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 good-sized 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 twos 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 woolen;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 travelling 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 snore 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.
