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1This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense, and imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come
2with a strange liberty in Nature, a part of herself. As I walk along the stony shore of the pond in my shirt sleeves,
3though it is cool as well as cloudy and windy, and I see nothing special to attract me, all the elements are unusually
4congenial to me. The bullfrogs trump to usher in the night, and the note of the whippoorwill is borne on the rippling
5wind from over the water. Sympathy with the fluttering alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like
6the lake, my serenity is rippled but not ruffled. These small waves raised by the evening wind are as remote from storm
7as the smooth reflecting surface. Though it is now dark, the wind still blows and roars in the wood, the waves still
8dash, and some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is never complete. The wildest animals do not
9repose, but seek their prey now; the fox, and skunk, and rabbit, now roam the fields and woods without fear. They are
10Nature's watchmen,--links which connect the days of animated life. When I return to my house I find that visitors have
11been there and left their cards, either a bunch of flowers, or a wreath of evergreen, or a name in pencil on a yellow
12walnut leaf or a chip. They who come rarely to the woods take some little piece of the forest into their hands to play
13with by the way, which they leave, either intentionally or accidentally. One has peeled a willow wand, woven it into a
14ring, and dropped it on my table. I could always tell if visitors had called in my absence, either by the bended twigs
15or grass, or the print of their shoes, and generally of what sex or age or quality they were by some slight trace left,
16as a flower dropped, or a bunch of grass plucked and thrown away, even as far off as the railroad, half a mile distant,
17or by the lingering odor of a cigar or pipe. Nay, I was frequently notified of the passage of a traveller along the
18highway sixty rods off by the scent of his pipe. There is commonly sufficient space about us. Our horizon is never quite
19at our elbows. The thick wood is not just at our door, nor the pond, but somewhat is always clearing, familiar and worn
20by us, appropriated and fenced in some way, and reclaimed from Nature. For what reason have I this vast range and
21circuit, some square miles of unfrequented forest, for my privacy, abandoned to me by men? My nearest neighbor is a mile
22distant, and no house is visible from any place but the hill-tops within half a mile of my own. I have my horizon
23bounded by woods all to myself; a distant view of the railroad where it touches the pond on the one hand, and of the
24fence which skirts the woodland road on the other. But for the most part it is as solitary where I live as on the
25prairies. It is as much Asia or Africa as New England. I have, as it were, my own sun and moon and stars, and a little
26world all to myself. At night there was never a traveller passed my house, or knocked at my door, more than if I were
27the first or last man; unless it were in the spring, when at long intervals some came from the village to fish for
28pouts,--they plainly fished much more in the Walden Pond of their own natures, and baited their hooks with
29darkness,--but they soon retreated, usually with light baskets, and left "the world to darkness and to me," and the
30black kernel of the night was never profaned by any human neighborhood. I believe that men are generally still a little
31afraid of the dark, though the witches are all hung, and Christianity and candles have been introduced. Yet I
32experienced sometimes that the most sweet and tender, the most innocent and encouraging society may be found in any
33natural object, even for the poor misanthrope and most melancholy man. There can be no very black melancholy to him who
34lives in the midst of Nature and has his senses still. There was never yet such a storm but it was Æolian music to a
35healthy and innocent ear. Nothing can rightly compel a simple and brave man to a vulgar sadness. While I enjoy the
36friendship of the seasons I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me. The gentle rain which waters my beans and
37keeps me in the house to-day is not drear and melancholy, but good for me too. Though it prevents my hoeing them, it is
38of far more worth than my hoeing. If it should continue so long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy
39the potatoes in the low lands, it would still be good for the grass on the uplands, and, being good for the grass, it
40would be good for me. Sometimes, when I compare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the gods
41than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of; as if I had a warrant and surety at their hands which my fellows
42have not, and were especially guided and guarded. I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. I have
43never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of solitude, but once, and that was a few weeks after I came
44to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy
45life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and
46seemed to foresee my recovery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of
47such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my
48house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied
49advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every little pine needle
50expanded and swelled with sympathy and befriended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something
51kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accustomed to call wild and dreary, and also that the nearest of blood to me
52and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again.-- "Mourning
53untimely consumes the sad; Few are their days in the land of the living, Beautiful daughter of Toscar."
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