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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 manoeuvres. 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,—w asting 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
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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.
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.
Meanwhile also came the chicadees in flocks, which picking up the
crums 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 crums 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.
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,
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“ 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.
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 Actaeon. 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.
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
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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!—t he 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.
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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. 18
th
, 1742-3, “John Melven Cr. By 1 Grey Fox 0— 2—3 ;”
they are not now found here; and in his leger, Feb. 7
th
, 1743,
Hezekiah Stratton has credit “by 1\2 a Catt skin 0— — 1—4 1\2;” ” 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.
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.
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.
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
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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 althy, 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,—t he 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.)
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.
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The Pond in Winter
fter a still winter night I awoke with the impression that some
question had been put to me, which I had been endeavoring in
vain to answer in my sleep, as what—h ow—w hen—w here?
But there was dawning Nature, in whom all creatures live, looking in
at my broad windows with serene and satisfied face, and no question
on her lips. I awoke to an answered question, to Nature and daylight.
The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines, and the
very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say,
Forward! Nature puts no question and answers none which we
mortals ask. She has long ago taken her resolution. “ “ O Prince, our
eyes contemplate with admiration and transmit to the soul the
wonderful and varied spectacle of this universe. The night veils
without doubt a part of this glorious creation; but day comes to reveal
to us this great work, which extends from earth even into the plains
of the ether.”
A
Then to my morning work. First I take an axe and pail and go in
search of water, if that be not a dream. After a cold and snowy night
it needed a divining rod to find it. Every winter the liquid and
trembling surface of the pond, which was so sensitive to every
breath, and reflected every light and shadow, becomes solid to the
depth of a foot or a foot and a half, so that it will support the heaviest
teams, and perchance the snow covers it to an equal depth, and it is
not to be distinguished from any level field. Like the marmots in the
surrounding hills, it closes its eye-lids and becomes dormant for three
months or more. Standing on the snow-covered plain, as if in a
pasture amid the hills, I cut my way first through a foot of snow, and
then a foot of ice, and open a window under my feet, where, kneeling
to drink, I look down into the quiet parlor of the fishes, pervaded by
a softened light as through a window of ground glass, with its bright
sanded floor the same as in summer; there a perennial waveless
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