but while we are confined to books, though the most select and classic, and read only particular written languages, which are themselves but dialects and provincial, we are in danger of forgetting the language which all things and events speak without metaphor, which alone is copious and standard. much is published, but little printed. the rays which stream through the shutter will be no longer remembered when the shutter is wholly removed. no method nor discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever on the alert. what is a course of history or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen? will you be a reader, a student merely, or a seer? read your fate, see what is before you, and walk on into futurity.
i did not read books the first summer; i hoed beans. nay, i often did better than this. there were times when i could not afford to sacrifice the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or hands. i love a broad margin to my life. sometimes, in a summer morning, having taken my accustomed bath, i sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise till noon, rapt in a revery, amidst the pines and hickories and sumachs, in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sing around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller's wagon on the distant highway, i was reminded of the lapse of time. i grew in those seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work of the hands would have been. they were not time subtracted from my life, but so much over and above my usual allowance. i realized what the orientals mean by contemplation and the forsaking of works. for the most part, i minded not how the hours went. the day advanced as if to light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now it is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished. instead of singing like the birds, i silently smiled at my incessant good fortune. as the sparrow had its trill, sitting on the hickory before my door, so had i my chuckle or suppressed warble which he might hear out of my nest. my days were not days of the week, bearing the stamp of any heathen deity, nor were they minced into hours and fretted by the ticking of a clock; for i lived like the puri indians, of whom it is said that "for yesterday, today, and tomorrow they have only one word, and they express the variety of meaning by pointing backward for yesterday forward for tomorrow, and overhead for the passing day." this was sheer idleness to my fellow-townsmen, no doubt; but if the birds and flowers had tried me by their standard, i should not have been found wanting. a man must find his occasions in himself, it is true. the natural day is very calm, and will hardly reprove his indolence.
i had this advantage, at least, in my mode of life, over those who were obliged to look abroad for amusement, to society and the theatre, that my life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel. it was a drama of many scenes and without an end. if we were always, indeed, getting our living, and regulating our lives according to the last and best mode we had learned, we should never be troubled with ennui. follow your genius closely enough, and it will not fail to show you a fresh prospect every hour. housework was a pleasant pastime. when my floor was dirty, i rose early, and, setting all my furniture out of doors on the grass, bed and bedstead making but one budget, dashed water on the floor, and sprinkled white sand from the pond on it, and then with a broom scrubbed it clean and white; and by the time the villagers had broken their fast the morning sun had dried my house sufficiently to allow me to move in again, and my meditations were almost uninterupted. it was pleasant to see my whole household effects out on the grass, making a little pile like a gypsy's pack, and my three-legged table, from which i did not remove the books and pen and ink, standing amid the pines and hickories. they seemed glad to get out themselves, and as if unwilling to be brought in. i was sometimes tempted to stretch an awning over them and take my seat there. it was worth the while to see the sun shine on these things, and hear the free wind blow on them; so much more interesting most familiar objects look out of doors than in the house. a bird sits on the next bough, life-everlasting grows under the table, and blackberry vines run round its legs; pine cones, chestnut burs, and strawberry leaves are strewn about. it looked as if this was the way these forms came to be transferred to our furniture, to tables, chairs, and bedsteads -- because they once stood in their midst.
my house was on the side of a hill, immediately on the edge of the larger wood, in the midst of a young forest of pitch pines and hickories, and half a dozen rods from the pond, to which a narrow footpath led down the hill. in my front yard grew the strawberry, blackberry, and life-everlasting, johnswort and goldenrod, shrub oaks and sand cherry, blueberry and groundnut. near the end of may, the sand cherry (cerasus pumila) adorned the sides of the path with its delicate flowers arranged in umbels cylindrically about its short stems, which last, in the fall, weighed down with goodsized and handsome cherries, fell over in wreaths like rays on every side. i tasted them out of compliment to nature, though they were scarcely palatable. the sumach (rhus glabra) grew luxuriantly about the house, pushing up through the embankment which i had made, and growing five or six feet the first season. its broad pinnate tropical leaf was pleasant though strange to look on. the large buds, suddenly pushing out late in the spring from dry sticks which had seemed to be dead, developed themselves as by magic into graceful green and tender boughs, an inch in diameter; and sometimes, as i sat at my window, so heedlessly did they grow and tax their weak joints, i heard a fresh and tender bough suddenly fall like a fan to the ground, when there was not a breath of air stirring, broken off by its own weight. in august, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke the tender limbs.
as i sit at my window this summer afternoon, hawks are circling about my clearing; the tantivy of wild pigeons, flying by two and threes athwart my view, or perching restless on the white pine boughs behind my house, gives a voice to the air; a fish hawk dimples the glassy surface of the pond and brings up a fish; a mink steals out of the marsh before my door and seizes a frog by the shore; the sedge is bending under the weight of the reed-birds flitting hither and thither; and for the last half-hour i have heard the rattle of railroad cars, now dying away and then reviving like the beat of a partridge, conveying travellers from boston to the country. for i did not live so out of the world as that boy who, as i hear, was put out to a farmer in the east part of the town, but ere long ran away and came home again, quite down at the heel and homesick. he had never seen such a dull and out-of-the-way place; the folks were all gone off; why, you couldn't even hear the whistle! i doubt if there is such a place in massachusetts now:--
"in truth, our village has become a butt
for one of those fleet railroad shafts, and o'er
our peaceful plain its soothing sound is -- concord."
the fitchburg railroad touches the pond about a hundred rods south of where i dwell. i usually go to the village along its causeway, and am, as it were, related to society by this link. the men on the freight trains, who go over the whole length of the road, bow to me as to an old acquaintance, they pass me so often, and apparently they take me for an employee; and so i am. i too would fain be a track-repairer somewhere in the orbit of the earth.
the whistle of the locomotive penetrates my woods summer and winter, sounding like the scream of a hawk sailing over some farmer's yard, informing me that many restless city merchants are arriving within the circle of the town, or adventurous country traders from the other side. as they come under one horizon, they shout their warning to get off the track to the other, heard sometimes through the circles of two towns. here come your groceries, country; your rations, countrymen! nor is there any man so independent on his farm that he can say them nay. and here's your pay for them! screams the countryman's whistle; timber like long battering-rams going twenty miles an hour against the city's walls, and chairs enough to seat all the weary and heavy-laden that dwell within them. with such huge and lumbering civility the country hands a chair to the city. all the indian huckleberry hills are stripped, all the cranberry meadows are raked into the city. up comes the cotton, down goes the woven cloth; up comes the silk, down goes the woollen; up come the books, but down goes the wit that writes them.
when i meet the engine with its train of cars moving off with planetary motion -- or, rather, like a comet, for the beholder knows not if with that velocity and with that direction it will ever revisit this system, since its orbit does not look like a returning curve -- with its steam cloud like a banner streaming behind in golden and silver wreaths, like many a downy cloud which i have seen, high in the heavens, unfolding its masses to the light -- as if this traveling demigod, this cloud-compeller, would ere long take the sunset sky for the livery of his train; when i hear the iron horse make the hills echo with his snort like thunder, shaking the earth with his feet, and breathing fire and smoke from his nostrils (what kind of winged horse or fiery dragon they will put into the new mythology i don't know), it seems as if the earth had got a race now worthy to inhabit it. if all were as it seems, and men made the elements their servants for noble ends! if the cloud that hangs over the engine were the perspiration of heroic deeds, or as beneficent as that which floats over the farmer's fields, then the elements and nature herself would cheerfully accompany men on their errands and be their escort.
i watch the passage of the morning cars with the same feeling that i do the rising of the sun, which is hardly more regular. their train of clouds stretching far behind and rising higher and higher, going to heaven while the cars are going to boston, conceals the sun for a minute and casts my distant field into the shade, a celestial train beside which the petty train of cars which hugs the earth is but the barb of the spear. the stabler of the iron horse was up early this winter morning by the light of the stars amid the mountains, to fodder and harness his steed. fire, too, was awakened thus early to put the vital heat in him and get him off. if the enterprise were as innocent as it is early! if the snow lies deep, they strap on his snowshoes, and, with the giant plow, plow a furrow from the mountains to the seaboard, in which the cars, like a following drill-barrow, sprinkle all the restless men and floating merchandise in the country for seed. all day the fire-steed flies over the country, stopping only that his master may rest, and i am awakened by his tramp and defiant snort at midnight, when in some remote glen in the woods he fronts the elements incased in ice and snow; and he will reach his stall only with the morning star, to start once more on his travels without rest or slumber. or perchance, at evening, i hear him in his stable blowing off the superfluous energy of the day, that he may calm his nerves and cool his liver and brain for a few hours of iron slumber. if the enterprise were as heroic and commanding as it is protracted and unwearied!
far through unfrequented woods on the confines of towns, where once only the hunter penetrated by day, in the darkest night dart these bright saloons without the knowledge of their inhabitants; this moment stopping at some brilliant station-house in town or city, where a social crowd is gathered, the next in the dismal swamp, scaring the owl and fox. the startings and arrivals of the cars are now the epochs in the village day. they go and come with such regularity and precision, and their whistle can be heard so far, that the farmers set their clocks by them, and thus one well-conducted institution regulates a whole country. have not men improved somewhat in punctuality since the railroad was invented? do they not talk and think faster in the depot than they did in the stage-office? there is something electrifying in the atmosphere of the former place. i have been astonished at the miracles it has wrought; that some of my neighbors, who, i should have prophesied, once for all, would never get to boston by so prompt a conveyance, are on hand when the bell rings. to do things "railroad fashion" is now the byword; and it is worth the while to be warned so often and so sincerely by any power to get off its track. there is no stopping to read the riot act, no firing over the heads of the mob, in this case. we have constructed a fate, an atropos, that never turns aside. (let that be the name of your engine.) men are advertised that at a certain hour and minute these bolts will be shot toward particular points of the compass; yet it interferes with no man's business, and the children go to school on the other track. we live the steadier for it. we are all educated thus to be sons of tell. the air is full of invisible bolts. every path but your own is the path of fate. keep on your own track, then.
what recommends commerce to me is its enterprise and bravery. it does not clasp its hands and pray to jupiter. i see these men every day go about their business with more or less courage and content, doing more even than they suspect, and perchance better employed than they could have consciously devised. i am less affected by their heroism who stood up for half an hour in the front line at buena vista, than by the steady and cheerful valor of the men who inhabit the snowplow for their winter quarters; who have not merely the three-o'-clock-in-the-morning courage, which bonaparte thought was the rarest, but whose courage does not go to rest so early, who go to sleep only when the storm sleeps or the sinews of their iron steed are frozen. on this morning of the great snow, perchance, which is still raging and chilling men's blood, i bear the muffled tone of their engine bell from out the fog bank of their chilled breath, which announces that the cars are coming, without long delay, notwithstanding the veto of a new england northeast snow-storm, and i behold the plowmen covered with snow and rime, their heads peering, above the mould-board which is turning down other than daisies and the nests of field mice, like bowlders of the sierra nevada, that occupy an outside place in the universe.
commerce is unexpectedly confident and serene, alert, adventurous, and unwearied. it is very natural in its methods withal, far more so than many fantastic enterprises and sentimental experiments, and hence its singular success. i am refreshed and expanded when the freight train rattles past me, and i smell the stores which go dispensing their odors all the way from long wharf to lake champlain, reminding me of foreign parts, of coral reefs, and indian oceans, and tropical climes, and the extent of the globe. i feel more like a citizen of the world at the sight of the palm-leaf which will cover so many flaxen new england heads the next summer, the manilla hemp and cocoanut husks, the old junk, gunny bags, scrap iron, and rusty nails. this carload of torn sails is more legible and interesting now than if they should be wrought into paper and printed books. who can write so graphically the history of the storms they have weathered as these rents have done? they are proof-sheets which need no correction. here goes lumber from the maine woods, which did not go out to sea in the last freshet, risen four dollars on the thousand because of what did go out or was split up; pine, spruce, cedar -- first, second, third, and fourth qualities, so lately all of one quality, to wave over the bear, and moose, and caribou. next rolls thomaston lime, a prime lot, which will get far among the hills before it gets slacked. these rags in bales, of all hues and qualities, the lowest condition to which cotton and linen descend, the final result of dress -- of patterns which are now no longer cried up, unless it be in milwaukee, as those splendid articles, english, french, or american prints, ginghams, muslins, etc., gathered from all quarters both of fashion and poverty, going to become paper of one color or a few shades only, on which, forsooth, will be written tales of real life, high and low, and founded on fact! this closed car smells of salt fish, the strong new england and commercial scent, reminding me of the grand banks and the fisheries. who has not seen a salt fish, thoroughly cured for this world, so that nothing can spoil it, and putting, the perseverance of the saints to the blush? with which you may sweep or pave the streets, and split your kindlings, and the teamster shelter himself and his lading against sun, wind, and rain behind it -- and the trader, as a concord trader once did, hang it up by his door for a sign when he commences business, until at last his oldest customer cannot tell surely whether it be animal, vegetable, or mineral, and yet it shall be as pure as a snowflake, and if it be put into a pot and boiled, will come out an excellent dun-fish for a saturday's dinner. next spanish hides, with the tails still preserving their twist and the angle of elevation they had when the oxen that wore them were careering over the pampas of the spanish main -- a type of all obstinacy, and evincing how almost hopeless and incurable are all constitutional vices. i confess, that practically speaking, when i have learned a man's real disposition, i have no hopes of changing it for the better or worse in this state of existence. as the orientals say, "a cur's tail may be warmed, and pressed, and bound round with ligatures, and after a twelve years' labor bestowed upon it, still it will retain its natural form." the only effectual cure for such inveteracies as these tails exhibit is to make glue of them, which i believe is what is usually done with them, and then they will stay put and stick. here is a hogshead of molasses or of brandy directed to john smith, cuttingsville, vermont, some trader among the green mountains, who imports for the farmers near his clearing, and now perchance stands over his bulkhead and thinks of the last arrivals on the coast, how they may affect the price for him, telling his customers this moment, as he has told them twenty times before this morning, that he expects some by the next train of prime quality. it is advertised in the cuttingsville times.
while these things go up other things come down. warned by the whizzing sound, i look up from my book and see some tall pine, hewn on far northern hills, which has winged its way over the green mountains and the connecticut, shot like an arrow through the township within ten minutes, and scarce another eye beholds it; going "to be the mast
of some great ammiral."
and hark! here comes the cattle-train bearing the cattle of a thousand hills, sheepcots, stables, and cow-yards in the air, drovers with their sticks, and shepherd boys in the midst of their flocks, all but the mountain pastures, whirled along like leaves blown from the mountains by the september gales. the air is filled with the bleating of calves and sheep, and the hustling of oxen, as if a pastoral valley were going by. when the old bell-wether at the head rattles his bell, the mountains do indeed skip like rams and the little hills like lambs. a carload of drovers, too, in the midst, on a level with their droves now, their vocation gone, but still clinging to their useless sticks as their badge of office. but their dogs, where are they? it is a stampede to them; they are 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 bridges -- a sound heard farther than almost any other at night -- the baying of dogs, and sometimes again the lowing of some disconsolate cow in a distant barn-yard. in the mean-while all the shore rang with the trump of bullfrogs, the sturdy spirits of ancient wine-bibbers and wassailers, still unrepentant, trying to sing a catch in their stygian lake -- if the walden nymphs will pardon the comparison, for though there are almost no weeds, there are frogs there -- who would fain keep up the hilarious rules of their old festal tables, though their voices have waxed hoarse and solemnly grave, mocking at mirth, and the wine has lost its flavor, and become only liquor to distend their paunches, and sweet intoxication never comes to drown the memory of the past, but mere saturation and waterloggedness and distention. the most aldermanic, with his chin upon a heart-leaf, which serves for a napkin to his drooling chaps, under this northern shore quaffs a deep draught of the once scorned water, and passes round the cup with the ejaculation tr-r-r-oonk, tr-r-r--oonk, tr-r-r-oonk! and straightway comes over the water from some distant cove the same password repeated, where the next in seniority and girth has gulped down to his mark; and when this observance has made the circuit of the shores, then ejaculates the master of ceremonies, with satisfaction, tr-r-r-oonk! and each in his turn repeats the same down to the least distended, leakiest, and flabbiest paunched, that there be no mistake; and then the howl goes round again and again, until the sun disperses the morning mist, and only the patriarch is not under the pond, but vainly bellowing troonk from time to time, and pausing for a reply.
i am not sure that i ever heard the sound of cock-crowing from my clearing, and i thought that it might be worth the while to keep a cockerel for his music merely, as a singing bird. the note of this once wild indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of any bird's, and if they could be naturalized without being domesticated, it would soon become the most famous sound in our woods, surpassing the clangor of the goose and the hooting of the owl; and then imagine the cackling of the hens to fill the pauses when their lords' clarions rested! no wonder that man added this bird to his tame stock -- to say nothing of the eggs and drumsticks. to walk in a winter morning in a wood where these birds abounded, their native woods, and hear the wild cockerels crow on the trees, clear and shrill for miles over the resounding earth, drowning the feebler notes of other birds -- think of it! it would put nations on the alert. who would not be early to rise, and rise earlier and earlier every successive day of his life, till he became unspeakably healthy, wealthy, and wise? this foreign bird's note is celebrated by the poets of all countries along with the notes of their native songsters. all climates agree with brave chanticleer. he is more indigenous even than the natives. his health is ever good, his lungs are sound, his spirits never flag. even the sailor on the atlantic and pacific is awakened by his voice; but its shrill sound never roused me from my slumbers. i kept neither dog, cat, cow, pig, nor hens, so that you would have said there was a deficiency of domestic sounds; neither the churn, nor the spinning-wheel, nor even the singing of the kettle, nor the hissing of the urn, nor children crying, to comfort one. an old-fashioned man would have lost his senses or died of ennui before this. not even rats in the wall, for they were starved out, or rather were never baited in -- only squirrels on the roof and under the floor, a whip-poor-will on the ridge-pole, a blue jay screaming beneath the window, a hare or woodchuck under the house, a screech owl or a cat owl behind it, a flock of wild geese or a laughing loon on the pond, and a fox to bark in the night. not even a lark or an oriole, those mild plantation birds, ever visited my clearing. no cockerels to crow nor hens to cackle in the yard. no yard! but unfenced nature reaching up to your very sills. a young forest growing up under your meadows, and wild sumachs and blackberry vines breaking through into your cellar; sturdy pitch pines rubbing and creaking against the shingles for want of room, their roots reaching quite under the house. instead of a scuttle or a blind blown off in the gale -- a pine tree snapped off or torn up by the roots behind your house for fuel. instead of no path to the front-yard gate in the great snow -- no gate -- no front-yard -- and no path to the civilized world.
但当我们局限在书本里，虽然那是最精选的，古典的作品，而且只限于读一种特殊的语文，它们本身只是口语和方言，那时我们就有危险，要忘记掉另一种语文了，那是一切事物不用譬喻地直说出来的文字，唯有它最丰富，也最标准。出版物很多，把这印出来的很少。从百叶窗缝隙中流进来的光线，在百叶窗完全打开以后，便不再被记得了。没有一种方法，也没有一种训练可以代替永远保持警觉的必要性。能够看见的，要常常去看；这样一个规律，怎能是一门历史或哲学，或不管选得多么精的诗歌所比得上的？又怎能是最好的社会，或最可羡慕的生活规律所比得上的呢？你愿意仅仅做一个读者，一个学生呢，还是愿意做一个预见者？读一读你自己的命运，看一看就在你的面前的是什么，再向未来走过去吧。
第一年夏天，我没有读书；我种豆。不，我比干这个还好。有时候，我不能把眼前的美好的时间牺牲在任何工作中，无论是脑的或手的工作。我爱给我的生命留有更多余地。有时候，在一个夏天的早晨里，照常洗过澡之后，我坐在阳光下的门前，从日出坐到正午，坐在松树，山核桃树和黄栌树中间，在没有打扰的寂寞与宁静之中，凝神沉思，那时鸟雀在四周唱歌，或默不作声地疾飞而过我的屋子，直到太阳照上我的西窗，或者远处公路上传来一些旅行者的车辆的辚辚声，提醒我时间的流逝。我在这样的季节中生长，好像玉米生长在夜间一样，这比任何手上的劳动好得不知多少了。这样做不是从我的生命中减去了时间，而是在我通常的时间里增添了许多，还超产了许多。我明白了东方人的所谓沉思以及抛开工作的意思了。大体上，虚度岁月，我不在乎。自昼在前进，仿佛只是为了照亮我的某种工作；可是刚才还是黎明，你瞧，现在已经是晚上，我并没有完成什么值得纪念的工作。我也没有像鸣禽一般地歌唱，我只静静地微笑，笑我自己幸福无涯。正像那麻雀，蹲在我门前的山核桃树上，啁啾地叫着，我也窃窃笑着，或抑制了我的啁啾之声，怕它也许从我的巢中听到了。我的一天并不是一个个星期中的一天，它没有用任何异教的神祗来命名，也没有被切碎为小时的细末子，也没有因滴答的钟声而不安；因为我喜欢像印度的普里人，据说对于他们，“代表昨天，今天和明天的是同一个字，而在表示不同的意义时，他们一面说这个字一面做手势，手指后面的算昨天，手指前面的算明天，手指头顶的便是今天。”在我的市民同胞们眼中，这纯粹是懒惰；可是，如果用飞鸟和繁花的标准来审判我的话，我想我是毫无缺点的。人必须从其自身中间找原由，这话极对。自然的日子很宁静，它也不责备他懒惰。
我的生活方式至少有这个好处，胜过那些不得不跑到外面去找娱乐、进社交界或上戏院的人，因为我的生活本身便是娱乐，而且它永远新奇。这是一个多幕剧，而且没有最后的一幕。如果我们常常能够参照我们学习到的最新最好的方式来过我们的生活和管理我们的生活，我们就绝对不会为无聊所困。只要紧紧跟住你的创造力，它就可以每一小时指示你一个新的前景。家务事是愉快的消遣。当我的地板脏了，我就很早起身，把我的一切家具搬到门外的草地上，床和床架堆成一堆，就在地板上洒上水，再洒上湖里的白沙，然后用一柄扫帚，把地板刮擦得干净雪白：等到老乡们用完他们的早点，太阳已经把我的屋子晒得够干燥，我又可以搬回去；而这中间我的沉思几乎没有中断过。这是很愉快的，看到我家里全部的家具都放在草地上，堆成一个小堆，像一个古普赛人的行李，我的三脚桌子也摆在松树和山核桃树下，上面的书本笔墨我都没有拿开。它们好像很愿意上外边来，也好像很不愿意给搬回屋里去。有时我就跃跃欲试地要在它们上面张一个帐篷，我就在那里就位。太阳晒着它们是值得一看的景致，风吹着它们是值得一听的声音，熟稔的东西在户外看到比在室内有趣得多。小鸟坐在相隔一枝的桠枝上，长生草在桌子下面生长，黑莓的藤攀住了桌子脚；松实，栗子和草莓叶子到处落满。它们的形态似乎是这样转变成为家具，成为桌子，椅子，床架的，——因为这些家具原先曾经站在它们之间。
我的房子是在一个小山的山腰，恰恰在一个较大的森林的边缘，在一个苍松和山核桃的小林子的中央，离开湖边六杆之远，有一条狭窄的小路从山腰通到湖边去。在我前面的院子里，生长着草莓，黑莓，还有长生草，狗尾草，黄花紫菀，矮橡树和野樱桃树，越橘和落花生。五月尾，野樱桃（学名cerasus pumila）在小路两侧装点了精细的花朵，短短的花梗周围是形成伞状的花丛，到秋天里就挂起了大大的漂亮的野樱桃，一球球地垂下，像朝四面射去的光芒。它们并不好吃，但为了感谢大自然的缘故，我尝了尝它们。黄栌树（学名rhus glabra）在屋子四周异常茂盛地生长，把我建筑的一道矮墙掀了起来，第一季就看它长了五六英尺。它的阔大的、羽状的、热带的叶子，看起来很奇怪，却很愉快。在晚春中，巨大的蓓蕾突然从仿佛已经死去的枯枝上跳了出来，魔术似的变得花枝招展了，成了温柔的青色而柔软的枝条，直径也有一英寸；有时，正当我坐在窗口，它们如此任性地生长，压弯了它们自己的脆弱的关节，我听到一枝新鲜的柔枝忽然折断了，虽然没有一丝儿风，它却给自己的重量压倒，而像一把羽扇似的落下来。在八月中，大量的浆果，曾经在开花的时候诱惑过许多野蜜蜂，也渐渐地穿上了它们的光耀的天鹅绒的彩色，也是给自己的重量压倒，终于折断了它们的柔弱的肢体。
在这一个夏天的下午，当我坐在窗口，鹰在我的林中空地盘旋，野鸽子在疾飞，三三两两地飞入我的眼帘，或者不安地栖息在我屋后的白皮松枝头，向着天空发出一个呼声；一只鱼鹰在水面上啄出一个酒涡，便叼走了一尾鱼；一只水貂偷偷地爬出了我门前的沼泽，在岸边捉到了一只青蛙；芦苇鸟在这里那里掠过，隰地莎草在它们的重压下弯倒；一连半小时，我听到铁路车辆的轧轧之声，一忽儿轻下去了，一忽儿又响起来了，像鹧鸪在扑翅膀，把旅客从波士顿装运到这乡间来。我也并没有生活在世界之外，不像那个孩子，我听说他被送到了本市东部的一个农民那里去，但待了不多久，他就逃走了，回到家里，鞋跟都磨破了，他实在想家。他从来没有见过那么沉闷和偏僻的地方；那里的人全走光了；你甚至于听不见他们的口笛声！我很怀疑，现在在马萨诸塞州不知还有没有这样的所在：
真的啊，我们的村庄变成了一个靶子，
给一支飞箭似的铁路射中，
在和平的原野上，它是康科德——协和之音。
菲茨堡铁路在我的住处之南约一百杆的地方接触到这个湖。我时常沿着它的堤路走到村里去，好像我是由这个链索和社会相联络的。货车上的人，是在全线上来回跑的，跟我打招呼，把我当作老朋友，过往次数多了，他们以为我是个雇工，我的确是个雇工。我极愿意做那地球轨道上的某一段路轨的养路工。
夏天和冬天，火车头的汽笛穿透了我的林子，好像农家的院子上面飞过的一头老鹰的尖叫声，通知我有许多焦躁不安的城市商人已经到了这个市镇的圈子里，或者是从另一个方向来到一些村中行商。它们是在同一个地平线上的，它们彼此发出警告，要别个在轨道上让开，呼唤之声有时候两个村镇都能听到。乡村啊，这里送来了你的杂货了；乡下人啊，你们的食粮！没有任何人能够独立地生活，敢于对它们道半个“不”字。于是乡下人的汽笛长啸了，这里是你们给它们的代价！像长长的攻城槌般的木料以一小时二十英里的速度，冲向我们的城墙，还有许多的椅子，城圈以内所有负担沉重的人现在有得坐了。乡村用这样巨大的木材的礼貌给城市送去了坐椅。所有印第安山间的越橘全部给采下来，所有的雪球浆果也都装进城来了。棉花上来了，纺织品下去了：丝上来了，羊毛下去了，书本上来了，可是著作书本的智力降低了。
当我遇见那火车头，带了它的一列车厢，像行星运转似的移动前进，——或者说，像一颗扫帚星，因为既然那轨道不像一个会转回来的曲线，看到它的人也就不知道在这样的速度下，向这个方向驰去的火车，会不会再回到这轨道上来，——水蒸汽像一面旗帜，形成金银色的烟圈飘浮在后面，好像我看到过的高高在天空中的一团团绒毛般的白云，一大块一大块地展开，并放下豪光来，——好像这位旅行着的怪神，吐出了云霞，快要把夕阳映照着的天空作它的列车的号衣；那时我听到铁马吼声如雷，使山谷都响起回声，它的脚步踩得土地震动，它的鼻孔喷着火和黑烟（我不知道在新的神话中，人们会收进怎样的飞马或火龙），看来好像大地终于有了一个配得上住在地球上的新的种族了。如果这一切确实像表面上看来的那样，人类控制了元素，使之服务于高贵的目标，那该多好！如果火车头上的云真是在创英雄业绩时所冒的汗，蒸汽就跟飘浮在农田上空的云一样有益，那末，元素和大自然自己都会乐意为人类服务，当人类的护卫者了。
我眺望那早车时的心情，跟我眺望日出时的一样，日出也不见得比早车更准时。火车奔向波士顿，成串的云在它后面拉长，越升越高，升上了天，片刻间把太阳遮住，把我远处的田野荫蔽了。这一串云是天上的列车，旁边那拥抱土地的小车辆，相形之下，只是一支标枪的倒钩了。在这冬天的早晨，铁马的御者起身极早，在群山间的星光底下喂草驾挽。它这么早升了火，给它内热，以便它起程赶路。要是这事既能这样早开始，又能这样无害，那才好啦！积雪深深时，它给穿上了雪鞋，用了一个巨大的铁犁，从群山中开出条路来，直到海边，而车辆像一个沟中播种器，把所有焦灼的人们和浮华的商品，当作种子飞撒在田野中。一整天，这火驹飞过田园，停下时，只为了它主人要休息。就是半夜里，我也常常给它的步伐和凶恶的哼哈声吵醒；在远处山谷的僻隐森林中，它碰到了冰雪的封锁；要在晓星底下它才能进马厩。可是既不休息，也不打盹，它立刻又上路旅行去了。有时，在黄昏中，我听到它在马厩里，放出了这一天的剩余力气，使它的神经平静下来，脏腑和脑袋也冷静了，可以打几个小时的钢铁的瞌睡。如果这事业，这样旷日持久和不知疲乏，又能这样英勇不屈而威风凛凛，那才好呵！
市镇的僻处，人迹罕到的森林，从前只在白天里猎人进入过，现在却在黑夜中，有光辉灿烂的客厅飞突而去。居住在里面的人却一无所知；此一刻它还靠在一个村镇或大城市照耀得如同白昼的车站月台上，一些社交界人士正聚集在那里，而下一刻已经在郁沉的沼泽地带，把猫头鹰和狐狸都吓跑了。列车的出站到站现在成了林中每一天的大事了。它们这样遵守时间地来来去去，而它们的汽笛声老远都听到，农夫们可以根据它来校正钟表，于是一个管理严密的机构调整了整个国家的时间。自从发明了火车，人类不是更能遵守时间了吗？在火车站上，比起以前在驿车站来，他们不是说话更快，思想不也是更敏捷了吗？火车站的气氛，好像是通上了电流似的。对于它创造的奇迹，我感到惊异；我有一些邻居，我本来会斩钉截铁他说他们不会乘这么快的交通工具到波士顿去的，现在只要钟声一响，他们就已经在月台上了。“火车式”作风，现在成为流行的口头禅；由任何有影响的机构经常提出，离开火车轨道的真心诚意的警告，那是一定要听的。这件事既不能停下车来宣读法律作为警告，也不能向群众朝天开枪。我们已经创造了一个命运，一个atropos，这永远也不会改变。（让这做你的火车头的名称。）人们看一看广告就知道几点几十分，有几支箭要向罗盘上的哪几个方向射出；它从不干涉别人的事，在另一条轨道上，孩子们还乘坐了它去上学呢。我们因此生活得更稳定了。我们都受了教育，可以做退尔的儿子，然而空中充满了不可见的箭矢。除了你自己的道路之外，条条路都是宿命的道路。那末，走你自己的路吧。
使我钦佩于商业的，乃是它的进取心和勇敢。它并不拱手向朱庇特大神祈祷。我看到商人们每天做他们的生意，多少都是勇敢而且满足的，比他们自己所想的局面更大，也许还比他们自己计划了的更有成就。在布埃纳维斯塔的火线上，能站立半小时的英雄，我倒不觉得怎样，我还是比较佩服那些在铲雪机里过冬，坚定而又愉快的人们；他们不但具有连拿破仑也认为最难得的早上三点钟的作战勇气，他们不但到这样的时刻了都还不休息，而且还要在暴风雪睡着了之后他们才去睡，要在他们的铁马的筋骨都冻僵了之后他们才躺下。在特大风雪的黎明，风雪还在吹刮，冻结着人类的血液呢，我听到他们的火车头的被蒙住了的钟声，从那道雾濛濛的冻结了的呼吸中传来，宣告列车来了，并未误点，毫不理睬新英格兰的东北风雪的否决权，我看到那铲雪者，全身雪花和冰霜，眼睛直瞅着它的弯形铁片，而给铁片翻起来的并不仅仅是雏菊和田鼠洞，还有像内华达山上的岩石，那些在宇宙外表占了一个位置的一切东西。
商业是出乎意料地自信的，庄重的，灵敏的，进取的，而且不知疲劳的。它的一些方式都很自然，许多幻想的事业和感伤的试验都不能跟它相提并论，因此它有独到的成功。一列货车在我旁边经过之后，我感到清新，气概非凡了，我闻到了一些商品的味道，从长码头到却姆泼兰湖的一路上，商品都散发出味道来，使我联想到了外国、珊瑚礁、印度洋、热带气候和地球之大。我看到一些棕榈叶，到明年夏天，有多少新英格兰的亚麻色的头发上都要戴上它的，我又看到马尼拉的麻、椰子壳、旧绳索、黄麻袋、废铁和锈钉，这时候我更觉得自己是一个世界公民了。一车子的破帆，造成了纸，印成了书，读起来一定是更易懂、更有趣。谁能够像这些破帆这样把它们经历惊风骇浪的历史，生动地描绘下来呢？它们本身就是不需要校阅的校样。经过这里的是缅因森林中的木料，上次水涨时没有扎排到海里去，因为运出去或者锯开的那些木料的关系，每一千根涨了四元，洋松啊，针枞啊，杉木啊，——头等，二等，三等，四等，不久前还是同一个质量的林木，摇曳在熊、麋鹿和驯鹿之上。其次隆隆地经过了汤麦斯东石灰，头等货色，要运到很远的山区去，才卸下来的。至于这一袋袋的破布，各种颜色，各种质料，真是棉织品和细麻布的最悲惨的下场，衣服的最后结局，——再没有人去称赞它们的图案了，除非是在密尔沃基市，这些光耀的衣服质料，英国、法国、美国的印花布，方格布，薄纱等等，——却是从富有的，贫贱的，各方面去搜集拢来的破布头，将要变成一色的，或仅有不同深浅的纸张，说不定在纸张上会写出一些真实生活的故事，上流社会下等社会的都有，都是根据事实写的！这一辆紧闭的篷车散发出咸鱼味，强烈的新英格兰的商业味道，使我联想到大河岸和渔业了。谁没有见过一条咸鱼呢？全部都是为我们这个世界而腌了的，再没有什么东西能使它变坏了，它教一些坚韧不拔的圣人都自惭不如哩。有了咸鱼，你可以扫街，你可以铺街道，你可以劈开引火柴，躲在咸鱼后面，驴马队的夫子和他的货物也可以避太阳，避风雨了，——正如一个康科德的商人实行过的，商人可以在新店开张时把咸鱼挂在门上当招牌，一直到最后老主顾都没法说出它究竟是动物呢，还是植物或矿物时，它还是白得像雪花，如果你把它放在锅里烧开，依然还是一条美味的咸鱼，可供星期六晚上的宴会。其次是西班牙的皮革，尾巴还那样扭转，还保留着当它们在西班牙本土的草原上疾驰时的仰角，——足见是很顽固的典型，证明性格上的一切缺点是如何地没有希望而不可救药啊。实在的，在我知道了人的本性之后，我承认在目前的生存情况之下，我决不希望它能改好，或者变坏。东方人说， “一条狗尾巴可以烧，压，用带子绑，穷十二年之精力，它还是不改老样子。”对于像这些尾巴一样根深蒂固的本性，仅有一个办法，就是把它们制成胶质，我想通常就是拿它们来作这种用场的，它们才可以胶着一切。这里是一大桶糖蜜，也许是白兰地，送到佛蒙特的克丁司维尔，给约翰·史密斯先生，青山地区的商人，他是为了他住处附近的农民采办进口货的，或许现在他靠在他的船的舱壁上，想着最近装到海岸上来的一批货色将会怎样影响价格，同时告诉他的顾客，他希望下一次火车带到头等货色，这话在这个早晨以前就说过二十遍了。这已经在《克丁司维尔时报》上登过广告。
这些货物上来，另一些货物下去。我听见了那疾驰飞奔的声音，从我的书上抬起头来，看到了一些高大的洋松，那是从极北部的山上砍伐下来的，它插上翅膀飞过了青山和康涅狄格州，它箭一样地十分钟就穿过了城市，人家还没有看到它，已经
“成为一只旗舰上面的一技桅杆。”
听啊！这里来了牛车，带来了千山万壑的牛羊，空中的羊棚、马棚和牛棚啊，还有那些带了牧杖的牧者，羊群之中的牧童，什么都来了，只除了山中的草原，它们被从山上吹下来，像九月的风吹下萧萧落叶。空中充满了牛羊的咩叫之声，公牛们挤来挤去，仿佛经过的是一个放牧的山谷。当带头羊铃子震响的时候，大山真的跳跃如公羊，而小山跳跃如小羊。在中央有一列车的牧者，现在他们和被牧者一样，受到同等待遇，他们的职业已经没有了，却还死抱住牧杖，那像是他们的证章。可是他们的狗，到哪里去了呢？这对它们来说是溃散；它们完全被摈弃了；它们失去了嗅迹。我仿佛听到它们在彼得博罗山中吠叫，或者在青山的西边山坡上啉啉地走着。它们不出来参加死刑的观礼。它们也失了业。它们的忠心和智慧现在都不行了。它们丢脸地偷偷溜进他们的狗棚，也许变得狂野起来，和狼或狐狸赛了个三英里的跑。你的牧人生活就这样旋风似的过去了，消失了。可是钟响了，我必须离开轨道，让车子过去；一——-
铁路于我何有哉？
我绝不会去观看
它到达哪里为止。
它把些崖洞填满，
给燕子造了堤岸，
使黄砂遍地飞扬，
叫黑莓到处生长。可是我跨过铁路，好比我走过林中小径。我不愿意我的眼睛鼻子给它的烟和水气和咝咝声污染了。
现在车辆已经驰去，一切不安的世界也跟它远扬了，湖中的鱼不再觉得震动，我格外地孤寂起来了。悠长的下午的其余时间内，我的沉思就难得打断了，顶多远远公路上有一辆马车的微弱之音，或驴马之声。
有时，在星期日，我听到钟声：林肯，阿克顿，贝德福或康科德的钟声，在风向适合的时候，很柔微甜美，仿佛是自然的旋律，真值得飘荡入旷野。在适当距离以外的森林上空，它得到了某种震荡的轻微声浪，好像地平线上的松针是大竖琴上的弦给拨弄了一样。一切声响，在最大可能的距程之外听到时，会产生同样的效果，成为字宙七弦琴弦的微颤，这就好像极目远望时，最远的山脊，由于横亘在中的大气的缘故，会染上同样的微蓝色彩。这一次传到我这里来的钟声带来了一条给空气拉长了的旋律，在它和每一张叶子和每一枝松针寒暄过之后，它们接过了这旋律，给它转了一个调，又从一个山谷，传给了另一个山谷。回声，在某种限度内还是原来的声音，它的魔力与可爱就在此。它不仅把值得重复一遍的钟声重复，还重复了林木中的一部分声音；正是一个林中女妖所唱出的一些呢语和乐音。
黄昏中，远方的地平线上，有一些牛叫传入森林，很甜美，旋律也优雅，起先我以为是某些游唱诗人的歌喉，有些个晚上，我听到过他们唱小夜曲，他们也许正漂泊行经山谷；可是听下去，我就欣然地失望了，一拉长，原来是牛的声音，不花钱的音乐。我说，在我听来，青年人的歌声近似牛叫，我并不是讽刺，我对于他们的歌喉是很欣赏的，这两种声音，说到最后，都是天籁。
很准时，在夏天的某一部分日子里，七点半，夜车经过以后，夜鹰要唱半个小时晚祷曲，就站在我门前的树桩上，或站在屋脊梁木上。准确得跟时钟一样，每天晚上，日落以后，一个特定时间的五分钟之内，它们一定开始歌唱。真是机会难得，我摸清了它们的习惯了。有时，我听到四五只，在林中的不同地点唱起来，音调的先后偶然地相差一小节，它们跟我实在靠近，我还听得到每个音后面的咂舌之声，时常还听到一种独特的嗡嗡的声音，像一只苍蝇投入了蜘蛛网，只是那声音较响。有时，一只夜鹰在林中，距离我的周遭只有几英尺，盘旋不已，飞，飞，好像有绳子牵住了它们一样，也许因为我在它们的鸟卵近旁。整夜它们不时地唱，而在黎明前，以及黎明将近时唱得尤其富于乐感。
别的鸟雀静下来时，叫枭接了上去，像哀悼的妇人，叫出自古以来的“呜——噜——噜”这种悲哀的叫声，颇有班·琼生的诗风。夜半的智慧的女巫！这并不像一些诗人所唱的“啾——微”，“啾——胡”那么真实、呆板；不是开玩笑，它却是墓地里的哀歌，像一对自杀的情人在地狱的山林中，想起了生时恋爱的苦痛与喜悦，便互相安慰着一样。然而，我爱听它们的悲悼、阴惨的呼应，沿着树林旁边的颤声歌唱；使我时而想到音乐和鸣禽；仿佛甘心地唱尽音乐的呜咽含泪，哀伤叹息。它们是一个堕落灵魂的化身，阴郁的精神，忧愁的预兆，它们曾经有人类的形态，夜夜在大地上走动，干着黑暗的勾当，而现在在罪恶的场景中，它们悲歌着祈求赎罪。它们使我新鲜地感觉到，我们的共同住处，大自然真是变化莫测，而又能量很大。呕—呵——呵——呵——呵——我要从没——没——没——生——嗯！湖的这一边，一只夜鹰这样叹息，在焦灼的的失望中盘旋着，最后停落在另一棵灰黑色的橡树上，于是——我要从没——没——没——生——嗯！较远的那一边另一只夜鹰颤抖地，忠诚地回答，而且，远远地从林肯的树林中，传来了一个微弱的应声——从没——没一一一没——生——嗯！
还有一只叫个不停的猫头鹰也向我唱起小夜曲来，在近处听，你可能觉得，这是大自然中最最悲惨的声音，好像它要用这种声音来凝聚人类临终的呻吟，永远将它保留在它的歌曲之中一样，——那呻吟是人类的可怜的脆弱的残息，他把希望留在后面，在进入冥府的人口处时，像动物一样嗥叫，却还含着人的啜泣声，由于某种很美的“格尔格尔”的声音，它听来尤其可怕——我发现我要模拟那声音时，我自己已经开始念出“格尔”这两个字了，——它充分表现出一个冷凝中的腐蚀的心灵状态，一切健康和勇敢的思想全都给破坏了。这使我想起了掘墓的恶鬼，白痴和狂人的嚎叫。可是现在有了一个应声，从远处的树木中传来，因为远，倒真正优美，霍——霍——霍，霍瑞霍；这中间大部分所暗示的真是只有愉快的联想，不管你听到时是在白天或黑夜，在夏季或冬季。
我觉得有猫头鹰是可喜的。让它们为人类作白痴似的狂人嚎叫。这种声音最适宜于白昼都照耀不到的沼泽与阴沉沉的森林，使人想起人类还没有发现的一个广大而未开化的天性。它可以代表绝对愚妄的晦暗与人人都有的不得满足的思想。整天，太阳曾照在一些荒野的沼泽表面，孤零零的针枞上长着地衣，小小的鹰在上空盘旋，而黑头山雀在常春藤中蹑嚅而言，松鸡、兔子则在下面躲藏着；可是现在一个更阴郁、更合适的白昼来临了，就有另外一批生物风云际会地醒来，表示了那里的大自然的意义。
夜深后，我听到了远处车辆过桥，——这声音在夜里听起来最远不过——还有犬吠声，有时又听到远远的牛棚中有一条不安静的牛在叫。同时，湖滨震荡着青蛙叫声，古代的醉鬼和宴饮者的顽固的精灵，依然不知悔过，要在他们那像冥河似的湖上唱轮唱歌，请瓦尔登湖的水妖原谅我作这样的譬喻，因为湖上虽没有芦苇，青蛙却是很多的，——它们还乐于遵循它们那古老宴席上那种嚣闹的规律，虽然它们的喉咙已经沙哑了，而且庄重起来了，它们在嘲笑欢乐，酒也失去了香味，只变成了用来灌饱它们肚子的料酒，而醺醺然的醉意再也不来淹没它们过去的回忆，它们只觉得喝饱了，肚子里水很沉重，只觉得发胀。当最高头儿的青蛙，下巴放在一张心形的叶子上，好像在垂涎的嘴巴下面挂了食巾，在北岸下喝了一口以前轻视的水酒，把酒杯传递过去，同时发出了托尔——尔——尔——龙克，托尔——尔——尔——龙克，托尔——尔——尔——龙克！的声音，立刻，从远处的水上，这口令被重复了，这是另一只青蛙，官阶稍低，凸起肚子，喝下了它那一口酒后发出来的，而当酒令沿湖巡行了一周，司酒令的青蛙满意地喊了一声托尔——尔——尔——龙克，每一只都依次传递给最没喝饱的、漏水最多的和肚子最瘪的青蛙，一切都没有错；于是酒杯又一遍遍地传递，直到太阳把朝雾驱散，这时就只有可敬的老青蛙还没有跳到湖底下去，它还不时地徒然喊出托尔龙克来，停歇着等口音。
我不清楚在林中空地上，我听过金鸡报晓没有，我觉得养一只小公鸡很有道理，只是把它当作鸣禽看待，为了听它的音乐公鸡从前是印第安野鸡，它的音乐确是所有禽帼之中最了不起的，如果能不把它们变为家禽而加以驯化的话，它的音乐可以立刻成为我们的森林中最著名的音乐，胜过鹅的叫声，猫头鹰的嚎哭；然后，你再想想老母鸡，在她们的夫君停下了号角声之后，她们的噪聒填满了停顿的时刻！难怪人类要把这一种鸟编入家禽中间去——更不用说鸡蛋和鸡腿来了。在冬天的黎明，散步在这一种禽鸟很多的林中，在它们的老林里，听野公鸡在树上啼叫出嘹亮而尖锐的声音，数里之外都能听到，大地为之震荡，一切鸟雀的微弱的声音都给压倒——你想想看！这可以使全国警戒起来，谁不会起得更早，一天天地更早，直到他健康、富足、聪明到了无法形容的程度呢？全世界诗人在赞美一些本国鸣禽的歌声的同时，都赞美过这种外国鸟的乐音。任何气候都适宜于勇武金鸡的生长，他比本上的禽鸟更土。它永远健康，肺脏永远茁壮，它的精神从未衰退过。甚至大西洋、太平洋上的水手都是一听到它的声音就起身，可是它的啼叫从没有把我从沉睡中唤醒过。狗、猫、牛、猪、母鸡这些我都没有喂养，也许你要说我缺少家畜的声音；可是我这里也没有搅拌奶油的声音，纺车的声音，沸水的歌声，咖啡壶的咝咝声，孩子的哭声等等来安慰我，老式人会因此发疯或烦闷致死的。连墙里的耗子也没有，它们都饿死了，也许根本没有引来过，——只有松鼠在屋顶上，地板下，以及梁上的夜鹰，窗下一只蓝色的悭鸟，尖叫着，屋下一只兔子或者一只土拨鼠，屋后一只叫枭或者猫头鹰，湖上一群野鹅，或一只哗笑的潜水鸟，还有入夜吠叫的狐狸。甚至云雀或黄鹂都没有，这些柔和的候鸟从未访问过我的林居。天井里没有雄鸡啼叫也没有母鸡噪聒。根本没有天井！大自然一直延伸到你的窗口。就在你的窗下，生长了小树林，一直长到你的窗楣上。野黄栌树和黑莓的藤爬进了你的地窖；挺拔的苍松靠着又挤着木屋，因为地位不够，它们的根纠缠在屋子底下。不是疾凤刮去窗帘，而是你为了要燃料，折下屋后的松枝，或拔出树根！大雪中既没有路通到前庭的门，——没有门，——没有
前庭，——更没有路通往文明世界！