GREAT HORNED OWL 187 



hooting from invisible perch at his foes the woodchop- 

 pers, who are invading his domains. As the earth only 

 a few inches beneath the surface is undisturbed and 

 what it was anciently, so are heard still some primeval 

 sounds in the air. Some of my townsmen I never see, 

 and of a great proportion I do not hear the voices in a 

 year, though they live within my horizon ; but every 

 week almost I hear the loud voice of the hooting owl, 

 though I do not see the bird more than once in ten years. 

 Dec. 15, 1856. I still recall to mind that character- 

 istic winter eve of December 9th ; the cold, dry, and 

 wholesome diet my mind and senses necessarily fed on, 

 — oak leaves, bleached and withered weeds that rose 

 above the snow, the now dark green of the pines, and 

 perchance the faint metallic chip of a single tree spar- 

 row ; the hushed stillness of the wood at sundown, aye, 

 all the winter day ; the short boreal twilight ; the smooth 

 serenity and the reflections of the pond, still alone free 

 from ice; the melodious hooting of the owl, heard at 

 the same time with the yet more distant whistle of a 

 locomotive, more aboriginal, and perchance more en- 

 during here than that, heard above the voices of all the 

 wise men of Concord, as if they were not (how little he 

 is Anglicized !) ; the last strokes of the woodchopper, 

 who presently bends his steps homeward; the gilded 

 bar of cloud across the apparent outlet of the pond, 

 conducting my thoughts into the eternal west ; the deep- 

 ening horizon glow ; and the hasty walk homeward to 

 enjoy the long winter evening. The hooting of the owl I 

 That is a sound which my red predecessors heard here 

 more than a thousand years ago. It rings far and wide, 



