Although covering a very broad period of time, mentioning events as early as September and as late as winter of the second year, "House Warming" is fairly unified, as Thoreau follows the natural progression of events during the fall and early winter, with only a few digressions.
Thoreau begins by recounting some events in the fall, when he gathered his last harvests of fruits and nuts for the winter.
After a short digression about the ground-nut and its role in the scheme of things, he talks of the first maples changing colors, an event which actually began earlier. He then tells of the wasps gathering at his cabin, looking for places to escape the winter cold, and how he also would seek the last warm places in the sun.
Next he tells about building his chimney and what his home was like before being plastered.
This leads into a long and interesting digression as to what the ideal home would be like, and from that some criticism of how people commonly entertained their guests. I'm not sure that most people would prefer Thoreau's hasty pudding, even after such a good argument.
Then he tells about plastering his house.
He next includes a long discussion and description of ice freezing in the pond.
Finally, the rest of the chapter deals with heating his house and obtaining firewood, with one short digression talking about how much he cares about the woods.
In writing this chapter, then, he is following the same plan as used in "Economy," mixing events and opinions together. However, in "Economy," the opinions dominated, while in "House Warming," they just add some decoration to the events.
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|In October I went a-graping to the river meadows, and loaded myself with clusters more precious for their beauty and fragrance than for food. There, too, I admired, though I did not gather, the cranberries, small waxen gems, pendants of the meadow grass, pearly and red, which the farmer plucks with an ugly rake, leaving the smooth meadow in a snarl, heedlessly measuring them by the bushel and the dollar only, and sells the spoils of the meads to Boston and New York; destined to be jammed, to satisfy the tastes of lovers of Nature there. So butchers rake the tongues of bison out of the prairie grass, regardless of the torn and drooping plant. The barberry's brilliant fruit was likewise food for my eyes merely; but I collected a small store of wild apples for coddling, which the proprietor and travellers had overlooked. When chestnuts were ripe I laid up half a bushel for winter. It was very exciting at that season to roam the then boundless chestnut woods of Lincoln, -- they now sleep their long sleep under the railroad, -- with a bag on my shoulder, and a stick to open burs with in my hand, for I did not always wait for the frost, amid the rustling of leaves and the loud reproofs of the red squirrels and the jays, whose half-consumed nuts I sometimes stole, for the burs which they had selected were sure to contain sound ones. Occasionally I climbed and shook the trees. They grew also behind my house, and one large tree, which almost overshadowed it, was, when in flower, a bouquet which scented the whole neighborhood, but the squirrels and the jays got most of its fruit; the last coming in flocks early in the morning and picking the nuts out of the burs before they fell, I relinquished these trees to them and visited the more distant woods composed wholly of chestnut. These nuts, as far as they went, were a good substitute for bread. Many other substitutes might, perhaps, be found. Digging one day for fishworms, I discovered the groundnut (Apios tuberosa) on its string, the potato of the aborigines, a sort of fabulous fruit, which I had begun to doubt if I had ever dug and eaten in childhood, as I had told, and had not dreamed it. I had often since seen its crumpled red velvety blossom supported by the stems of other plants without knowing it to be the same. Cultivation has well-nigh exterminated it. It has a sweetish taste, much like that of a frost-bitten potato, and I found it better boiled than roasted. This tuber seemed like a faint promise of Nature to rear her own children and feed them simply here at some future period. In these days of fatted cattle and waving grain-fields this humble root, which was once the totem of an Indian tribe, is quite forgotten, or known only by its flowering vine; but let wild Nature reign here once more, and the tender and luxurious English grains will probably disappear before a myriad of foes, and without the care of man the crow may carry back even the last seed of corn to the great cornfield of the Indian's God in the southwest, whence he is said to have brought it; but the now almost exterminated ground-nut will perhaps revive and flourish in spite of frosts and wildness, prove itself indigenous, and resume its ancient importance and dignity as the diet of the hunter tribe. Some Indian Ceres or Minerva must have been the inventor and bestower of it; and when the reign of poetry commences here, its leaves and string of nuts may be represented on our works of art.||
Cranberries cannot be eaten raw like blueberries or grapes but require processing. I'm not familiar with the barberry, but a transcendental poem about it says that the fruit can be eaten only after a frost.
Unlike modern environmentalists, Thoreau never attacks his society for its destruction of plants, animals, and habitat, but he was definitely aware of it and saddened by it. He casually includes the destruction of the bison in with that of the cranberry. Note the ironic purpose: "to satisfy the tastes of lovers of Nature there."
Again, when mentioning his beloved chestnut woods which were cut down for railroad ties, he just talks about them sleeping under the railroad, a pun on sleepers, a name for cross-ties. Since then, all the American Chestnut trees have disappeared, destroyed by the chestnut blight.
"Coddling" means to cook the apples without bringing the water to a full boil.
"The Totem of an Indian tribe" means that it was so important to them that they identified their tribe by it and considered their tribe to have a magical relationship with it.
He talks about a mythical future time when Nature will return once again, cultivated grains will disappear, and corn will carried by the crow back to its original corn field in the Southwest. At that time, the ground-nut will become an important source of food again, and in that age of poety, future artists will include it in their art.
|Already, by the first of September, I had seen two or three small maples turned scarlet across the pond, beneath where the white stems of three aspens diverged, at the point of a promontory, next the water. Ah, many a tale their color told! And gradually from week to week the character of each tree came out, and it admired itself reflected in the smooth mirror of the lake. Each morning the manager of this gallery substituted some new picture, distinguished by more brilliant or harmonious coloring, for the old upon the walls.||Although looking like the pathetic fallacy (saying plants think), Thoreau is just using colorful descriptive language by saying the trees admired themselves in the lake. He does the same in the next line, making the change in fall colors due to the manager of an art gallery.|
|The wasps came by thousands to my lodge in October, as to winter quarters, and settled on my windows within and on the walls overhead, sometimes deterring visitors from entering. Each morning, when they were numbed with cold, I swept some of them out, but I did not trouble myself much to get rid of them; I even felt complimented by their regarding my house as a desirable shelter. They never molested me seriously, though they bedded with me; and they gradually disappeared, into what crevices I do not know, avoiding winter and unspeakable cold.||"Winter and unspeakable cold" is a quote from the Iliad, according to Harding in The Variorum Walden. Insects seek sheltered places to survive the winter. I've never seen wasps gather in the thousands, but they were clustered by the hundreds in the trailer where I used the internet this fall.|
|Like the wasps, before I finally went into winter quarters in November, I used to resort to the northeast side of Walden, which the sun, reflected from the pitch pine woods and the stony shore, made the fireside of the pond; it is so much pleasanter and wholesomer to be warmed by the sun while you can be, than by an artificial fire. I thus warmed myself by the still glowing embers which the summer, like a departed hunter, had left.||Fortunately for me -- but only because I planned it that way, my home in the woods is located where the winter sun warms it and the surrounding woods. Thus a fire during the day is rarely needed, and my solar panels work effectively.|
|When I came to build my chimney I studied masonry. My bricks, being second-hand ones, required to be cleaned with a trowel, so that I learned more than usual of the qualities of bricks and trowels. The mortar on them was fifty years old, and was said to be still growing harder; but this is one of those sayings which men love to repeat whether they are true or not. Such sayings themselves grow harder and adhere more firmly with age, and it would take many blows with a trowel to clean an old wiseacre of them. Many of the villages of Mesopotamia are built of secondhand bricks of a very good quality, obtained from the ruins of Babylon, and the cement on them is older and probably harder still. However that may be, I was struck by the peculiar toughness of the steel which bore so many violent blows without being worn out. As my bricks had been in a chimney before, though I did not read the name of Nebuchadnezzar on them, I picked out its many fireplace bricks as I could find, to save work and waste, and I filled the spaces between the bricks about the fireplace with stones from the pond shore, and also made my mortar with the white sand from the same place. I lingered most about the fireplace, as the most vital part of the house. Indeed, I worked so deliberately, that though I commenced at the ground in the morning, a course of bricks raised a few inches above the floor served for my pillow at night; yet I did not get a stiff neck for it that I remember; my stiff neck is of older date. I took a poet to board for a fortnight about those times, which caused me to be put to it for room. He brought his own knife, though I had two, and we used to scour them by thrusting them into the earth. He shared with me the labors of cooking. I was pleased to see my work rising so square and solid by degrees, and reflected, that, if it proceeded slowly, it was calculated to endure a long time. The chimney is to some extent an independent structure, standing on the ground, and rising through the house to the heavens; even after the house is burned it still stands sometimes, and its importance and independence are apparent. This was toward the end of summer. It was now November.||
A good comparison -- every time I have worked with bricks and mortar, someone has had to point out that the mortar gets harder every year. Using a trowel to clean the wiseacre -- the person making such comments -- is an example of a metaphor. It is also an example of humor.
Bricks sometimes have the name of their manufacturer on them. A brick from Babylon might have the name Nebuchadnezzer on it, as he built the Tower of Babel in the sixth century BC. (the Tower of Babel mentioned in the Bible is an older, smaller, and uncompleted ziggurat about which there were many legends. The Jews saw it after being led into exile.) Thoreau is just saying that his bricks weren't that old.
Thoreau goes out of his way to call himself "stiff-necked," a bit of humor on his part.
The poet was his good friend Channing.
|The north wind had already begun to cool the pond, though it took many weeks of steady blowing to accomplish it, it is so deep. When I began to have a fire at evening, before I plastered my house, the chimney carried smoke particularly well, because of the numerous chinks between the boards. Yet I passed some cheerful evenings in that cool and airy apartment, surrounded by the rough brown boards full of knots, and rafters with the bark on high overhead. My house never pleased my eye so much after it was plastered, though I was obliged to confess that it was more comfortable. Should not every apartment in which man dwells be lofty enough to create some obscurity overhead, where flickering shadows may play at evening about the rafters? These forms are more agreeable to the fancy and imagination than fresco paintings or other the most expensive furniture. I now first began to inhabit my house, I may say, when I began to use it for warmth as well as shelter. I had got a couple of old fire-dogs to keep the wood from the hearth, and it did me good to see the soot form on the back of the chimney which I had built, and I poked the fire with more right and more satisfaction than usual. My dwelling was small, and I could hardly entertain an echo in it; but it seemed larger for being a single apartment and remote from neighbors. All the attractions of a house were concentrated in one room; it was kitchen, chamber, parlor, and keeping-room; and whatever satisfaction parent or child, master or servant, derive from living in a house, I enjoyed it all. Cato says, the master of a family (patremfamilias) must have in his rustic villa "cellam oleariam, vinariam, dolia multa, uti lubeat caritatem expectare, et rei, et virtuti, et gloriae erit," that is, "an oil and wine cellar, many casks, so that it may be pleasant to expect hard times; it will be for his advantage, and virtue, and glory." I had in my cellar a firkin of potatoes, about two quarts of peas with the weevil in them, and on my shelf a little rice, a jug of molasses, and of rye and Indian meal a peck each.||
Although Thoreau rarely calls his home in the woods a cabin, that is what he is describing now, a very simple, one-room dwelling. |
My great-aunt Carrie built her old home when she was rather old and, being quite sensible, she recognized that since she spent all of her time in either the bedroom or the kitchen, that she needed to build just those two rooms. But why build two rooms? My bed fits nicely in one corner, between the wall and the closet, my desk is in the second corner, next to the book shelves and two large windows facing south, and my cooking area is at the far end of the cabin, just beyond the stove. I am hardly crowded, but the total space is just 12 by 18 feet. Like Thoreau, I don't keep a lot of groceries on hand. Although I try to keep stocked up, I rarely have a week's supply of food, and my fruit and vegetables are purchased for only half a week at a time.
|I sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials, and without gingerbread work, which shall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial, primitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and purlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one's head-useful to keep off rain and snow, where the king and queen posts stand out to receive your homage, when you have done reverence to the prostrate Saturn of an older dynasty on stepping over the sill; a cavernous house, wherein you must reach up a torch upon a pole to see the roof; where some may live in the fireplace, some in the recess of a window, and some on settles, some at one end of the hall, some at another, and some aloft on rafters with the spiders, if they choose; a house which you have got into when you have opened the outside door, and the ceremony is over; where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and converse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you would be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the essentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping; where you can see all the treasures of the house at one view, and everything hangs upon its peg, that a man should use; at once kitchen, pantry, parlor, chamber, storehouse, and garret; where you can see so necessary a thin, as a barrel or a ladder, so convenient a thing as a cupboard, and hear the pot boil, and pay your respects to the fire that cooks your dinner, and the oven that bakes your bread, and the necessary furniture and utensils are the chief ornaments; where the washing is not put out, nor the fire, nor the mistress, and perhaps you are sometimes requested to move from off the trapdoor, when the cook would descend into the cellar, and so learn whether the ground is solid or hollow beneath you without stamping. A house whose inside is as open and manifest as a bird's nest, and you cannot go in at the front door and out at the back without seeing some of its inhabitants; where to be a guest is to be presented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully excluded from seven eighths of it, shut up in a particular cell, and told to make yourself at home therein solitary confinement. Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance. There is as much secrecy about the cooking as if he had a design to poison you. I am aware that I have been on many a man's premises, and might have been legally ordered off, but I am not aware that I have been in many men's houses. I might visit in my old clothes a king and queen who lived simply in such a house as I have described, if I were going their way; but backing out of a modern palace will be all that I shall desire to learn, if ever I am caught in one.||
The first 340-word sentence of this paragraph shares the characteristics it describes: it is one huge sentence with everything in it.
Obviously, a house so big that people live inside the fireplace and on the window sill is not practical. Instead, this house must be seen as an extended metaphor; Thoreau wants to visit a home where he is greeted like a friend and made a part of the family.
Rafters support the roof; purlins connect them together on the underside. King posts join the peak of the roof to the beams below while queen posts extend from the middle of the rafters to the beams. Usually, the ceiling prevents these boards from being seen. Thoreau's statement "where the king and queen posts stand out to receive your homage" makes no literal sense but is solely a figure of speech as is the "prostrate Saturn of an older dynasty on stepping over the sill."
Note the hidden humor in not putting out the wash, the fire, and the mistress; each "put out" has a different meaning. The laundry is done at home, the fire is kept burning, and the lady of the house is kept agreeable.
The second sentence states the same idea briefly, and in the remaining sentences, Thoreau criticizes the fact that in most homes, he was confined to the parlor, the public part of the home. My parents invited strangers into the living room and friends into the kitchen.
|It would seem as if the very language of our parlors would lose all its nerve and degenerate into parlaver wholly, our lives pass at such remoteness from its symbols, and its metaphors and tropes are necessarily so far fetched, through slides and dumbwaiters, as it were; in other words, the parlor is so far from the kitchen and workshop. The dinner even is only the parable of a dinner, commonly. As if only the savage dwelt near enough to Nature and Truth to borrow a trope from them. How can the scholar, who dwells away in the North West Territory or the Isle of Man, tell what is parliamentary in the kitchen?||Thoreau deliberately misspells "palaver" (idle talk) to make it seem more like "parlor," the room for greeting guests. He suggests the metaphors and expressions used there are brought in via the openings and elevators used to deliver food. "Parlor," "palaver," and "parable" all come from the same Latin word; "parliament," although sounding similar does not.|
|However, only one or two of my guests were ever bold enough to stay and eat a hasty-pudding with me; but when they saw that crisis approaching they beat a hasty retreat rather, as if it would shake the house to its foundations. Nevertheless, it stood through a great many hasty-puddings.||To make a hasty-pudding, Thoreau would boil some of his rye and Indian (corn) meal until it formed a pasty mass. Care to stay to dinner?|
|I did not plaster till it was freezing weather. I brought over some whiter and cleaner sand for this purpose from the opposite shore of the pond in a boat, a sort of conveyance which would have tempted me to go much farther if necessary. My house had in the meanwhile been shingled down to the ground on every side. In lathing I was pleased to be able to send home each nail with a single blow of the hammer, and it was my ambition to transfer the plaster from the board to the wall neatly and rapidly. I remembered the story of a conceited fellow, who, in fine clothes, was wont to lounge about the village once, giving advice to workmen. Venturing one day to substitute deeds for words, he turned up his cuffs, seized a plasterer's board, and having loaded his trowel without mishap, with a complacent look toward the lathing overhead, made a bold gesture thitherward; and straightway, to his complete discomfiture, received the whole contents in his ruffled bosom. I admired anew the economy and convenience of plastering, which so effectually shuts out the cold and takes a handsome finish, and I learned the various casualties to which the plasterer is liable. I was surprised to see how thirsty the bricks were which drank up all the moisture in my plaster before I had smoothed it, and how many pailfuls of water it takes to christen a new hearth. I had the previous winter made a small quantity of lime by burning the shells of the Unio fluviatilis, which our river affords, for the sake of the experiment; so that I knew where my materials came from. I might have got good limestone within a mile or two and burned it myself, if I had cared to do so.||
Shingles were formed by splitting a short section of log into slices. He used them on the side of his home for extra insulation and to help keep the wind out, I suppose, although they would be of some value if the rain was blowing against the house.
To install the plaster, he first nailed strips of wood called laths, close together, on the inside of his house. Then he made plaster, using lime and sand to make a weak cement, and adding hair to it, to give it stiffness and help it hold between the laths.
The plaster had to dry slowly, so he had to add extra water to the bricks, which were absorbing water from the plaster. I suppose he chose late fall for plastering because the plaster would dry more slowly then. He did not stay in the house while he was plastering, so I assume he could not light a fire while the plaster was drying.
|The pond had in the meanwhile skimmed over in the shadiest and shallowest coves, some days or even weeks before the general freezing. The first ice is especially interesting and perfect, being hard, dark, and transparent, and affords the best opportunity that ever offers for examining the bottom where it is shallow; for you can lie at your length on ice only an inch thick, like a skater insect on the surface of the water, and study the bottom at your leisure, only two or three inches distant, like a picture behind a glass, and the water is necessarily always smooth then. There are many furrows in the sand where some creature has travelled about and doubled on its tracks; and, for wrecks, it is strewn with the cases of caddis-worms made of minute grains of white quartz. Perhaps these have creased it, for you find some of their cases in the furrows, though they are deep and broad for them to make. But the ice itself is the object of most interest, though you must improve the earliest opportunity to study it. If you examine it closely the morning after it freezes, you find that the greater part of the bubbles, which at first appeared to be within it, are against its under surface, and that more are continually rising from the bottom; while the ice is as yet comparatively solid and dark, that is, you see the water through it. These bubbles are from an eightieth to an eighth of an inch in diameter, very clear and beautiful, and you see your face reflected in them through the ice. There may be thirty or forty of them to a square inch. There are also already within the ice narrow oblong perpendicular bubbles about half an inch long, sharp cones with the apex upward; or oftener, if the ice is quite fresh, minute spherical bubbles one directly above another, like a string of beads. But these within the ice are not so numerous nor obvious as those beneath. I sometimes used to cast on stones to try the strength of the ice, and those which broke through carried in air with them, which formed very large and conspicuous white bubbles beneath. One day when I came to the same place forty-eight hours afterward, I found that those large bubbles were still perfect, though an inch more of ice had formed, as I could see distinctly by the seam in the edge of a cake. But as the last two days had been very warm, like an Indian summer, the ice was not now transparent, showing the dark green color of the water, and the bottom, but opaque and whitish or gray, and though twice as thick was hardly stronger than before, for the air bubbles had greatly expanded under this heat and run together, and lost their regularity; they were no longer one directly over another, but often like silvery coins poured from a bag, one overlapping another, or in thin flakes, as if occupying slight cleavages. The beauty of the ice was gone, and it was too late to study the bottom. Being curious to know what position my great bubbles occupied with regard to the new ice, I broke out a cake containing a middling sized one, and turned it bottom upward. The new ice had formed around and under the bubble, so that it was included between the two ices. It was wholly in the lower ice, but close against the upper, and was flattish, or perhaps slightly lenticular, with a rounded edge, a quarter of an inch deep by four inches in diameter; and I was surprised to find that directly under the bubble the ice was melted with great regularity in the form of a saucer reversed, to the height of five eighths of an inch in the middle, leaving a thin partition there between the water and the bubble, hardly an eighth of an inch thick; and in many places the small bubbles in this partition had burst out downward, and probably there was no ice at all under the largest bubbles, which were a foot in diameter. I inferred that the infinite number of minute bubbles which I had first seen against the under surface of the ice were now frozen in likewise, and that each, in its degree, had operated like a burning-glass on the ice beneath to melt and rot it. These are the little air-guns which contribute to make the ice crack and whoop.||While I criticized Thoreau for his useless observations of the temperature of a pail of Walden water in his room in "The Ponds," most of his observations are keen and informative, and these are a good example. They remind me of the sound observations about plants from his long-forgotten drafts which were finally edited and published by Bradley Dean under the title Faith in a Seed in 1993.|
|At length the winter set in good earnest, just as I had finished plastering, and the wind began to howl around the house as if it had not had permission to do so till then. Night after night the geese came lumbering in the dark with a clangor and a whistling of wings, even after the ground was covered with snow, some to alight in Walden, and some flying low over the woods toward Fair Haven, bound for Mexico. Several times, when returning from the village at ten or eleven o'clock at night, I heard the tread of a flock of geese, or else ducks, on the dry leaves in the woods by a pond-hole behind my dwelling, where they had come up to feed, and the faint honk or quack of their leader as they hurried off. In 1845 Walden froze entirely over for the first time on the night of the 22d of December, Flint's and other shallower ponds and the river having been frozen ten days or more; in '46, the 16th; in '49, about the 31st; and in '50, about the 27th of December; in '52, the 5th of January; in '53, the 31st of December. The snow had already covered the ground since the 25th of November, and surrounded me suddenly with the scenery of winter. I withdrew yet farther into my shell, and endeavored to keep a bright fire both within my house and within my breast. My employment out of doors now was to collect the dead wood in the forest, bringing it in my hands or on my shoulders, or sometimes trailing a dead pine tree under each arm to my shed. An old forest fence which had seen its best days was a great haul for me. I sacrificed it to Vulcan, for it was past serving the god Terminus. How much more interesting an event is that man's supper who has just been forth in the snow to hunt, nay, you might say, steal, the fuel to cook it with! His bread and meat are sweet. There are enough fagots and waste wood of all kinds in the forests of most of our towns to support many fires, but which at present warm none, and, some think, hinder the growth of the young wood. There was also the driftwood of the pond. In the course of the summer I had discovered a raft of pitch pine logs with the bark on, pinned together by the Irish when the railroad was built. This I hauled up partly on the shore. After soaking two years and then lying high six months it was perfectly sound, though waterlogged past drying. I amused myself one winter day with sliding this piecemeal across the pond, nearly half a mile, skating behind with one end of a log fifteen feet long on my shoulder, and the other on the ice; or I tied several logs together with a birch withe, and then, with a longer birch or alder which had a book at the end, dragged them across. Though completely waterlogged and almost as heavy as lead, they not only burned long, but made a very hot fire; nay, I thought that they burned better for the soaking, as if the pitch, being confined by the water, burned longer, as in a lamp.||
Thoreau kept lots of records, and he has to include some here, although I don't think they add to the account.
Although Thoreau had a wood pile of sorts (mentioned in "Brute Neighbors"), he gathered most of his fuel during cold weather, just as I do. Since he had an open fireplace and his house was not insulated, he had to burn quite a bit of it, which meant he had to spend more time gathering it than I do. I find I can gather all the fuel I need for the day in an hour, and I don't go further than a hundred feet or so, on those rare cold days when I burn a fire at all (usually the sun is sufficient).
The fence was no longer useful as a boundary ("serving the god Terminus"), so it was burned (sacrificed to Vulcan, the god of fire).
Thoreau points out that there is plenty of waste wood available, which only has to be gathered. The unspoken reason for doing so is that the cutting of forests for winter fuel would thus be reduced. I gather only fallen and dead wood for my fire and never cut a living tree for that purpose.
Nowadays, most people want newly-cut oak, hickory, or maple for firewood, but actually, all wood burns about the same. Thoreau did not hesitate to burn pine and rotten wood, and I never have neither.
|Gilpin, in his account of the forest borderers of England, says that "the encroachments of trespassers, and the houses and fences thus raised on the borders of the forest," were "considered as great nuisances by the old forest law, and were severely punished under the name of purprestures, as tending ad terrorem ferarum -- ad nocumentum forestae, &c.," to the frightening of the game and the detriment of the forest. But I was interested in the preservation of the venison and the vert more than the hunters or woodchoppers, and as much as though I had been the Lord Warden himself; and if any part was burned, though I burned it myself by accident, I grieved with a grief that lasted longer and was more inconsolable than that of the proprietors; nay, I grieved when it was cut down by the proprietors themselves. I would that our farmers when they cut down a forest felt some of that awe which the old Romans did when they came to thin, or let in the light to, a consecrated grove (lucum conlucare), that is, would believe that it is sacred to some god. The Roman made an expiatory offering, and prayed, Whatever god or goddess thou art to whom this grove is sacred, be propitious to me, my family, and children, &c.||
Thoreau defends his use of the surrounding woods, saying that he cared more about the animals and plants than did the landowners.
Thoreau did burn part of the woods by accident, also alluded to in "Where I Lived and What I Lived For." In May 1844, a year before he built by the pond, he and Edward Hoar built a fire to cook their fish near Fairhaven Bay, and it got out of hand. To make matters worse to the citizens of Concord, when Thoreau saw that the battle against the flames was useless, he found a good place to watch. Fortunately for him, Hoar was the son of a prominent man. Information from The Variorum Walden.
|It is remarkable what a value is still put upon wood even in this age and in this new country, a value more permanent and universal than that of gold. After all our discoveries and inventions no man will go by a pile of wood. It is as precious to us as it was to our Saxon and Norman ancestors. If they made their bows of it, we make our gun-stocks of it. Michaux, more than thirty years ago, says that the price of wood for fuel in New York and Philadelphia "nearly equals, and sometimes exceeds, that of the best wood in Paris, though this immense capital annually requires more than three hundred thousand cords, and is surrounded to the distance of three hundred miles by cultivated plains." In this town the price of wood rises almost steadily, and the only question is, how much higher it is to be this year than it was the last. Mechanics and tradesmen who come in person to the forest on no other errand, are sure to attend the wood auction, and even pay a high price for the privilege of gleaning after the woodchopper. It is now many years that men have resorted to the forest for fuel and the materials of the arts: the New Englander and the New Hollander, the Parisian and the Celt, the farmer and Robin Hood, Goody Blake and Harry Gill; in most parts of the world the prince and the peasant, the scholar and the savage, equally require still a few sticks from the forest to warm them and cook their food. Neither could I do without them.||When I lived in Birmingham, Alabama, I used to see a few sticks of wood for someone's fireplace wrapped up for sale at the supermarket at some outrageous price, and seeing them always gave me a good bit of amusement and pleasure, I'm not exactly sure why.|
|Every man looks at his wood-pile with a kind of affection. I love to have mine before my window, and the more chips the better to remind me of my pleasing work. I had an old axe which nobody claimed, with which by spells in winter days, on the sunny side of the house, I played about the stumps which I had got out of my bean-field. As my driver prophesied when I was plowing, they warmed me twice, once while I was splitting them, and again when they were on the fire, so that no fuel could give out more heat. As for the axe, I was advised to get the village blacksmith to "jump" it; but I jumped him, and, putting a hickory helve from the woods into it, made it do. If it was dull, it was at least hung true.||
I hear the quote about wood warming the person twice being ascribed to Thoreau all the time, but note the fact that he got the saying from someone else.|
After years of use and resharpening, the ax-head would get too thick to sharpen well, so the blacksmith would beat it thin again to provide a better sharpening surface.
|A few pieces of fat pine were a great treasure. It is interesting to remember how much of this food for fire is still concealed in the bowels of the earth. In previous years I had often gone prospecting over some bare hillside, where a pitch pine wood had formerly stood, and got out the fat pine roots. They are almost indestructible. Stumps thirty or forty years old, at least, will still be sound at the core, though the sapwood has all become vegetable mould, as appears by the scales of the thick bark forming a ring level with the earth four or five inches distant from the heart. With axe and shovel you explore this mine, and follow the marrowy store, yellow as beef tallow, or as if you had struck on a vein of gold, deep into the earth. But commonly I kindled my fire with the dry leaves of the forest, which I had stored up in my shed before the snow came. Green hickory finely split makes the woodchopper's kindlings, when he has a camp in the woods. Once in a while I got a little of this. When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I was awake. --||
He treasured the pitch pine because it would catch on fire easily and then help start the rest of the fire. I have always preferred twigs myself.
In the early days of the colonies, there were no matches, so either a few coals had to be saved overnight, or the fire had to be started with sparks from a piece of flint struck against a piece of iron, which was difficult to do. In Walden, fires are lit for a noon meal and at night while fishing, so they must have had matches by that time.
|Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
This poem was written by Thoreau.|
"Icarian" means having the characteristics of Icarius, whose wings of wax and feather melted when he climbed too close to the sun. "Pinion" is a poetic word for wing.
|Hard green wood just cut, though I used but little of that, answered my purpose better than any other. I sometimes left a good fire when I went to take a walk in a winter afternoon; and when I returned, three or four hours afterward, it would be still alive and glowing. My house was not empty though I was gone. It was as if I had left a cheerful housekeeper behind. It was I and Fire that lived there; and commonly my housekeeper proved trustworthy. One day, however, as I was splitting wood, I thought that I would just look in at the window and see if the house was not on fire; it was the only time I remember to have been particularly anxious on this score; so I looked and saw that a spark had caught my bed, and I went in and extinguished it when it had burned a place as big as my hand. But my house occupied so sunny and sheltered a position, and its roof was so low, that I could afford to let the fire go out in the middle of almost any winter day.||
This is a case of subliminal perception; Thoreau was unconsciously aware of the fire before he consciously was.
One critic, who had lived unhappily with his wife in a remote cabin for six years and blamed Thoreau, claimed that this passage is really secretly about masterbation, since the burned spot was on the bed and the size of a hand!
The location, with low hills behind and the sun in front, was excellent for a cold, clear winter day.
|The moles nested in my cellar, nibbling every third potato, and making a snug bed even there of some hair left after plastering and of brown paper; for even the wildest animals love comfort and warmth as well as man, and they survive the winter only because they are so careful to secure them. Some of my friends spoke as if I was coming to the woods on purpose to freeze myself. The animal merely makes a bed, which he warms with his body, in a sheltered place; but man, having discovered fire, boxes up some air in a spacious apartment, and warms that, instead of robbing himself, makes that his bed, in which he can move about divested of more cumbrous clothing, maintain a kind of summer in the midst of winter, and by means of windows even admit the light, and with a lamp lengthen out the day. Thus he goes a step or two beyond instinct, and saves a little time for the fine arts. Though, when I had been exposed to the rudest blasts a long time, my whole body began to grow torpid, when I reached the genial atmosphere of my house I soon recovered my faculties and prolonged my life. But the most luxuriously housed has little to boast of in this respect, nor need we trouble ourselves to speculate how the human race may be at last destroyed. It would be easy to cut their threads any time with a little sharper blast from the north. We go on dating from Cold Fridays and Great Snows; but a little colder Friday, or greater snow would put a period to man's existence on the globe.||
It is healthier, less expensive, and more environmentally conscious to reduce the heat in the house and to wear warm clothes inside. I spent one winter in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, in an apartment with the heat cycle of a window air-conditioner supposed to be my source of heat. Rather than doing that, I just bundled up, worked fully-dressed and in my sleeping bag during the day, and
used the waste heat from cooking and from the refrigerator to help keep me warm. I didn't have a cold all winter.
It seems that warm summers are now a greater threat than cold winters.
|The next winter I used a small cooking-stove for economy, since I did not own the forest; but it did not keep fire so well as the open fireplace. Cooking was then, for the most part, no longer a poetic, but merely a chemic process. It will soon be forgotten, in these days of stoves, that we used to roast potatoes in the ashes, after the Indian fashion. The stove not only took up room and scented the house, but it concealed the fire, and I felt as if I had lost a companion. You can always see a face in the fire. The laborer, looking into it at evening, pulifies his thoughts of the dross and earthiness which they have accumulated during the day. But I could no longer sit and look into the fire, and the pertinent words of a poet recurred to me with new force. --||A fireplace is not very economical of fuel mainly because large amounts of air are sucked up the chimney. In a central-heated house, a fireplace will suck more heat out of the house than the fire will produce. A stove also radiates the heat into the room more efficiently. Stoves have been designed with windows, so one can watch the flames without losing all the heat.|
|"Never, bright flame, may be denied to me
Thy dear, life imaging, close sympathy.
What but my hopes shot upward e'er so bright?
What but my fortunes sunk so low in night?
Why art thou banished from our hearth and hall,
Well, we are safe and strong, for now we sit
|This poem was written by Ellen Sturgis Hooper.|
|Comments | SECTIONS: | The New World | Writing | Thoreau | Home | Bike Pages ||
|WALDEN: | Economy I | Economy II | Economy III | Economy IV | Where I Lived | Reading | Sounds | Solitude ||
|WALDEN: | Visitors |The Bean-Field | The Village | The Ponds | Baker Farm | Higher Laws | Brute Neighbors ||
|WALDEN: | House Warming | Former Inhabitants | Winter Animals | The Pond in Winter | Spring | Conclusion ||