Life in the Woods

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loon on the pond, and a fox to bark in the night. Not even a lark or an oriole, those mild
plantation birds, ever visited my clearing. No cockerels to crow nor hens to cackle in the
yard. No yard! but unfenced nature reaching up to your very sills. A young forest
growing up under your meadows, and wild sumachs and blackberry vines breaking
through into your cellar; sturdy pitch pines rubbing and creaking against the shingles for
want of room, their roots reaching quite under the house. Instead of a scuttle or a blind
blown off in the gale--a pine tree snapped off or torn up by the roots behind your house
for fuel. Instead of no path to the front-yard gate in the Great Snow--no gate--no front-
yard--and no path to the civilized world.
Walden& 94
5. SOLITUDE
THIS IS A delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight
through every pore. I go and come with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I
walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt-sleeves, though it is cool as well as
cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually
congenial to me. The bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whip-poor-
will is borne on the rippling wind from over the water. Sympathy with the fluttering alder
and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the lake, my serenity is rippled
but not ruffled. These small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm
as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark, the mind still blows and roars in
the wood, the waves still dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The
repose is never complete. The wildest animals do not repose, but seek their prey now; the
fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woods without fear. They are
Nature's watchmen--links which connect the days of animated life.
When I return to my house I find that visitors have been there and left their cards, either a
bunch of flowers, or a wreath of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow walnut leaf or
a chip. They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece of the forest into their
hands to play with by the way, which they leave, either intentionally or accidentally. One
has peeled a willow wand, woven it into a ring, and dropped it on my table. I could
always tell if visitors had called in my absence, either by the bended twigs or grass, or the
print of their shoes, and generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some slight
trace left, as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and thrown away, even as far
off as the railroad, half a mile distant, or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I
was frequently notified of the passage of a traveller along the highway sixty rods off by
the scent of his pipe.
There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon is never quite at our elbows.
The thick wood is not just at our door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing,
familiar and worn by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from
Nature. For what reason have I this vast range and circuit, some square miles of
Walden& 95
unfrequented forest, for my privacy, abandoned to me by men? My nearest neighbor is a
mile distant, and no house is visible from any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of
my own. I have my horizon bounded by woods all to myself; a distant view of the
railroad where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the fence which skirts the
woodland road on the other. But for the most part it is as solitary where I live as on the
prairies. It is as much Asia or Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my own sun and
moon and stars, and a little world all to myself. At night there was never a traveller
passed my house, or knocked at my door, more than if I were the first or last man; unless
it were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish for pouts--
they plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond of their own natures, and baited their
hooks with darkness--but they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the
world to darkness and to me," and the black kernel of the night was never profaned by
any human neighborhood. I believe that men are generally still a little afraid of the dark,
though the witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced.
Yet I experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and
encouraging society may be found in any natural object, even for the poor misanthrope
and most melancholy man. There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in
the midst of nature and has his senses still. There was never yet such a storm but it was
Aeolian music to a healthy and innocent ear. Nothing can rightly compel a simple and
brave man to a vulgar sadness. While I enjoy the friendship of the seasons I trust that
nothing can make life a burden to me. The gentle rain which waters my beans and keeps
me in the house today is not drear and melancholy, but good for me too. Though it
prevents my hoeing them, it is of far more worth than my hoeing. If it should continue so
long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the low lands, it
would still be good for the grass on the uplands, and, being good for the grass, it would
be good for me. Sometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were
more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of; as if I had
a warrant and surety at their hands which my fellows have not, and were especially
guided and guarded. I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. I have
never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that
Walden& 96
was a few weeks after I came to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near
neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone was
something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my
mood, and seemed to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these
thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in
Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house,
an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as
made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never
thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and
befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to
me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the
nearest of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no
place could ever be strange to me again.
"Mourning untimely consumes the sad;
Few are their days in the land of the living,
Beautiful daughter of Toscar."
Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain-storms in the spring or fall,
which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by
their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in
which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving
northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop
and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house,
which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavy thunder-shower
the lightning struck a large pitch pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and
perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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