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1Now only a dent in the earth marks the site of these dwellings, with buried cellar stones, and strawberries,
2raspberries, thimble-berries, hazel-bushes, and sumachs growing in the sunny sward there; some pitch-pine or gnarled oak
3occupies what was the chimney nook, and a sweet-scented black-birch, perhaps, waves where the door-stone was. Sometimes
4the well dent is visible, where once a spring oozed; now dry and tearless grass; or it was covered deep,--not to be
5discovered till some late day,--with a flat stone under the sod, when the last of the race departed. What a sorrowful
6act must that be,--the covering up of wells! coincident with the opening of wells of tears. These cellar dents, like
7deserted fox burrows, old holes, are all that is left where once were the stir and bustle of human life, and "fate,
8free-will, foreknowledge absolute," in some form and dialect or other were by turns discussed. But all I can learn of
9their conclusions amounts to just this, that "Cato and Brister pulled wool;" which is about as edifying as the history
10of more famous schools of philosophy. Still grows the vivacious lilac a generation after the door and lintel and the
11sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented flowers each spring, to be plucked by the musing traveller; planted and
12tended once by children's hands, in front-yard plots,--now standing by wall-sides in retired pastures, and giving place
13to new-rising forests;--the last of that stirp, sole survivor of that family. Little did the dusky children think that
14the puny slip with its two eyes only, which they stuck in the ground in the shadow of the house and daily watered, would
15root itself so, and outlive them, and house itself in the rear that shaded it, and grown man's garden and orchard, and
16tell their story faintly to the lone wanderer a half century after they had grown up and died,--blossoming as fair, and
17smelling as sweet, as in that first spring. I mark its still tender, civil, cheerful, lilac colors. But this small
18village, germ of something more, why did it fail while Concord keeps its ground? Were there no natural advantages,--no
19water privileges, forsooth? Ay, the deep Walden Pond and cool Brister's Spring,--privilege to drink long and healthy
20draughts at these, all unimproved by these men but to dilute their glass. They were universally a thirsty race. Might
21not the basket, stable-broom, mat-making, corn-parching, linen-spinning, and pottery business have thrived here, making
22the wilderness to blossom like the rose, and a numerous posterity have inherited the land of their fathers? The sterile
23soil would at least have been proof against a low-land degeneracy. Alas! how little does the memory of these human
24inhabitants enhance the beauty of the landscape! Again, perhaps, Nature will try, with me for a first settler, and my
25house raised last spring to be the oldest in the hamlet. I am not aware that any man has ever built on the spot which I
26occupy. Deliver me from a city built on the site of a more ancient city, whose materials are ruins, whose gardens
27cemeteries. The soil is blanched and accursed there, and before that becomes necessary the earth itself will be
28destroyed. With such reminiscences I repeopled the woods and lulled myself asleep. At this season I seldom had a
29visitor. When the snow lay deepest no wanderer ventured near my house for a week or fortnight at a time, but there I
30lived as snug as a meadow mouse, or as cattle and poultry which are said to have survived for a long time buried in
31drifts, even without food; or like that early settler's family in the town of Sutton, in this state, whose cottage was
32completely covered by the great snow of 1717 when he was absent, and an Indian found it only by the hole which the
33chimney's breath made in the drift, and so relieved the family. But no friendly Indian concerned himself about me; nor
34needed he, for the master of the house was at home. The Great Snow! How cheerful it is to hear of! When the farmers
35could not get to the woods and swamps with their teams, and were obliged to cut down the shade trees before their
36houses, and when the crust was harder, cut off the trees in the swamps, ten feet from the ground, as it appeared the
37next spring. In the deepest snows, the path which I used from the highway to my house, about half a mile long, might
38have been represented by a meandering dotted line, with wide intervals between the dots. For a week of even weather I
39took exactly the same number of steps, and of the same length, coming and going, stepping deliberately and with the
40precision of a pair of dividers in my own deep tracks,--to such routine the winter reduces us,--yet often they were
41filled with heaven's own blue. But no weather interfered fatally with my walks, or rather my going abroad, for I
42frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a
43yellow-birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines; when the ice and snow causing their limbs to droop, and so
44sharpening their tops, had changed the pines into fir-trees; wading to the tops of the highest hills when the snow was
45nearly two feet deep on a level, and shaking down another snow-storm on my head at every step; or sometimes creeping and
46floundering thither on my hands and knees, when the hunters had gone into winter quarters. One afternoon I amused myself
47by watching a barred owl (Strix nebulosa) sitting on one of the lower dead limbs of a white-pine, close to the trunk, in
48broad daylight, I standing within a rod of him. He could hear me when I moved and cronched the snow with my feet, but
49could not plainly see me. When I made most noise he would stretch out his neck, and erect his neck feathers, and open
50his eyes wide; but their lids soon fell again, and he began to nod. I too felt a slumberous influence after watching him
51half an hour, as he sat thus with his eyes half open, like a cat, winged brother of the cat. There was only a narrow
52slit left between their lids, by which he preserved a peninsular relation to me; thus, with half-shut eyes, looking out
53from the land of dreams, and endeavoring to realize me, vague object or mote that interrupted his visions. At length, on
54some louder noise or my nearer approach, he would grow uneasy and sluggishly turn about on his perch, as if impatient at
55having his dreams disturbed; and when he launched himself off and flapped through the pines, spreading his wings to
56unexpected breadth, I could not hear the slightest sound from them. Thus, guided amid the pine boughs rather by a
57delicate sense of their neighborhood than by sight, feeling his twilight way as it were with his sensitive pinions, he
58found a new perch, where he might in peace await the dawning of his day. As I walked over the long causeway made for the
59railroad through the meadows, I encountered many a blustering and nipping wind, for nowhere has it freer play; and when
60the frost had smitten me on one cheek, heathen as I was, I turned to it the other also. Nor was it much better by the
61carriage road from Brister's Hill. For I came to town still, like a friendly Indian, when the contents of the broad open
62fields were all piled up between the walls of the Walden road, and half an hour sufficed to obliterate the tracks of the
63last traveller. And when I returned new drifts would have formed, through which I floundered, where the busy north-west
64wind had been depositing the powdery snow round a sharp angle in the road, and not a rabbit's track, nor even the fine
65print, the small type, of a meadow mouse was to be seen. Yet I rarely failed to find, even in mid-winter, some warm and
66springly swamp where the grass and the skunk-cabbage still put forth with perennial verdure, and some hardier bird
67occasionally awaited the return of spring.
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