04-sounds-第3部分

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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