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quite thrown out； they have lost the scent。 Methinks I hear them
barking behind the Peterboro' Hills； or panting up the western slope
of the Green Mountains。 They will not be in at the death。 Their
vocation； too； is gone。 Their fidelity and sagacity are below par
now。 They will slink back to their kennels in disgrace； or
perchance run wild and strike a league with the wolf and the fox。
So is your pastoral life whirled past and away。 But the bell rings；
and I must get off the track and let the cars go by；
What's the railroad to me？
I never go to see
Where it ends。
It fills a few hollows；
And makes banks for the swallows；
It sets the sand a…blowing；
And the blackberries a…growing；
but I cross it like a cart…path in the woods。 I will not have my
eyes put out and my ears spoiled by its smoke and steam and hissing。
Now that the cars are gone by and all the restless world with
them； and the fishes in the pond no longer feel their rumbling； I am
more alone than ever。 For the rest of the long afternoon； perhaps；
my meditations are interrupted only by the faint rattle of a
carriage or team along the distant highway。
Sometimes； on Sundays； I heard the bells； the Lincoln； Acton；
Bedford； or Concord bell； when the wind was favorable； a faint；
sweet； and； as it were； natural melody； worth importing into the
wilderness。 At a sufficient distance over the woods this sound
acquires a certain vibratory hum； as if the pine needles in the
horizon were the strings of a harp which it swept。 All sound heard
at the greatest possible distance produces one and the same effect；
a vibration of the universal lyre； just as the intervening
atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth interesting to our eyes by
the azure tint it imparts to it。 There came to me in this case a
melody which the air had strained； and which had conversed with
every leaf and needle of the wood； that portion of the sound which
the elements had taken up and modulated and echoed from vale to
vale。 The echo is； to some extent； an original sound； and therein
is the magic and charm of it。 It is not merely a repetition of what
was worth repeating in the bell； but partly the voice of the wood；
the same trivial words and notes sung by a wood…nymph。
At evening； the distant lowing of some cow in the horizon beyond
the woods sounded sweet and melodious； and at first I would mistake
it for the voices of certain minstrels by whom I was sometimes
serenaded； who might be straying over hill and dale； but soon I was
not unpleasantly disappointed when it was prolonged into the cheap
and natural music of the cow。 I do not mean to be satirical； but to
express my appreciation of those youths' singing； when I state that
I perceived clearly that it was akin to the music of the cow； and
they were at length one articulation of Nature。
Regularly at half…past seven； in one part of the summer； after
the evening train had gone by； the whip…poor…wills chanted their
vespers for half an hour； sitting on a stump by my door； or upon the
ridge…pole of the house。 They would begin to sing almost with as
much precision as a clock； within five minutes of a particular time；
referred to the setting of the sun； every evening。 I had a rare
opportunity to become acquainted with their habits。 Sometimes I
heard four or five at once in different parts of the wood； by
accident one a bar behind another； and so near me that I
distinguished not only the cluck after each note； but often that
singular buzzing sound like a fly in a spider's web； only
proportionally louder。 Sometimes one would circle round and round
me in the woods a few feet distant as if tethered by a string； when
probably I was near its eggs。 They sang at intervals throughout the
night； and were again as musical as ever just before and about dawn。
When other birds are still； the screech owls take up the strain；
like mourning women their ancient u…lu…lu。 Their dismal scream is
truly Ben Jonsonian。 Wise midnight hags！ It is no honest and blunt
tu…whit tu…who of the poets； but； without jesting； a most solemn
graveyard ditty； the mutual consolations of suicide lovers
remembering the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the
infernal groves。 Yet I love to hear their wailing； their doleful
responses； trilled along the woodside； reminding me sometimes of
music and singing birds； as if it were the dark and tearful side of
music； the regrets and sighs that would fain be sung。 They are the
spirits； the low spirits and melancholy forebodings； of fallen souls
that once in human shape night…walked the earth and did the deeds of
darkness； now expiating their sins with their wailing hymns or
threnodies in the scenery of their transgressions。 They give me a
new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our
common dwelling。 Oh…o…o…o…o that I never had been bor…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 gray oaks。 Then
that I never had been bor…r…r…r…n！ echoes another on the farther
side with tremulous sincerity； and 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 could
fancy it the most melancholy sound in Nature； as if she meant by
this to stereotype and make permanent in her choir the dying moans
of a human being some poor weak relic of mortality who has left
hope behind； and howls like an animal； yet with human sobs； on
entering the dark valley； made more awful by a certain gurgling
melodiousness I find myself beginning with the letters gl when I
try to imitate it expressive of a mind which has reached the
gelatinous； mildewy stage in the mortification of all healthy and
courageous thought。 It reminded me of ghouls and idiots and insane
howlings。 But now one answers from far woods in a strain made
really melodious by distance Hoo hoo hoo； hoorer hoo； and indeed
for the most part it suggested only pleasing associations； whether
heard by day or night； summer or winter。
I rejoice that there are owls。 Let them do the idiotic and
maniacal hooting for men。 It is a sound admirably suited to swamps
and twilight woods which no day illustrates； suggesting a vast and
undeveloped nature which men have not recognized。 They represent
the stark twilight and unsatisfied thoughts which all have。 All day
the sun has shone on the surface of some savage swamp； where the
single spruce stands hung with usnea lichens； and small hawks
circulate above； and the chickadee lisps amid the evergreens； and
the partridge and rabbit skulk beneath； but now a more dismal and
fitting day dawns； and a different race of creatures awakes to
express the meaning of Nature there。
Late in the evening I heard the distant rumbling of wagons over
b