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1Regularly at half past seven, in one part of the summer, after the evening train had gone by, the whippoorwills chanted
2their vespers for half an hour, sitting on a stump by my door, or upon the ridge pole of the house. They would begin to
3sing almost with as much precision as a clock, within five minutes of a particular time, referred to the setting of the
4sun, every evening. I had a rare opportunity to become acquainted with their habits. Sometimes I heard four or five at
5once in different parts of the wood, by accident one a bar behind another, and so near me that I distinguished not only
6the cluck after each note, but often that singular buzzing sound like a fly in a spider's web, only proportionally
7louder. Sometimes one would circle round and round me in the woods a few feet distant as if tethered by a string, when
8probably I was near its eggs. They sang at intervals throughout the night, and were again as musical as ever just before
9and about dawn. When other birds are still the screech owls take up the strain, like mourning women their ancient
10u-lu-lu. Their dismal scream is truly Ben Jonsonian. Wise midnight hags! It is no honest and blunt tu-whit tu-who of the
11poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the mutual consolations of suicide lovers remembering the
12pangs and the delights of supernal love in the infernal groves. Yet I love to hear their wailing, their doleful
13responses, trilled along the wood-side; reminding me sometimes of music and singing birds; as if it were the dark and
14tearful side of music, the regrets and sighs that would fain be sung. They are the spirits, the low spirits and
15melancholy forebodings, of fallen souls that once in human shape night-walked the earth and did the deeds of darkness,
16now expiating their sins with their wailing hymns or threnodies in the scenery of their transgressions. They give me a
17new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our common dwelling. Oh-o-o-o-o that I never had been
18bor-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
19gray oaks. Then--that I never had been bor-r-r-r-n! echoes another on the farther side with tremulous sincerity,
20and--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
21could fancy it the most melancholy sound in Nature, as if she meant by this to stereotype and make permanent in her
22choir the dying moans of a human being,--some poor weak relic of mortality who has left hope behind, and howls like an
23animal, yet with human sobs, on entering the dark valley, made more awful by a certain gurgling melodiousness,--I find
24myself beginning with the letters gl when I try to imitate it,--expressive of a mind which has reached the gelatinous
25mildewy stage in the mortification of all healthy and courageous thought. It reminded me of ghouls and idiots and insane
26howlings. But now one answers from far woods in a strain made really melodious by distance,--Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer hoo;
27and indeed for the most part it suggested only pleasing associations, whether heard by day or night, summer or winter. I
28rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and maniacal hooting for men. It is a sound admirably suited to
29swamps and twilight woods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and undeveloped nature which men have not
30recognized. They represent the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all have. All day the sun has shone on the
31surface of some savage swamp, where the single spruce stands hung with usnea lichens, and small hawks circulate above,
32and the chickadee lisps amid the evergreens, and the partridge and rabbit skulk beneath; but now a more dismal and
33fitting day dawns, and a different race of creatures awakes to express the meaning of Nature there. Late in the evening
34I heard the distant rumbling of wagons over bridges,--a sound heard farther than almost any other at night,--the baying
35of dogs, and sometimes again the lowing of some disconsolate cow in a distant barn-yard. In the mean while all the shore
36rang with the trump of bullfrogs, the sturdy spirits of ancient wine-bibbers and wassailers, still unrepentant, trying
37to sing a catch in their Stygian lake,--if the Walden nymphs will pardon the comparison, for though there are almost no
38weeds, there are frogs there,--who would fain keep up the hilarious rules of their old festal tables, though their
39voices have waxed hoarse and solemnly grave, mocking at mirth, and the wine has lost its flavor, and become only liquor
40to distend their paunches, and sweet intoxication never comes to drown the memory of the past, but mere saturation and
41waterloggedness and distention. The most aldermanic, with his chin upon a heart-leaf, which serves for a napkin to his
42drooling chaps, under this northern shore quaffs a deep draught of the once scorned water, and passes round the cup with
43the ejaculation tr-r-r-oonk, tr-r-r-oonk, tr-r-r-oonk! and straightway comes over the water from some distant cove the
44same password repeated, where the next in seniority and girth has gulped down to his mark; and when this observance has
45made the circuit of the shores, then ejaculates the master of ceremonies, with satisfaction, tr-r-r-oonk! and each in
46his turn repeats the same down to the least distended, leakiest, and flabbiest paunched, that there be no mistake; and
47then the bowl goes round again and again, until the sun disperses the morning mist, and only the patriarch is not under
48the pond, but vainly bellowing troonk from time to time, and pausing for a reply.
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