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1The next winter I used a small cooking-stove for economy, since I did not own the forest; but it did not keep fire so
2well as the open fire-place. Cooking was then, for the most part, no longer a poetic, but merely a chemic process. It
3will soon be forgotten, in these days of stoves, that we used to roast potatoes in the ashes, after the Indian fashion.
4The stove not only took up room and scented the house, but it concealed the fire, and I felt as if I had lost a
5companion. You can always see a face in the fire. The laborer, looking into it at evening, purifies his thoughts of the
6dross and earthiness which they have accumulated during the day. But I could no longer sit and look into the fire, and
7the pertinent words of a poet recurred to me with new force.-- "Never, bright flame, may be denied to me Thy dear, life
8imaging, close sympathy. What but my hopes shot upward e'er so bright? What but my fortunes sunk so low in night? Why
9art thou banished from our hearth and hall, Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all? Was thy existence then too
10fanciful For our life's common light, who are so dull? Did thy bright gleam mysterious converse hold With our congenial
11souls? secrets too bold? Well, we are safe and strong, for now we sit Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit, Where
12nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire Warms feet and hands--nor does to more aspire; By whose compact utilitarian heap
13The present may sit down and go to sleep, Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked, And with us by the unequal
14light of the old wood fire talked." Former Inhabitants and Winter Visitors I weathered some merry snow storms, and spent
15some cheerful winter evenings by my fire-side, while the snow whirled wildly without, and even the hooting of the owl
16was hushed. For many weeks I met no one in my walks but those who came occasionally to cut wood and sled it to the
17village. The elements, however, abetted me in making a path through the deepest snow in the woods, for when I had once
18gone through the wind blew the oak leaves into my tracks, where they lodged, and by absorbing the rays of the sun melted
19the snow, and so not only made a dry bed for my feet, but in the night their dark line was my guide. For human society I
20was obliged to conjure up the former occupants of these woods. Within the memory of many of my townsmen the road near
21which my house stands resounded with the laugh and gossip of inhabitants, and the woods which border it were notched and
22dotted here and there with their little gardens and dwellings, though it was then much more shut in by the forest than
23now. In some places, within my own remembrance, the pines would scrape both sides of a chaise at once, and women and
24children who were compelled to go this way to Lincoln alone and on foot did it with fear, and often ran a good part of
25the distance. Though mainly but a humble route to neighboring villages, or for the woodman's team, it once amused the
26traveller more than now by its variety, and lingered longer in his memory. Where now firm open fields stretch from the
27village to the woods, it then ran through a maple swamp on a foundation of logs, the remnants of which, doubtless, still
28underlie the present dusty highway, from the Stratton, now the Alms House, Farm, to Brister's Hill. East of my
29bean-field, across the road, lived Cato Ingraham, slave of Duncan Ingraham, Esquire, gentleman, of Concord village, who
30built his slave a house, and gave him permission to live in Walden Woods;--Cato, not Uticensis, but Concordiensis. Some
31say that he was a Guinea Negro. There are a few who remember his little patch among the walnuts, which he let grow up
32till he should be old and need them; but a younger and whiter speculator got them at last. He too, however, occupies an
33equally narrow house at present. Cato's half-obliterated cellar hole still remains, though known to few, being concealed
34from the traveller by a fringe of pines. It is now filled with the smooth sumach (Rhus glabra,) and one of the earliest
35species of golden-rod (Solidago stricta) grows there luxuriantly. Here, by the very corner of my field, still nearer to
36town, Zilpha, a colored woman, had her little house, where she spun linen for the townsfolk, making the Walden Woods
37ring with her shrill singing, for she had a loud and notable voice. At length, in the war of 1812, her dwelling was set
38on fire by English soldiers, prisoners on parole, when she was away, and her cat and dog and hens were all burned up
39together. She led a hard life, and somewhat inhumane. One old frequenter of these woods remembers, that as he passed her
40house one noon he heard her muttering to herself over her gurgling pot,--"Ye are all bones, bones!" I have seen bricks
41amid the oak copse there. Down the road, on the right hand, on Brister's Hill, lived Brister Freeman, "a handy Negro,"
42slave of Squire Cummings once,--there where grow still the apple-trees which Brister planted and tended; large old trees
43now, but their fruit still wild and ciderish to my taste. Not long since I read his epitaph in the old Lincoln
44burying-ground, a little on one side, near the unmarked graves of some British grenadiers who fell in the retreat from
45Concord,--where he is styled "Sippio Brister,"--Scipio Africanus he had some title to be called,--"a man of color," as
46if he were discolored. It also told me, with staring emphasis, when he died; which was but an indirect way of informing
47me that he ever lived. With him dwelt Fenda, his hospitable wife, who told fortunes, yet pleasantly,--large, round, and
48black, blacker than any of the children of night, such a dusky orb as never rose on Concord before or since. Farther
49down the hill, on the left, on the old road in the woods, are marks of some homestead of the Stratton family; whose
50orchard once covered all the slope of Brister's Hill, but was long since killed out by pitch pines, excepting a few
51stumps, whose old roots furnish still the wild stocks of many a thrifty village tree. Nearer yet to town, you come to
52Breed's location, on the other side of the way, just on the edge of the wood; ground famous for the pranks of a demon
53not distinctly named in old mythology, who has acted a prominent and astounding part in our New England life, and
54deserves, as much as any mythological character, to have his biography written one day; who first comes in the guise of
55a friend or hired man, and then robs and murders the whole family,--New-England Rum. But history must not yet tell the
56tragedies enacted here; let time intervene in some measure to assuage and lend an azure tint to them. Here the most
57indistinct and dubious tradition says that once a tavern stood; the well the same, which tempered the traveller's
58beverage and refreshed his steed. Here then men saluted one another, and heard and told the news, and went their ways
59again.
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