around and skated over the pond, I could think of nothing but Baffin’s Bay. The Lincoln hills rose around me at the edge of a snowy plain where I could not remember standing before. Fishermen moved slowly across the ice with their wolfish dogs, at distances I could not judge. They looked like seal hunters or Esquimaux. In misty weather, the fishermen loomed like mythical creatures, and I could not tell whether they were giants or pygmies. I took this route when I went to give evening lectures in Lincoln. I followed no road and passed no house between my own hut and the lecture room. Goose Pond lay along my route. A colony of muskrats lived there and built their cabins high above the ice. Yet I saw none out and about when I crossed the pond. Walden, like the other ponds, was usually free of snow, or had only shallow, scattered drifts. The pond was my yard, where I could walk freely. Elsewhere, the snow lay nearly two feet deep on level ground, and the villagers were confined to their streets. Out on Walden, I was far from the village street and, except at long intervals, from jingling sleigh bells. There I slid and skated as though in a vast, well-trampled moose yard. Oak woods and solemn pines hung over this yard, bent beneath snow or bristling with icicles.

For sounds in winter nights, and often in winter days, I heard the forlorn but melodious note of a hooting owl indefinitely far; such a sound as the frozen earth would yield if struck with a suitable plectrum, the very lingua vernacula of Walden Wood, and quite familiar to me at last, though I never saw the bird while it was making it. I seldom opened my door in a winter evening without hearing it; Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer, hoo, sounded sonorously, and the first three syllables accented somewhat like how der do; or sometimes hoo hoo only. One night in the beginning of winter, before the pond froze over, about nine o’clock, I was startled by the loud honking of a goose, and, stepping to the door, heard the sound of their wings like a tempest in the woods as they flew low over my house. They passed over the pond toward Fair Haven, seemingly deterred from settling by my light, their commodore honking all the while with a regular beat. Suddenly an unmistakable cat-owl from very near me, with the most harsh and tremendous voice I ever heard from any inhabitant of the woods, responded at regular intervals to the goose, as if determined to expose and disgrace this intruder from Hudson’s Bay by exhibiting a greater compass and volume of voice in a native, and boo-hoo him out of Concord horizon. What do you mean by alarming the citadel at this time of night consecrated to me? Do you think I am ever caught napping at such an hour, and that I have not got lungs and a larynx as well as yourself? Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! It was one of the most thrilling discords I ever heard. And yet, if you had a discriminating ear, there were in it the elements of a concord such as these plains never saw nor heard.

On winter nights, and often on winter days, I heard an owl’s lonely but musical hoot from somewhere far away. It sounded as the frozen earth might sound if struck with the right pick. It was the very native language of Walden Wood, and in time it became quite familiar to me. Yet I never saw the bird while it was calling. I seldom opened my door on a winter evening without hearing the owl. Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer, hoo, rang out deeply, with the first three syllables stressed somewhat like how der do. Sometimes the call was only hoo hoo. One night early in winter, before the pond froze, I was startled around nine o’clock by a goose’s loud honking. I stepped to the door and heard the geese’s wings like a storm in the woods. They were flying low over my house. They crossed the pond toward Fair Haven, apparently kept from landing by my light. Their commander honked all the while with a steady beat. Suddenly, an unmistakable cat-owl answered the goose from very near me, calling at regular intervals. Its voice was the harshest and most tremendous I had ever heard from any creature in the woods. The owl seemed determined to expose and disgrace this intruder from Hudson’s Bay. It was as if this native bird meant to show off its greater vocal range and volume. It would boo-hoo the goose beyond the Concord horizon. What do you mean by raising the alarm in the fortress at this hour of night, sacred to me? Do you think I am ever caught napping at such an hour? Do you think I have no lungs and voice box to match yours? Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo! It was one of the most thrilling clashes of sound I ever heard. And yet, if you had a discerning ear, those clashing calls held the elements of a harmony. These plains had never seen or heard its like.

I also heard the whooping of the ice in the pond, my great bed-fellow in that part of Concord, as if it were restless in its bed and would fain turn over, were troubled with flatulency and had dreams; or I was waked by the cracking of the ground by the frost, as if some one had driven a team against my door, and in the morning would find a crack in the earth a quarter of a mile long and a third of an inch wide.

I also heard the ice whooping in the pond, my great bedmate in that part of Concord. It sounded as if the pond were restless in bed and wanted to turn over, troubled by gas and dreams. Or I was awakened by frost cracking the ground, as if someone had driven a team of horses against my door. In the morning, I would find a crack in the earth a quarter mile long and a third of an inch wide.

Sometimes I heard the foxes as they ranged over the snow crust, in moonlight nights, in search of a partridge or other game, barking raggedly and demoniacally like forest dogs, as if laboring with some anxiety, or seeking expression, struggling for light and to be dogs outright and run freely in the streets; for if we take the ages into our account, may there not be a civilization going on among brutes as well as men? They seemed to me to be rudimental, burrowing men, still standing on their defence, awaiting their transformation. Sometimes one came near to my window, attracted by my light, barked a vulpine curse at me, and then retreated.

Sometimes I heard foxes roaming over the crusted snow on moonlit nights, searching for a partridge or other game. They barked harshly and demonically like forest dogs, as if troubled by some anxiety or seeking to express themselves. They seemed to struggle toward the light, to become dogs outright and run freely in the streets. For if we consider the ages, might civilization be developing among beasts as well as humans? The foxes seemed to me like humans in an early stage, living in burrows, still defending themselves, awaiting their transformation. Sometimes a fox came near my window, attracted by my light, barked a fox’s curse at me, and then retreated.

Usually the red squirrel (Sciurus Hudsonius) waked me in the dawn, coursing over the roof and up and down the sides of the house, as if sent out of the woods for this purpose. In the course of the winter I threw out half a bushel of ears of sweet-corn, which had not got ripe, on to the snow crust by my door, and was amused by watching the motions of the various animals which were baited by it. In the twilight and the night the rabbits came regularly and made a hearty meal. All day long the red squirrels came and went, and afforded me much entertainment by their manœuvres. One would approach at first warily through the shrub-oaks, running over the snow crust by fits and starts like a leaf blown by the wind, now a few paces this way, with wonderful speed and waste of energy, making inconceivable haste with his “trotters,” as if it were for a wager, and now as many paces that way, but never getting on more than half a rod at a time; and then suddenly pausing with a ludicrous expression and a gratuitous somerset, as if all the eyes in the universe were fixed on him,—for all the motions of a squirrel, even in the most solitary recesses of the forest, imply spectators as much as those of a dancing girl,—wasting more time in delay and circumspection than would have sufficed to walk the whole distance,—I never saw one walk,—and then suddenly, before you could say Jack Robinson, he would be in the top of a young pitch-pine, winding up his clock and chiding all imaginary spectators, soliloquizing and talking to all the universe at the same time,—for no reason that I could ever detect, or he himself was aware of, I suspect. At length he would reach the corn, and selecting a suitable ear, frisk about in the same uncertain trigonometrical way to the top-most stick of my wood-pile, before my window, where he looked me in the face, and there sit for hours, supplying himself with a new ear from time to time, nibbling at first voraciously and throwing the half-naked cobs about; till at length he grew more dainty still and played with his food, tasting only the inside of the kernel, and the ear, which was held balanced over the stick by one paw, slipped from his careless grasp and fell to the ground, when he would look over at it with a ludicrous expression of uncertainty, as if suspecting that it had life, with a mind not made up whether to get it again, or a new one, or be off; now thinking of corn, then listening to hear what was in the wind. So the little impudent fellow would waste many an ear in a forenoon; till at last, seizing some longer and plumper one, considerably bigger than himself, and skilfully balancing it, he would set out with it to the woods, like a tiger with a buffalo, by the same zig-zag course and frequent pauses, scratching along with it as if it were too heavy for him and falling all the while, making its fall a diagonal between a perpendicular and horizontal, being determined to put it through at any rate;—a singularly frivolous and whimsical fellow;—and so he would get off with it to where he lived, perhaps carry it to the top of a pine tree forty or fifty rods distant, and I would afterwards find the cobs strewn about the woods in various directions.

Usually the red squirrel (Sciurus Hudsonius) woke me at dawn, racing over the roof and up and down the house walls. He seemed to have been sent from the woods for that purpose. During the winter, I scattered half a bushel of unripe sweet-corn ears on the crusted snow by my door. I enjoyed watching the movements of the various animals the corn attracted. At twilight and during the night, rabbits came regularly and ate a hearty meal. All day long, red squirrels came and went, entertaining me with their antics. One would approach cautiously at first through the scrub oaks. He ran over the snow crust in fits and starts, like a leaf blown by the wind. First he raced a few steps one way, with wonderful speed and wasted energy. His “trotters” moved with unimaginable haste, as if he were racing for a bet. Then he darted as many steps another way, but never advanced more than about eight feet at a time. Suddenly he would stop with a comical expression and turn a needless somersault, as if every eye in the universe watched him. For all a squirrel's movements suggest an audience, even in the loneliest corners of the forest, just like a dancing girl's. He spent more time hesitating and looking around than he would have needed to walk the whole distance. I never saw a squirrel walk. Then suddenly, before you could say Jack Robinson, he would be at the top of a young pitch pine. There he seemed to wind up his clock and scold all his imaginary spectators. He talked to himself and the whole universe at once. I could never discover any reason for his chatter, and I suspect he knew of none himself. At last he would reach the corn and choose a suitable ear. Then he would scamper along the same uncertain, angular route to the highest stick on my woodpile, outside my window. There he looked me in the face and sat for hours, fetching a fresh ear from time to time. At first he ate greedily, tossing around cobs with half their kernels gone. Eventually he became even pickier and played with his food, tasting only the inside of each kernel. He balanced the ear over the stick with one paw, until the ear slipped from his careless grasp and fell. Then he would peer down at the fallen ear with a comical look of uncertainty, as if suspecting it was alive. He could not decide whether to retrieve the ear, fetch a new one, or leave. One moment he thought about corn, and the next he listened for whatever the wind might carry. So the cheeky little fellow would waste many ears in a single morning. At last he would seize a longer, plumper ear, considerably bigger than himself, and balance the ear skillfully. Then he would set off toward the woods, like a tiger carrying a buffalo. He followed the same zigzag route, with frequent pauses. He scrambled along with the ear as if the load were too heavy for him, falling all the while. But his falls carried him diagonally, somewhere between straight down and straight ahead. He was determined to get the corn home, no matter what. What an unusually frivolous, whimsical fellow! And so he would make his way home with the ear. Perhaps he carried the corn to the top of a pine tree 660 to 825 feet away. Later I would find the cobs scattered through the woods in various directions.

At length the jays arrive, whose discordant screams were heard long before, as they were warily making their approach an eighth of a mile off, and in a stealthy and sneaking manner they flit from tree to tree, nearer and nearer, and pick up the kernels which the squirrels have dropped. Then, sitting on a pitch-pine bough, they attempt to swallow in their haste a kernel which is too big for their throats and chokes them; and after great labor they disgorge it, and spend an hour in the endeavor to crack it by repeated blows with their bills. They were manifestly thieves, and I had not much respect for them; but the squirrels, though at first shy, went to work as if they were taking what was their own.

At last the jays arrive. Their harsh screams could be heard long before, as they cautiously approached from an eighth of a mile away. They sneak from tree to tree, coming closer and closer, and pick up the kernels the squirrels have dropped. Then, sitting on a pitch-pine branch, they try to swallow a kernel too big for their throats in their haste. The kernel chokes them, and after a great struggle they spit it back up. Then they spend an hour trying to crack it with repeated blows of their beaks. They were clearly thieves, and I had little respect for them. But the squirrels, though shy at first, went to work as if they were taking what belonged to them.

Meanwhile also came the chickadees in flocks, which, picking up the crumbs the squirrels had dropped, flew to the nearest twig, and, placing them under their claws, hammered away at them with their little bills, as if it were an insect in the bark, till they were sufficiently reduced for their slender throats. A little flock of these tit-mice came daily to pick a dinner out of my wood-pile, or the crumbs at my door, with faint flitting lisping notes, like the tinkling of icicles in the grass, or else with sprightly day day day, or more rarely, in spring-like days, a wiry summery phe-be from the wood-side. They were so familiar that at length one alighted on an armful of wood which I was carrying in, and pecked at the sticks without fear. I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance than I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn. The squirrels also grew at last to be quite familiar, and occasionally stepped upon my shoe, when that was the nearest way.

Meanwhile, flocks of chickadees also arrived, picking up the crumbs the squirrels had dropped and flying to the nearest twig. Holding the crumbs under their claws, they hammered away with their little bills, as if attacking insects in the bark. They kept at it until the pieces were small enough for their narrow throats. A little flock of these birds came daily to find a meal in my woodpile or among the crumbs at my door. Their faint, quick, lisping notes sounded like icicles tinkling in the grass. Or they gave a lively day day day. More rarely, on springlike days, a thin, twanging, summery phe-be came from the edge of the woods. The birds grew so comfortable with me that one eventually landed on an armful of wood I was carrying inside. It pecked fearlessly at the sticks. Once, a sparrow landed briefly on my shoulder while I was hoeing in a village garden. I felt more honored by that visit than I would have by any military shoulder decoration I could have worn. The squirrels also eventually grew quite comfortable with me. Occasionally, they stepped on my shoe when that was the shortest route.

When the ground was not yet quite covered, and again near the end of winter, when the snow was melted on my south hill-side and about my wood-pile, the partridges came out of the woods morning and evening to feed there. Whichever side you walk in the woods the partridge bursts away on whirring wings, jarring the snow from the dry leaves and twigs on high, which comes sifting down in the sun-beams like golden dust; for this brave bird is not to be scared by winter. It is frequently covered up by drifts, and, it is said, “sometimes plunges from on wing into the soft snow, where it remains concealed for a day or two.” I used to start them in the open land also, where they had come out of the woods at sunset to “bud” the wild apple-trees. They will come regularly every evening to particular trees, where the cunning sportsman lies in wait for them, and the distant orchards next the woods suffer thus not a little. I am glad that the partridge gets fed, at any rate. It is Nature’s own bird which lives on buds and diet-drink.

Before snow fully covered the ground, partridges came out of the woods morning and evening to feed near my home. They returned near winter’s end, when snow had melted on my south-facing hillside and around my woodpile. Wherever you walk in the woods, a partridge bursts away on whirring wings. Its flight shakes snow from the dry leaves and twigs overhead. The snow sifts down through the sunbeams like golden dust, for this brave bird is not frightened by winter. Partridges are often buried in snowdrifts. It is said that a partridge “sometimes dives from flight into soft snow and stays hidden there for a day or two.” I also used to startle them in open fields. They had left the woods at sunset to “bud,” or feed on the buds of wild apple trees. They return regularly every evening to certain trees, where the crafty hunter waits in hiding for them. As a result, the remote orchards beside the woods suffer considerable damage. At any rate, I am glad the partridge gets fed. It is Nature’s own bird, living on buds and herbal tonics.

In dark winter mornings, or in short winter afternoons, I sometimes heard a pack of hounds threading all the woods with hounding cry and yelp, unable to resist the instinct of the chase, and the note of the hunting horn at intervals, proving that man was in the rear. The woods ring again, and yet no fox bursts forth on to the open level of the pond, nor following pack pursuing their Actæon. And perhaps at evening I see the hunters returning with a single brush trailing from their sleigh for a trophy, seeking their inn. They tell me that if the fox would remain in the bosom of the frozen earth he would be safe, or if he would run in a straight line away no fox-hound could overtake him; but, having left his pursuers far behind, he stops to rest and listen till they come up, and when he runs he circles round to his old haunts, where the hunters await him. Sometimes, however, he will run upon a wall many rods, and then leap off far to one side, and he appears to know that water will not retain his scent. A hunter told me that he once saw a fox pursued by hounds burst out on to Walden when the ice was covered with shallow puddles, run part way across, and then return to the same shore. Ere long the hounds arrived, but here they lost the scent. Sometimes a pack hunting by themselves would pass my door, and circle round my house, and yelp and hound without regarding me, as if afflicted by a species of madness, so that nothing could divert them from the pursuit. Thus they circle until they fall upon the recent trail of a fox, for a wise hound will forsake every thing else for this. One day a man came to my hut from Lexington to inquire after his hound that made a large track, and had been hunting for a week by himself. But I fear that he was not the wiser for all I told him, for every time I attempted to answer his questions he interrupted me by asking, “What do you do here?” He had lost a dog, but found a man.

On dark winter mornings or short winter afternoons, I sometimes heard a pack of hounds weaving through the woods. They barked and yelped, unable to resist the instinct to chase. At intervals, a hunting horn sounded, proving that a man was following behind. The woods ring again, yet no fox rushes onto the open, level pond, nor any pack pursuing their Actæon. And perhaps that evening I see the hunters returning to their inn. A single fox’s tail trails from their sleigh as a trophy. The hunters tell me that if the fox stayed sheltered in the frozen earth, he would be safe. Or if he ran straight away, no foxhound could catch him. But after leaving his pursuers far behind, he stops to rest and listen until they catch up. And when he runs, he circles back to his old haunts, where the hunters wait for him. Sometimes, however, he runs along a wall for many yards, then leaps far off to one side. And he seems to know that water will not hold his scent. A hunter told me he once saw a fox chased by hounds rush onto Walden. Shallow puddles covered the ice. The fox ran partway across, then returned to the same shore. Before long, the hounds arrived, but there they lost the scent. Sometimes a pack hunting on their own would pass my door and circle my house. The hounds would bark and howl without paying attention to me, as if suffering from a kind of madness. Nothing could distract them from the chase. They would keep circling until they found a fox’s fresh trail, for a wise hound abandons everything else for that. One day a man came to my hut from Lexington to ask about his hound. The dog left large tracks and had been hunting alone for a week. But I fear the man learned nothing from all I told him. Every time I tried to answer his questions, he interrupted me by asking, “What do you do here?” He had lost a dog, but found a man.

One old hunter who has a dry tongue, who used to come to bathe in Walden once every year when the water was warmest, and at such times looked in upon me, told me that many years ago he took his gun one afternoon and went out for a cruise in Walden Wood; and as he walked the Wayland road he heard the cry of hounds approaching, and ere long a fox leaped the wall into the road, and as quick as thought leaped the other wall out of the road, and his swift bullet had not touched him. Some way behind came an old hound and her three pups in full pursuit, hunting on their own account, and disappeared again in the woods. Late in the afternoon, as he was resting in the thick woods south of Walden, he heard the voice of the hounds far over toward Fair Haven still pursuing the fox; and on they came, their hounding cry which made all the woods ring sounding nearer and nearer, now from Well-Meadow, now from the Baker Farm. For a long time he stood still and listened to their music, so sweet to a hunter’s ear, when suddenly the fox appeared, threading the solemn aisles with an easy coursing pace, whose sound was concealed by a sympathetic rustle of the leaves, swift and still, keeping the ground, leaving his pursuers far behind; and, leaping upon a rock amid the woods, he sat erect and listening, with his back to the hunter. For a moment compassion restrained the latter’s arm; but that was a short-lived mood, and as quick as thought can follow thought his piece was levelled, and whang!—the fox rolling over the rock lay dead on the ground. The hunter still kept his place and listened to the hounds. Still on they came, and now the near woods resounded through all their aisles with their demoniac cry. At length the old hound burst into view with muzzle to the ground, and snapping the air as if possessed, and ran directly to the rock; but spying the dead fox she suddenly ceased her hounding as if struck dumb with amazement, and walked round and round him in silence; and one by one her pups arrived, and, like their mother, were sobered into silence by the mystery. Then the hunter came forward and stood in their midst, and the mystery was solved. They waited in silence while he skinned the fox, then followed the brush a while, and at length turned off into the woods again. That evening a Weston Squire came to the Concord hunter’s cottage to inquire for his hounds, and told how for a week they had been hunting on their own account from Weston woods. The Concord hunter told him what he knew and offered him the skin; but the other declined it and departed. He did not find his hounds that night, but the next day learned that they had crossed the river and put up at a farm-house for the night, whence, having been well fed, they took their departure early in the morning.

An old hunter with a dry wit used to come swim in Walden once a year, when the water was warmest. During these visits, he would stop by to see me. He told me that many years ago he took his gun out one afternoon to roam Walden Wood. As he walked along the Wayland road, he heard hounds approaching. Before long, a fox leaped over the wall into the road. Quick as thought, the fox leaped over the opposite wall, untouched by the hunter’s swift bullet. Some distance behind came an old female hound and her three pups, chasing the fox on their own. The dogs disappeared into the woods again. Late that afternoon, the hunter was resting in the thick woods south of Walden. He heard the hounds far away toward Fair Haven, still pursuing the fox. On they came, their cries ringing through all the woods and sounding nearer and nearer. Now the cries came from Well-Meadow, now from the Baker Farm. For a long time, he stood still, listening to their music, so sweet to a hunter’s ear. Suddenly, the fox appeared, weaving through the woods’ solemn aisles at an easy running pace. A sympathetic rustling of leaves concealed the sound of his steps. Swift and silent, he stayed close to the ground, leaving his pursuers far behind. He leaped onto a rock among the trees and sat upright, listening, with his back to the hunter. For a moment, pity held back the hunter’s arm. But the feeling passed quickly. As quickly as one thought follows another, he leveled his gun, and whang! The fox rolled off the rock and lay dead on the ground. The hunter stayed where he was and listened to the hounds. Still they came, and now their demonic cries echoed through all the aisles of the nearby woods. At last, the old hound burst into view, her nose to the ground. Snapping at the air as if possessed, she ran straight to the rock. But when she spotted the dead fox, she suddenly stopped howling, as if struck speechless with amazement. She walked around and around him in silence. One by one, her pups arrived. Like their mother, the pups fell silent, sobered by the mystery. Then the hunter stepped forward and stood among the dogs, and the mystery was solved. The dogs waited silently while he skinned the fox. Then they followed the fox’s tail for a while before turning back into the woods. That evening, a Weston Squire came to the Concord hunter’s cottage to ask about his hounds. He explained that the dogs had been hunting on their own for a week, starting in Weston woods. The Concord hunter told the Squire what he knew and offered him the fox’s skin. But the Squire declined and left. He did not find his hounds that night. The next day, however, he learned that the dogs had crossed the river and spent the night at a farmhouse. After being well fed there, the dogs had left early in the morning.

The hunter who told me this could remember one Sam Nutting, who used to hunt bears on Fair Haven Ledges, and exchange their skins for rum in Concord village; who told him, even, that he had seen a moose there. Nutting had a famous fox-hound named Burgoyne,—he pronounced it Bugine,—which my informant used to borrow. In the “Wast Book” of an old trader of this town, who was also a captain, town-clerk, and representative, I find the following entry. Jan. 18th, 1742–3, “John Melven Cr. by 1 Grey Fox 0—2—3;” they are not now found here; and in his ledger, Feb. 7th, 1743, Hezekiah Stratton has credit “by ½ a Catt skin 0—1—4½;” of course, a wild-cat, for Stratton was a sergeant in the old French war, and would not have got credit for hunting less noble game. Credit is given for deer skins also, and they were daily sold. One man still preserves the horns of the last deer that was killed in this vicinity, and another has told me the particulars of the hunt in which his uncle was engaged. The hunters were formerly a numerous and merry crew here. I remember well one gaunt Nimrod who would catch up a leaf by the road-side and play a strain on it wilder and more melodious, if my memory serves me, than any hunting-horn.

The hunter who told me this remembered a man named Sam Nutting. Nutting used to hunt bears on Fair Haven Ledges and trade their skins for rum in Concord village. Nutting even told the hunter he had seen a moose there. Nutting had a famous foxhound named Burgoyne, which he pronounced Bugine. The hunter who told me this used to borrow the dog. In the “Wast Book,” or daybook, of an old trader in this town, I found the following entry. The trader was also a captain, town clerk, and representative. The entry, dated January 18, 1742–43, reads: “John Melven credited for 1 Grey Fox, 0 pounds, 2 shillings, 3 pence.” Gray foxes are no longer found here. In the trader’s ledger, Hezekiah Stratton received credit on February 7, 1743, “for ½ a Catt skin, 0 pounds, 1 shilling, 4½ pence.” Of course, the cat was a wildcat. Stratton was a sergeant in the old French war and would not have received credit for hunting less noble game. The ledger also records credit for deer skins, which were sold daily. One man still keeps the antlers of the last deer killed in this area. Another has told me the details of the hunt, in which his uncle took part. Hunters were once a large and merry crowd here. I well remember one lean Nimrod, a mighty hunter, who would pick up a leaf beside the road. He would play a tune on the leaf, wilder and more melodious, if I remember correctly, than any hunting horn.

At midnight, when there was a moon, I sometimes met with hounds in my path prowling about the woods, which would skulk out of my way, as if afraid, and stand silent amid the bushes till I had passed.

At midnight, when the moon was out, I sometimes encountered hounds prowling through the woods along my path. The hounds would slink out of my way, as if afraid, and stand silently among the bushes until I passed.

Squirrels and wild mice disputed for my store of nuts. There were scores of pitch-pines around my house, from one to four inches in diameter, which had been gnawed by mice the previous winter,—a Norwegian winter for them, for the snow lay long and deep, and they were obliged to mix a large proportion of pine bark with their other diet. These trees were alive and apparently flourishing at mid-summer, and many of them had grown a foot, though completely girdled; but after another winter such were without exception dead. It is remarkable that a single mouse should thus be allowed a whole pine tree for its dinner, gnawing round instead of up and down it; but perhaps it is necessary in order to thin these trees, which are wont to grow up densely.

Squirrels and wild mice competed for my supply of nuts. Scores of pitch-pines stood around my house, with trunks one to four inches thick. Mice had gnawed these trees the previous winter. For the mice, it had been a Norwegian winter, with deep snow that stayed a long time. The mice had been forced to eat a large amount of pine bark along with their other food. By midsummer, these trees were alive and apparently thriving. Many had grown a foot, though mice had stripped the bark all the way around their trunks. But after another winter, every one of these trees was dead. It is remarkable that a single mouse should be allowed a whole pine tree for its dinner. The mouse gnaws around the trunk instead of up and down it. But perhaps this is necessary to thin out these trees, which tend to grow thickly together.

The hares (Lepus Americanus) were very familiar. One had her form under my house all winter, separated from me only by the flooring, and she startled me each morning by her hasty departure when I began to stir,—thump, thump, thump, striking her head against the floor timbers in her hurry. They used to come round my door at dusk to nibble the potato parings which I had thrown out, and were so nearly the color of the ground that they could hardly be distinguished when still. Sometimes in the twilight I alternately lost and recovered sight of one sitting motionless under my window. When I opened my door in the evening, off they would go with a squeak and a bounce. Near at hand they only excited my pity. One evening one sat by my door two paces from me, at first trembling with fear, yet unwilling to move; a poor wee thing, lean and bony, with ragged ears and sharp nose, scant tail and slender paws. It looked as if Nature no longer contained the breed of nobler bloods, but stood on her last toes. Its large eyes appeared young and unhealthy, almost dropsical. I took a step, and lo, away it scud with an elastic spring over the snow crust, straightening its body and its limbs into graceful length, and soon put the forest between me and itself,—the wild free venison, asserting its vigor and the dignity of Nature. Not without reason was its slenderness. Such then was its nature. (Lepus, levipes, light-foot, some think.)

The hares (Lepus Americanus) were very much at home around me. One had her resting place under my house all winter, with only the floor between us. Each morning, when I began to stir, she startled me by rushing away. Thump, thump, thump, she struck her head against the floor beams in her hurry. The hares used to come around my door at dusk to nibble the potato peelings I had thrown out. Their color matched the ground so closely that I could hardly make them out when they stayed still. Sometimes in the twilight I kept losing sight of a hare sitting motionless under my window, then spotting it again. When I opened my door in the evening, the hares would leap away with a squeak. Up close, they stirred only my pity. One evening a hare sat by my door, two paces from me, trembling with fear at first, yet unwilling to move. The poor little creature was lean and bony, with ragged ears, a pointed nose, a tiny tail, and slender paws. It looked as if Nature had no nobler breeds left, but was barely standing on her last toes. The hare’s large eyes looked young and unhealthy, almost swollen with fluid. I took a step, and suddenly the hare bounded away over the snow’s crust with a springy leap. Its body and limbs stretched out to a graceful length, and soon it put the forest between us. Here was wild, free game, asserting its strength and Nature’s dignity. Its slender build had a purpose after all. So this was its true nature. (Lepus, levipes, light-foot, some think.)

What is a country without rabbits and partridges? They are among the most simple and indigenous animal products; ancient and venerable families known to antiquity as to modern times; of the very hue and substance of Nature, nearest allied to leaves and to the ground,—and to one another; it is either winged or it is legged. It is hardly as if you had seen a wild creature when a rabbit or a partridge bursts away, only a natural one, as much to be expected as rustling leaves. The partridge and the rabbit are still sure to thrive, like true natives of the soil, whatever revolutions occur. If the forest is cut off, the sprouts and bushes which spring up afford them concealment, and they become more numerous than ever. That must be a poor country indeed that does not support a hare. Our woods teem with them both, and around every swamp may be seen the partridge or rabbit walk, beset with twiggy fences and horse-hair snares, which some cow-boy tends.

What is a country without rabbits and partridges? They are among the simplest native animals, members of ancient and honored families known in ancient times as today. They have the very color and substance of Nature, closely related to leaves, the ground, and one another. One has wings, the other legs. When a rabbit or partridge darts away, you hardly feel as if you have seen a wild creature. You have only seen a natural one, as expected as rustling leaves. The partridge and rabbit are still sure to thrive, like true natives of the soil, whatever upheavals occur. If the forest is cut down, the new shoots and bushes that spring up give them cover. Then they become more numerous than ever. A country that cannot support a hare must be poor indeed. Our woods teem with both rabbits and partridges. Around every swamp, you can see their trails, lined with twig fences and horsehair snares tended by some cattle-herding boy.