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    Chapter 4

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    Chapter 4
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    But while we are confined to books, though the most select and
    classic, and read only particular written languages, which are
    themselves but dialects and provincial, we are in danger of
    forgetting the language which all things and events speak without
    metaphor, which alone is copious and standard. Much is published,
    but little printed. The rays which stream through the shutter will
    be no longer remembered when the shutter is wholly removed. No
    method nor discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever
    on the alert. What is a course of history or philosophy, or poetry,
    no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most
    admirable routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking
    always at what is to be seen? Will you be a reader, a student
    merely, or a seer? Read your fate, see what is before you, and walk
    on into futurity.
    I did not read books the first summer; I hoed beans. Nay, I
    often did better than this. There were times when I could not
    afford to sacrifice the bloom of the present moment to any work,
    whether of the head or hands. I love a broad margin to my life.
    Sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, I
    sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery,
    amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude
    and stillness, while the birds sing around or flitted noiseless
    through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or
    the noise of some traveller's wagon on the distant highway, I was
    reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those seasons like corn in
    the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would
    have been. They were not time subtracted from my life, but so much
    over and above my usual allowance. I realized what the Orientals
    mean by contemplation and the forsaking of works. For the most
    part, I minded not how the hours went. The day advanced as if to
    light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now it is evening,
    and nothing memorable is accomplished. Instead of singing like the
    birds, I silently smiled at my incessant good fortune. As the
    sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so had
    I my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my
    nest. My days were not days of the week, bearing the stamp of any
    heathen deity, nor were they minced into hours and fretted by the
    ticking of a clock; for I lived like the Puri Indians, of whom it is
    said that "for yesterday, today, and tomorrow they have only one
    word, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward
    for yesterday forward for tomorrow, and overhead for the passing
    day." This was sheer idleness to my fellow-townsmen, no doubt; but
    if the birds and flowers had tried me by their standard, I should
    not have been found wanting. A man must find his occasions in
    himself, it is true. The natural day is very calm, and will hardly
    reprove his indolence.
    I had this advantage, at least, in my mode of life, over those
    who were obliged to look abroad for amusement, to society and the
    theatre, that my life itself was become my amusement and never
    ceased to be novel. It was a drama of many scenes and without an
    end. If we were always, indeed, getting our living, and regulating
    our lives according to the last and best mode we had learned, we
    should never be troubled with ennui. Follow your genius closely
    enough, and it will not fail to show you a fresh prospect every
    hour. Housework was a pleasant pastime. When my floor was dirty, I
    rose early, and, setting all my furniture out of doors on the grass,
    bed and bedstead making but one budget, dashed water on the floor,
    and sprinkled white sand from the pond on it, and then with a broom
    scrubbed it clean and white; and by the time the villagers had
    broken their fast the morning sun had dried my house sufficiently to
    allow me to move in again, and my meditations were almost
    uninterupted. It was pleasant to see my whole household effects out
    on the grass, making a little pile like a gypsy's pack, and my
    three-legged table, from which I did not remove the books and pen
    and ink, standing amid the pines and hickories. They seemed glad to
    get out themselves, and as if unwilling to be brought in. I was
    sometimes tempted to stretch an awning over them and take my seat
    there. It was worth the while to see the sun shine on these things,
    and hear the free wind blow on them; so much more interesting most
    familiar objects look out of doors than in the house. A bird sits
    on the next bough, life-everlasting grows under the table, and
    blackberry vines run round its legs; pine cones, chestnut burs, and
    strawberry leaves are strewn about. It looked as if this was the
    way these forms came to be transferred to our furniture, to tables,
    chairs, and bedsteads -- because they once stood in their midst.
    My house was on the side of a hill, immediately on the edge of
    the larger wood, in the midst of a young forest of pitch pines and
    hickories, and half a dozen rods from the pond, to which a narrow
    footpath led down the hill. In my front yard grew the strawberry,
    blackberry, and life-everlasting, johnswort and goldenrod, shrub
    oaks and sand cherry, blueberry and groundnut. Near the end of May,
    the sand cherry (Cerasus pumila) adorned the sides of the path with
    its delicate flowers arranged in umbels cylindrically about its
    short stems, which last, in the fall, weighed down with goodsized
    and handsome cherries, fell over in wreaths like rays on every side.
    I tasted them out of compliment to Nature, though they were scarcely
    palatable. The sumach (Rhus glabra) grew luxuriantly about the
    house, pushing up through the embankment which I had made, and
    growing five or six feet the first season. Its broad pinnate
    tropical leaf was pleasant though strange to look on. The large
    buds, suddenly pushing out late in the spring from dry sticks which
    had seemed to be dead, developed themselves as by magic into
    graceful green and tender boughs, an inch in diameter; and
    sometimes, as I sat at my window, so heedlessly did they grow and
    tax their weak joints, I heard a fresh and tender bough suddenly
    fall like a fan to the ground, when there was not a breath of air
    stirring, broken off by its own weight. In August, the large masses
    of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees,
    gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their
    weight again bent down and broke the tender limbs.
    As I sit at my window this summer afternoon, hawks are circling
    about my clearing; the tantivy of wild pigeons, flying by two and
    threes athwart my view, or perching restless on the white pine
    boughs behind my house, gives a voice to the air; a fish hawk
    dimples the glassy surface of the pond and brings up a fish; a mink
    steals out of the marsh before my door and seizes a frog by the
    shore; the sedge is bending under the weight of the reed-birds
    flitting hither and thither; and for the last half-hour I have heard
    the rattle of railroad cars, now dying away and then reviving like
    the beat of a partridge, conveying travellers from Boston to the
    country. For I did not live so out of the world as that boy who, as
    I hear, was put out to a farmer in the east part of the town, but
    ere long ran away and came home again, quite down at the heel and
    homesick. He had never seen such a dull and out-of-the-way place;
    the folks were all gone off; why, you couldn't even hear the
    whistle! I doubt if there is such a place in Massachusetts now:--

    "In truth, our village has become a butt
    For one of those fleet railroad shafts, and o'er
    Our peaceful plain its soothing sound is -- Concord."

    The Fitchburg Railroad touches the pond about a hundred rods
    south of where I dwell. I usually go to the village along its
    causeway, and am, as it were, related to society by this link. The
    men on the freight trains, who go over the whole length of the road,
    bow to me as to an old acquaintance, they pass me so often, and
    apparently they take me for an employee; and so I am. I too would
    fain be a track-repairer somewhere in the orbit of the earth.
    The whistle of the locomotive penetrates my woods summer and
    winter, sounding like the scream of a hawk sailing over some
    farmer's yard, informing me that many restless city merchants are
    arriving within the circle of the town, or adventurous country
    traders from the other side. As they come under one horizon, they
    shout their warning to get off the track to the other, heard
    sometimes through the circles of two towns. Here come your
    groceries, country; your rations, countrymen! Nor is there any man
    so independent on his farm that he can say them nay. And here's
    your pay for them! screams the countryman's whistle; timber like
    long battering-rams going twenty miles an hour against the city's
    walls, and chairs enough to seat all the weary and heavy-laden that
    dwell within them. With such huge and lumbering civility the
    country hands a chair to the city. All the Indian huckleberry hills
    are stripped, all the cranberry meadows are raked into the city. Up
    comes the cotton, down goes the woven cloth; up comes the silk, down
    goes the woollen; up come the books, but down goes the wit that
    writes them.
    When I meet the engine with its train of cars moving off with
    planetary motion -- or, rather, like a comet, for the beholder knows
    not if with that velocity and with that direction it will ever
    revisit this system, since its orbit does not look like a returning
    curve -- with its steam cloud like a banner streaming behind in
    golden and silver wreaths, like many a downy cloud which I have
    seen, high in the heavens, unfolding its masses to the light -- as
    if this traveling demigod, this cloud-compeller, would ere long take
    the sunset sky for the livery of his train; when I hear the iron
    horse make the hills echo with his snort like thunder, shaking the
    earth with his feet, and breathing fire and smoke from his nostrils
    (what kind of winged horse or fiery dragon they will put into the
    new Mythology I don't know), it seems as if the earth had got a race
    now worthy to inhabit it. If all were as it seems, and men made the
    elements their servants for noble ends! If the cloud that hangs
    over the engine were the perspiration of heroic deeds, or as
    beneficent as that which floats over the farmer's fields, then the
    elements and Nature herself would cheerfully accompany men on their
    errands and be their escort.
    I watch the passage of the morning cars with the same feeling
    that I do the rising of the sun, which is hardly more regular.
    Their train of clouds stretching far behind and rising higher and
    higher, going to heaven while the cars are going to Boston, conceals
    the sun for a minute and casts my distant field into the shade, a
    celestial train beside which the petty train of cars which hugs the
    earth is but the barb of the spear. The stabler of the iron horse
    was up early this winter morning by the light of the stars amid the
    mountains, to fodder and harness his steed. Fire, too, was awakened
    thus early to put the vital heat in him and get him off. If the
    enterprise were as innocent as it is early! If the snow lies deep,
    they strap on his snowshoes, and, with the giant plow, plow a furrow
    from the mountains to the seaboard, in which the cars, like a
    following drill-barrow, sprinkle all the restless men and floating
    merchandise in the country for seed. All day the fire-steed flies
    over the country, stopping only that his master may rest, and I am
    awakened by his tramp and defiant snort at midnight, when in some
    remote glen in the woods he fronts the elements incased in ice and
    snow; and he will reach his stall only with the morning star, to
    start once more on his travels without rest or slumber. Or
    perchance, at evening, I hear him in his stable blowing off the
    superfluous energy of the day, that he may calm his nerves and cool
    his liver and brain for a few hours of iron slumber. If the
    enterprise were as heroic and commanding as it is protracted and
    Far through unfrequented woods on the confines of towns, where
    once only the hunter penetrated by day, in the darkest night dart
    these bright saloons without the knowledge of their inhabitants;
    this moment stopping at some brilliant station-house in town or
    city, where a social crowd is gathered, the next in the Dismal
    Swamp, scaring the owl and fox. The startings and arrivals of the
    cars are now the epochs in the village day. They go and come with
    such regularity and precision, and their whistle can be heard so
    far, that the farmers set their clocks by them, and thus one
    well-conducted institution regulates a whole country. Have not men
    improved somewhat in punctuality since the railroad was invented?
    Do they not talk and think faster in the depot than they did in the
    stage-office? There is something electrifying in the atmosphere of
    the former place. I have been astonished at the miracles it has
    wrought; that some of my neighbors, who, I should have prophesied,
    once for all, would never get to Boston by so prompt a conveyance,
    are on hand when the bell rings. To do things "railroad fashion" is
    now the byword; and it is worth the while to be warned so often and
    so sincerely by any power to get off its track. There is no
    stopping to read the riot act, no firing over the heads of the mob,
    in this case. We have constructed a fate, an Atropos, that never
    turns aside. (Let that be the name of your engine.) Men are
    advertised that at a certain hour and minute these bolts will be
    shot toward particular points of the compass; yet it interferes with
    no man's business, and the children go to school on the other track.
    We live the steadier for it. We are all educated thus to be sons of
    Tell. The air is full of invisible bolts. Every path but your own
    is the path of fate. Keep on your own track, then.
    What recommends commerce to me is its enterprise and bravery.
    It does not clasp its hands and pray to Jupiter. I see these men
    every day go about their business with more or less courage and
    content, doing more even than they suspect, and perchance better
    employed than they could have consciously devised. I am less
    affected by their heroism who stood up for half an hour in the front
    line at Buena Vista, than by the steady and cheerful valor of the
    men who inhabit the snowplow for their winter quarters; who have not
    merely the three-o'-clock-in-the-morning courage, which Bonaparte
    thought was the rarest, but whose courage does not go to rest so
    early, who go to sleep only when the storm sleeps or the sinews of
    their iron steed are frozen. On this morning of the Great Snow,
    perchance, which is still raging and chilling men's blood, I bear
    the muffled tone of their engine bell from out the fog bank of their
    chilled breath, which announces that the cars are coming, without
    long delay, notwithstanding the veto of a New England northeast
    snow-storm, and I behold the plowmen covered with snow and rime,
    their heads peering, above the mould-board which is turning down
    other than daisies and the nests of field mice, like bowlders of the
    Sierra Nevada, that occupy an outside place in the universe.
    Commerce is unexpectedly confident and serene, alert,
    adventurous, and unwearied. It is very natural in its methods
    withal, far more so than many fantastic enterprises and sentimental
    experiments, and hence its singular success. I am refreshed and
    expanded when the freight train rattles past me, and I smell the
    stores which go dispensing their odors all the way from Long Wharf
    to Lake Champlain, reminding me of foreign parts, of coral reefs,
    and Indian oceans, and tropical climes, and the extent of the globe.
    I feel more like a citizen of the world at the sight of the
    palm-leaf which will cover so many flaxen New England heads the next
    summer, the Manilla hemp and cocoanut husks, the old junk, gunny
    bags, scrap iron, and rusty nails. This carload of torn sails is
    more legible and interesting now than if they should be wrought into
    paper and printed books. Who can write so graphically the history
    of the storms they have weathered as these rents have done? They
    are proof-sheets which need no correction. Here goes lumber from
    the Maine woods, which did not go out to sea in the last freshet,
    risen four dollars on the thousand because of what did go out or was
    split up; pine, spruce, cedar -- first, second, third, and fourth
    qualities, so lately all of one quality, to wave over the bear, and
    moose, and caribou. Next rolls Thomaston lime, a prime lot, which
    will get far among the hills before it gets slacked. These rags in
    bales, of all hues and qualities, the lowest condition to which
    cotton and linen descend, the final result of dress -- of patterns
    which are now no longer cried up, unless it be in Milwaukee, as
    those splendid articles, English, French, or American prints,
    ginghams, muslins, etc., gathered from all quarters both of fashion
    and poverty, going to become paper of one color or a few shades
    only, on which, forsooth, will be written tales of real life, high
    and low, and founded on fact! This closed car smells of salt fish,
    the strong New England and commercial scent, reminding me of the
    Grand Banks and the fisheries. Who has not seen a salt fish,
    thoroughly cured for this world, so that nothing can spoil it, and
    putting, the perseverance of the saints to the blush? with which you
    may sweep or pave the streets, and split your kindlings, and the
    teamster shelter himself and his lading against sun, wind, and rain
    behind it -- and the trader, as a Concord trader once did, hang it
    up by his door for a sign when he commences business, until at last
    his oldest customer cannot tell surely whether it be animal,
    vegetable, or mineral, and yet it shall be as pure as a snowflake,
    and if it be put into a pot and boiled, will come out an excellent
    dun-fish for a Saturday's dinner. Next Spanish hides, with the
    tails still preserving their twist and the angle of elevation they
    had when the oxen that wore them were careering over the pampas of
    the Spanish Main -- a type of all obstinacy, and evincing how almost
    hopeless and incurable are all constitutional vices. I confess,
    that practically speaking, when I have learned a man's real
    disposition, I have no hopes of changing it for the better or worse
    in this state of existence. As the Orientals say, "A cur's tail may
    be warmed, and pressed, and bound round with ligatures, and after a
    twelve years' labor bestowed upon it, still it will retain its
    natural form." The only effectual cure for such inveteracies as
    these tails exhibit is to make glue of them, which I believe is what
    is usually done with them, and then they will stay put and stick.
    Here is a hogshead of molasses or of brandy directed to John Smith,
    Cuttingsville, Vermont, some trader among the Green Mountains, who
    imports for the farmers near his clearing, and now perchance stands
    over his bulkhead and thinks of the last arrivals on the coast, how
    they may affect the price for him, telling his customers this
    moment, as he has told them twenty times before this morning, that
    he expects some by the next train of prime quality. It is
    advertised in the Cuttingsville Times.
    While these things go up other things come down. Warned by the
    whizzing sound, I look up from my book and see some tall pine, hewn
    on far northern hills, which has winged its way over the Green
    Mountains and the Connecticut, shot like an arrow through the
    township within ten minutes, and scarce another eye beholds it;
    "to be the mast
    Of some great ammiral."

    And hark! here comes the cattle-train bearing the cattle of a
    thousand hills, sheepcots, stables, and cow-yards in the air,
    drovers with their sticks, and shepherd boys in the midst of their
    flocks, all but the mountain pastures, whirled along like leaves
    blown from the mountains by the September gales. The air is filled
    with the bleating of calves and sheep, and the hustling of oxen, as
    if a pastoral valley were going by. When the old bell-wether at the
    head rattles his bell, the mountains do indeed skip like rams and
    the little hills like lambs. A carload of drovers, too, in the
    midst, on a level with their droves now, their vocation gone, but
    still clinging to their useless sticks as their badge of office.
    But their dogs, where are they? It is a stampede to them; they are
    quite thrown out; they have lost the scent. Methinks I hear them
    barking behind the Peterboro' Hills, or panting up the western slope
    of the Green Mountains. They will not be in at the death. Their
    vocation, too, is gone. Their fidelity and sagacity are below par
    now. They will slink back to their kennels in disgrace, or
    perchance run wild and strike a league with the wolf and the fox.
    So is your pastoral life whirled past and away. But the bell rings,
    and I must get off the track and let the cars go by;--

    What's the railroad to me?
    I never go to see
    Where it ends.
    It fills a few hollows,
    And makes banks for the swallows,
    It sets the sand a-blowing,
    And the blackberries a-growing,

    but I cross it like a cart-path in the woods. I will not have my
    eyes put out and my ears spoiled by its smoke and steam and hissing.
    Now that the cars are gone by and all the restless world with
    them, and the fishes in the pond no longer feel their rumbling, I am
    more alone than ever. For the rest of the long afternoon, perhaps,
    my meditations are interrupted only by the faint rattle of a
    carriage or team along the distant highway.
    Sometimes, on Sundays, I heard the bells, the Lincoln, Acton,
    Bedford, or Concord bell, when the wind was favorable, a faint,
    sweet, and, as it were, natural melody, worth importing into the
    wilderness. At a sufficient distance over the woods this sound
    acquires a certain vibratory hum, as if the pine needles in the
    horizon were the strings of a harp which it swept. All sound heard
    at the greatest possible distance produces one and the same effect,
    a vibration of the universal lyre, just as the intervening
    atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth interesting to our eyes by
    the azure tint it imparts to it. There came to me in this case a
    melody which the air had strained, and which had conversed with
    every leaf and needle of the wood, that portion of the sound which
    the elements had taken up and modulated and echoed from vale to
    vale. The echo is, to some extent, an original sound, and therein
    is the magic and charm of it. It is not merely a repetition of what
    was worth repeating in the bell, but partly the voice of the wood;
    the same trivial words and notes sung by a wood-nymph.
    At evening, the distant lowing of some cow in the horizon beyond
    the woods sounded sweet and melodious, and at first I would mistake
    it for the voices of certain minstrels by whom I was sometimes
    serenaded, who might be straying over hill and dale; but soon I was
    not unpleasantly disappointed when it was prolonged into the cheap
    and natural music of the cow. I do not mean to be satirical, but to
    express my appreciation of those youths' singing, when I state that
    I perceived clearly that it was akin to the music of the cow, and
    they were at length one articulation of Nature.
    Regularly at half-past seven, in one part of the summer, after
    the evening train had gone by, the whip-poor-wills chanted their
    vespers for half an hour, sitting on a stump by my door, or upon the
    ridge-pole of the house. They would begin to sing almost with as
    much precision as a clock, within five minutes of a particular time,
    referred to the setting of the sun, every evening. I had a rare
    opportunity to become acquainted with their habits. Sometimes I
    heard four or five at once in different parts of the wood, by
    accident one a bar behind another, and so near me that I
    distinguished not only the cluck after each note, but often that
    singular buzzing sound like a fly in a spider's web, only
    proportionally louder. Sometimes one would circle round and round
    me in the woods a few feet distant as if tethered by a string, when
    probably I was near its eggs. They sang at intervals throughout the
    night, and were again as musical as ever just before and about dawn.
    When other birds are still, the screech owls take up the strain,
    like mourning women their ancient u-lu-lu. Their dismal scream is
    truly Ben Jonsonian. Wise midnight hags! It is no honest and blunt
    tu-whit tu-who of the poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn
    graveyard ditty, the mutual consolations of suicide lovers
    remembering the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the
    infernal groves. Yet I love to hear their wailing, their doleful
    responses, trilled along the woodside; reminding me sometimes of
    music and singing birds; as if it were the dark and tearful side of
    music, the regrets and sighs that would fain be sung. They are the
    spirits, the low spirits and melancholy forebodings, of fallen souls
    that once in human shape night-walked the earth and did the deeds of
    darkness, now expiating their sins with their wailing hymns or
    threnodies in the scenery of their transgressions. They give me a
    new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our
    common dwelling. Oh-o-o-o-o that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n!
    sighs one on this side of the pond, and circles with the
    restlessness of despair to some new perch on the gray oaks. Then --
    that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n! echoes another on the farther
    side with tremulous sincerity, and -- bor-r-r-r-n! comes faintly
    from far in the Lincoln woods.
    I was also serenaded by a hooting owl. Near at hand you could
    fancy it the most melancholy sound in Nature, as if she meant by
    this to stereotype and make permanent in her choir the dying moans
    of a human being -- some poor weak relic of mortality who has left
    hope behind, and howls like an animal, yet with human sobs, on
    entering the dark valley, made more awful by a certain gurgling
    melodiousness -- I find myself beginning with the letters gl when I
    try to imitate it -- expressive of a mind which has reached the
    gelatinous, mildewy stage in the mortification of all healthy and
    courageous thought. It reminded me of ghouls and idiots and insane
    howlings. But now one answers from far woods in a strain made
    really melodious by distance -- Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer hoo; and indeed
    for the most part it suggested only pleasing associations, whether
    heard by day or night, summer or winter.
    I rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and
    maniacal hooting for men. It is a sound admirably suited to swamps
    and twilight woods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and
    undeveloped nature which men have not recognized. They represent
    the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all have. All day
    the sun has shone on the surface of some savage swamp, where the
    single spruce stands hung with usnea lichens, and small hawks
    circulate above, and the chickadee lisps amid the evergreens, and
    the partridge and rabbit skulk beneath; but now a more dismal and
    fitting day dawns, and a different race of creatures awakes to
    express the meaning of Nature there.
    Late in the evening I heard the distant rumbling of wagons over
    bridges -- a sound heard farther than almost any other at night --
    the baying of dogs, and sometimes again the lowing of some
    disconsolate cow in a distant barn-yard. In the mean-while all the
    shore rang with the trump of bullfrogs, the sturdy spirits of
    ancient wine-bibbers and wassailers, still unrepentant, trying to
    sing a catch in their Stygian lake -- if the Walden nymphs will
    pardon the comparison, for though there are almost no weeds, there
    are frogs there -- who would fain keep up the hilarious rules of
    their old festal tables, though their voices have waxed hoarse and
    solemnly grave, mocking at mirth, and the wine has lost its flavor,
    and become only liquor to distend their paunches, and sweet
    intoxication never comes to drown the memory of the past, but mere
    saturation and waterloggedness and distention. The most aldermanic,
    with his chin upon a heart-leaf, which serves for a napkin to his
    drooling chaps, under this northern shore quaffs a deep draught of
    the once scorned water, and passes round the cup with the
    ejaculation tr-r-r-oonk, tr-r-r--oonk, tr-r-r-oonk! and straightway
    comes over the water from some distant cove the same password
    repeated, where the next in seniority and girth has gulped down to
    his mark; and when this observance has made the circuit of the
    shores, then ejaculates the master of ceremonies, with satisfaction,
    tr-r-r-oonk! and each in his turn repeats the same down to the least
    distended, leakiest, and flabbiest paunched, that there be no
    mistake; and then the howl goes round again and again, until the sun
    disperses the morning mist, and only the patriarch is not under the
    pond, but vainly bellowing troonk from time to time, and pausing for
    a reply.
    I am not sure that I ever heard the sound of cock-crowing from
    my clearing, and I thought that it might be worth the while to keep
    a cockerel for his music merely, as a singing bird. The note of
    this once wild Indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of
    any bird's, and if they could be naturalized without being
    domesticated, it would soon become the most famous sound in our
    woods, surpassing the clangor of the goose and the hooting of the
    owl; and then imagine the cackling of the hens to fill the pauses
    when their lords' clarions rested! No wonder that man added this
    bird to his tame stock -- to say nothing of the eggs and drumsticks.
    To walk in a winter morning in a wood where these birds abounded,
    their native woods, and hear the wild cockerels crow on the trees,
    clear and shrill for miles over the resounding earth, drowning the
    feebler notes of other birds -- think of it! It would put nations
    on the alert. Who would not be early to rise, and rise earlier and
    earlier every successive day of his life, till he became unspeakably
    healthy, wealthy, and wise? This foreign bird's note is celebrated
    by the poets of all countries along with the notes of their native
    songsters. All climates agree with brave Chanticleer. He is more
    indigenous even than the natives. His health is ever good, his
    lungs are sound, his spirits never flag. Even the sailor on the
    Atlantic and Pacific is awakened by his voice; but its shrill sound
    never roused me from my slumbers. I kept neither dog, cat, cow,
    pig, nor hens, so that you would have said there was a deficiency of
    domestic sounds; neither the churn, nor the spinning-wheel, nor even
    the singing of the kettle, nor the hissing of the urn, nor children
    crying, to comfort one. An old-fashioned man would have lost his
    senses or died of ennui before this. Not even rats in the wall, for
    they were starved out, or rather were never baited in -- only
    squirrels on the roof and under the floor, a whip-poor-will on the
    ridge-pole, a blue jay screaming beneath the window, a hare or
    woodchuck under the house, a screech owl or a cat owl behind it, a
    flock of wild geese or a laughing 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.
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