Solitude

Thisisadeliciousevening,whenthewholebodyisonesense,andimbibesdelightthrougheverypore.IgoandcomewithastrangelibertyinNature,apartofherself.AsIwalkalongthestonyshoreofthepondinmyshirtsleeves,thoughitiscoolaswellascloudyandwindy,andIseenothingspecialtoattractme,alltheelementsareunusuallycongenialtome.Thebullfrogstrumptousherinthenight,andthenoteofthewhippoorwillisborneontheripplingwindfromoverthewater.Sympathywiththeflutteringalderandpoplarleavesalmosttakesawaymybreathyet,likethelake,myserenityisrippledbutnotruffled.Thesesmallwavesraisedbytheeveningwindareasremotefromstormasthesmoothreflectingsurface.Thoughitisnowdark,thewindstillblowsandroarsinthewood,thewavesstilldash,andsomecreatureslulltherestwiththeirnotes.Thereposeisnevercomplete.Thewildestanimalsdonotrepose,butseektheirpreynowthefox,andskunk,andrabbit,nowroamthefieldsandwoodswithoutfear.TheyareNature’swatchmen,—linkswhichconnectthedaysofanimatedlife. WhenIreturntomyhouseIfindthatvisitorshavebeenthereandlefttheircards,eitherabunchofflowers,orawreathofevergreen,oranameinpencilonayellowwalnutleaforachip.Theywhocomerarelytothewoodstakesomelittlepieceoftheforestintotheirhandstoplaywithbytheway,whichtheyleave,eitherintentionallyoraccidentally.Onehaspeeledawillowwand,wovenitintoaring,anddroppeditonmytable.Icouldalwaystellifvisitorshadcalledinmyabsence,eitherbythebendedtwigsorgrass,ortheprintoftheirshoes,andgenerallyofwhatsexorageorqualitytheywerebysomeslighttraceleft,asaflowerdropped,orabunchofgrasspluckedandthrownaway,evenasfaroffastherailroad,halfamiledistant,orbythelingeringodorofacigarorpipe.Nay,Iwasfrequentlynotifiedofthepassageofatravelleralongthehighwaysixtyrodsoffbythescentofhispipe. Thereiscommonlysufficientspaceaboutus.Ourhorizonisneverquiteatourelbows.Thethickwoodisnotjustatourdoor,northepond,butsomewhatisalwaysclearing,familiarandwornbyus,appropriatedandfencedinsomeway,andreclaimedfromNature.ForwhatreasonhaveIthisvastrangeandcircuit,somesquaremilesofunfrequentedforest,formyprivacy,abandonedtomebymen?Mynearestneighborisamiledistant,andnohouseisvisiblefromanyplacebutthehill-topswithinhalfamileofmyown.Ihavemyhorizonboundedbywoodsalltomyselfadistantviewoftherailroadwhereittouchesthepondontheonehand,andofthefencewhichskirtsthewoodlandroadontheother.ButforthemostpartitisassolitarywhereIliveasontheprairies.ItisasmuchAsiaorAfricaasNewEngland.Ihave,asitwere,myownsunandmoonandstars,andalittleworldalltomyself.Atnighttherewasneveratravellerpassedmyhouse,orknockedatmydoor,morethanifIwerethefirstorlastmanunlessitwereinthespring,whenatlongintervalssomecamefromthevillagetofishforpouts,—theyplainlyfishedmuchmoreintheWaldenPondoftheirownnatures,andbaitedtheirhookswithdarkness,—buttheysoonretreated,usuallywithlightbaskets,andleft“theworldtodarknessandtome,”andtheblackkernelofthenightwasneverprofanedbyanyhumanneighborhood.Ibelievethatmenaregenerallystillalittleafraidofthedark,thoughthewitchesareallhung,andChristianityandcandleshavebeenintroduced. YetIexperiencedsometimesthatthemostsweetandtender,themostinno