The present was my next experiment of this kind,which I purpose to describe more at length,for convenience putting the experience of two years into one.As I have said,I do not propose to write an ode to dejection,but to brag as lustily as chanticleer in the morning,standing on his roost,if only to wake my neighbors up.
When first I took up my abode in the woods,that is,began to spend my nights as well as days there,which,by accident,was on Independence Day,or the Fourth of July,1845,my house was not finished for winter,but was merely a defence against the rain,without plastering or chimney,the walls being of rough,weather-stained boards,with wide chinks,which made it cool at night.The upright white hewn studs and freshly planed door and window casings give it a clean and airy look,especially in the morning,when its timbers were saturated with dew,so that I fancied that by noon some sweet gum would exude from them.To my imagination it retained throughout the day more or less of this auroral character,reminding me of a certain house on a mountain which I had visited a year before.This was an airy and unplastered cabin,fit to entertain a travelling god,and where a goddess might trail her garments.The winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the ridges of mountains,bearing the broken strains,or celestial parts only,of terrestrial music.The morning wind forever blows,the poem of creation is uninterrupted;but few are the ears that hear it.Olympus is but the outside of the earth everywhere.
The only house I had been the owner of before,if I except a boat,was a tent,which I used occasionally when making excursions in the summer,and this is still rolled up in my garret;but the boat,after passing from hand to hand,has gone down the stream of time.With this more substantial shelter about me,I had made some progress toward settling in the world.This frame,so slightly clad,was a sort of crystallization around me,and reacted on the builder.It was suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines.I did not need to go outdoors to take the air,for the atmosphere within had lost none of its freshness.It was not so much within-doors as behind a door where I sat,even in the rainiest weather.The Harivansa says,“An abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning.”Such was not my abode,for I found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds;not by having imprisoned one,but having caged myself near them.I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly frequent the garden and the orchard,but to those wilder and more thrilling songsters of the forest which never,or rarely,serenade a villager,-the wood thrush,the veery,the scarlet tanager,the field sparrow,the whip-poor-will,and many others.
I was seated by the shore of a small pond,about a mile and a half south of the village of Concord and somewhat higher than it,in the midst of an extensive wood between that town and Lincoln,and about two miles south of that our only field known to fame,Concord Battle Grounds;but I was so low in the woods that the opposite shore,half a mile off,like the rest,covered with wood,was my most distant horizon.For the first week,whenever I looked out on the pond it impressed me like a tarn high up on the side of a mountain,its bottom far above the surface of other lakes,and,as the sun arose,I saw it throwing off its nightly clothing of mist,and here and there,by degrees,its soft ripples or its smooth reflecting surface was revealed,while the mists,like ghosts,were stealthily withdrawing in every direction into the woods,as at the breaking up of some nocturnal conventicle.The very dew seemed to hang upon the trees later into the day than usual,as on the sides of mountains.
This small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals of a gentle rain-storm in August,when,both air and water being perfectly still,but the sky overcast,mid-afternoon had all the serenity of evening,and the wood thrush sang around,and was heard from shore to shore.A lake like this is never smoother than at such a time;and the clear portion of the air above it being shallow and darkened by clouds,the water,full of light and reflections,becomes a lower heaven itself so much the more important.From a hill-top near by,where the wood had been recently cut off,there was a pleasing vista southward across the pond,through a wide indentation in the hills which form the shore there,where their opposite sides sloping toward each other suggested a stream flowing out in that direction through a wooded valley,but stream there was none.That way I looked between and over the near green hills to some distant and higher ones in the horizon,tinged with blue.Indeed,by standing on tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the peaks of the still bluer and more distant mountain ranges in the northwest,those true-blue coins from heaven's own mint,and also of some portion of the village.But in other directions,even from this point,I could not see over or beyond the woods which surrounded me.It is well to have some water in your neighborhood,to give buoyancy to and float the earth.One value even of the smallest well is,that when you look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular.This is as important as that it keeps butter cool.When I looked across the pond from this peak toward the Sudbury meadows,which in time of flood I distinguished elevated perhaps by a mirage in their seething valley,like a coin in a basin,all the earth beyond the pond appeared like a thin crust insulated and floated even by this small sheet of interverting water,and I was reminded that this on which I dwelt was but dry land.
