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    Chapter 15

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    Chapter 15
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    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.
    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.
    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.
    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.
    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 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 eyed 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 topmost 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.
    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 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 titmice came daily to pick a dinner out of my woodpile, 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 woodside. 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 hillside 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
    sunbeams 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.
    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 be would run in a straight line
    away no foxhound 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 everything
    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 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
    round, 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 farmhouse for the night, whence, having been well fed, they
    took their departure 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 foxhound 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 1/2 a Catt skin 0--1--4+"; 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
    deerskins 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 roadside 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
    midsummer, 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 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.)
    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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