Orelse，departingdream，andshadowyformOfmidnightvision，gatheringupthyskirts；
Bynightstar-veiling，andbydayDarkeningthelightandblottingoutthesun；
Gothoumyincenseupwardfromthishearth，Andaskthegodstopardonthisclearflame。
Hardgreenwoodjustcut，thoughIusedbutlittleofthat，answeredmypurposebetterthananyother。IsometimesleftagoodfirewhenIwenttotakeawalkinawinterafternoon；andwhenI
returned，threeorfourhoursafterward，itwouldbestillaliveandglowing。MyhousewasnotemptythoughIwasgone。ItwasasifI
hadleftacheerfulhousekeeperbehind。ItwasIandFirethatlivedthere；andcommonlymyhousekeeperprovedtrustworthy。Oneday，however，asIwassplittingwood，IthoughtthatIwouldjustlookinatthewindowandseeifthehousewasnotonfire；itwastheonlytimeIremembertohavebeenparticularlyanxiousonthisscore；soIlookedandsawthatasparkhadcaughtmybed，andI
wentinandextinguisheditwhenithadburnedaplaceasbigasmyhand。Butmyhouseoccupiedsosunnyandshelteredaposition，anditsroofwassolow，thatIcouldaffordtoletthefiregooutinthemiddleofalmostanywinterday。
Themolesnestedinmycellar，nibblingeverythirdpotato，andmakingasnugbedeventhereofsomehairleftafterplasteringandofbrownpaper；foreventhewildestanimalslovecomfortandwarmthaswellasman，andtheysurvivethewinteronlybecausetheyaresocarefultosecurethem。SomeofmyfriendsspokeasifIwascomingtothewoodsonpurposetofreezemyself。Theanimalmerelymakesabed，whichhewarmswithhisbody，inashelteredplace；butman，havingdiscoveredfire，boxesupsomeairinaspaciousapartment，andwarmsthat，insteadofrobbinghimself，makesthathisbed，inwhichhecanmoveaboutdivestedofmorecumbrousclothing，maintainakindofsummerinthemidstofwinter，andbymeansofwindowsevenadmitthelight，andwithalamplengthenouttheday。Thushegoesasteportwobeyondinstinct，andsavesalittletimeforthefinearts。Though，whenIhadbeenexposedtotherudestblastsalongtime，mywholebodybegantogrowtorpid，whenIreachedthegenialatmosphereofmyhouseIsoonrecoveredmyfacultiesandprolongedmylife。Butthemostluxuriouslyhousedhaslittletoboastofinthisrespect，norneedwetroubleourselvestospeculatehowthehumanracemaybeatlastdestroyed。Itwouldbeeasytocuttheirthreadsanytimewithalittlesharperblastfromthenorth。WegoondatingfromColdFridaysandGreatSnows；butalittlecolderFriday，orgreatersnowwouldputaperiodtoman’sexistenceontheglobe。
ThenextwinterIusedasmallcooking-stoveforeconomy，sinceIdidnotowntheforest；butitdidnotkeepfiresowellastheopenfireplace。Cookingwasthen，forthemostpart，nolongerapoetic，butmerelyachemicprocess。Itwillsoonbeforgotten，inthesedaysofstoves，thatweusedtoroastpotatoesintheashes，aftertheIndianfashion。Thestovenotonlytookuproomandscentedthehouse，butitconcealedthefire，andIfeltasifIhadlostacompanion。Youcanalwaysseeafaceinthefire。Thelaborer，lookingintoitatevening，purifieshisthoughtsofthedrossandearthinesswhichtheyhaveaccumulatedduringtheday。
ButIcouldnolongersitandlookintothefire，andthepertinentwordsofapoetrecurredtomewithnewforce——
“Never，brightflame，maybedeniedtomeThydear，lifeimaging，closesympathy。
Whatbutmyhopesshotupwarde’ersobright？
Whatbutmyfortunessunksolowinnight？
Whyartthoubanishedfromourhearthandhall，Thouwhoartwelcomedandbelovedbyall？
WasthyexistencethentoofancifulForourlife’scommonlight，whoaresodull？
DidthybrightgleammysteriousconverseholdWithourcongenialsouls？secretstoobold？
Well，wearesafeandstrong，fornowwesitBesideahearthwherenodimshadowsflit，Wherenothingcheersnorsaddens，butafireWarmsfeetandhands——nordoestomoreaspire；
BywhosecompactutilitarianheapThepresentmaysitdownandgotosleep，Norfeartheghostswhofromthedimpastwalked，Andwithusbytheunequallightoftheoldwoodfiretalked。“
FormerInhabitantsandWinterVisitorsIweatheredsomemerrysnow-storms，andspentsomecheerfulwintereveningsbymyfireside，whilethesnowwhirledwildlywithout，andeventhehootingoftheowlwashushed。FormanyweeksImetnooneinmywalksbutthosewhocameoccasionallytocutwoodandsledittothevillage。Theelements，however，abettedmeinmakingapaththroughthedeepestsnowinthewoods，forwhenIhadoncegonethroughthewindblewtheoakleavesintomytracks，wheretheylodged，andbyabsorbingtheraysofthesunmeltedthesnow，andsonotonlymadeamybedformyfeet，butinthenighttheirdarklinewasmyguide。ForhumansocietyIwasobligedtoconjureuptheformeroccupantsofthesewoods。Withinthememoryofmanyofmytownsmentheroadnearwhichmyhousestandsresoundedwiththelaughandgossipofinhabitants，andthewoodswhichborderitwerenotchedanddottedhereandtherewiththeirlittlegardensanddwellings，thoughitwasthenmuchmoreshutinbytheforestthannow。Insomeplaces，withinmyownremembrance，thepineswouldscrapebothsidesofachaiseatonce，andwomenandchildrenwhowerecompelledtogothiswaytoLincolnaloneandonfootdiditwithfear，andoftenranagoodpartofthedistance。Thoughmainlybutahumbleroutetoneighboringvillages，orforthewoodman’steam，itonceamusedthetravellermorethannowbyitsvariety，andlingeredlongerinhismemory。Wherenowfirmopenfieldsstretchfromthevillagetothewoods，itthenranthroughamapleswamponafoundationoflogs，theremnantsofwhich，doubtless，stillunderliethepresentdustyhighway，fromtheStratton，nowtheAlms-HouseFarm，toBrister’sHill。
Eastofmybean-field，acrosstheroad，livedCatoIngraham，slaveofDuncanIngraham，Esquire，gentleman，ofConcordvillage，whobuilthisslaveahouse，andgavehimpermissiontoliveinWaldenWoods；——Cato，notUticensis，butConcordiensis。SomesaythathewasaGuineaNegro。Thereareafewwhorememberhislittlepatchamongthewalnuts，whichheletgrowuptillheshouldbeoldandneedthem；butayoungerandwhiterspeculatorgotthematlast。
Hetoo，however，occupiesanequallynarrowhouseatpresent。
Cato’shalf-obliteratedcellar-holestillremains，thoughknowntofew，beingconcealedfromthetravellerbyafringeofpines。ItisnowfilledwiththesmoothsumachRhusglabra，andoneoftheearliestspeciesofgoldenrodSolidagostrictagrowsthereluxuriantly。
Here，bytheverycornerofmyfield，stillnearertotown，Zilpha，acoloredwoman，hadherlittlehouse，whereshespunlinenforthetownsfolk，makingtheWaldenWoodsringwithhershrillsinging，forshehadaloudandnotablevoice。Atlength，inthewarof1812，herdwellingwassetonfirebyEnglishsoldiers，prisonersonparole，whenshewasaway，andhercatanddogandhenswereallburneduptogether。Sheledahardlife，andsomewhatinhumane。Oneoldfrequenterofthesewoodsremembers，thatashepassedherhouseonenoonheheardhermutteringtoherselfoverhergurglingpot——“Yeareallbones，bones！“Ihaveseenbricksamidtheoakcopsethere。
Downtheroad，ontherighthand，onBrister’sHill，livedBristerFreeman，“ahandyNegro，“slaveofSquireCummingsonce——
therewheregrowstilltheappletreeswhichBristerplantedandtended；largeoldtreesnow，buttheirfruitstillwildandciderishtomytaste。NotlongsinceIreadhisepitaphintheoldLincolnburying-ground，alittleononeside，neartheunmarkedgravesofsomeBritishgrenadierswhofellintheretreatfromConcord——
whereheisstyled“SippioBrister“——ScipioAfricanushehadsometitletobecalled——“amanofcolor，“asifhewerediscolored。
Italsotoldme，withstaringemphasis，whenhedied；whichwasbutanindirectwayofinformingmethatheeverlived。WithhimdweltFenda，hishospitablewife，whotoldfortunes，yetpleasantly——
large，round，andblack，blackerthananyofthechildrenofnight，suchaduskyorbasneverroseonConcordbeforeorsince。
Fartherdownthehill，ontheleft，ontheoldroadinthewoods，aremarksofsomehomesteadoftheStrattonfamily；whoseorchardoncecoveredalltheslopeofBrister’sHill，butwaslongsincekilledoutbypitchpines，exceptingafewstumps，whoseoldrootsfurnishstillthewildstocksofmanyathriftyvillagetree。
Neareryettotown，youcometoBreed’slocation，ontheothersideoftheway，justontheedgeofthewood；groundfamousforthepranksofademonnotdistinctlynamedinoldmythology，whohasactedaprominentandastoundingpartinourNewEnglandlife，anddeserves，asmuchasanymythologicalcharacter，tohavehisbiographywrittenoneday；whofirstcomesintheguiseofafriendorhiredman，andthenrobsandmurdersthewholefamily——
New-EnglandRum。Buthistorymustnotyettellthetragediesenactedhere；lettimeinterveneinsomemeasuretoassuageandlendanazuretinttothem。Herethemostindistinctanddubioustraditionsaysthatonceatavernstood；thewellthesame，whichtemperedthetraveller’sbeverageandrefreshedhissteed。Herethenmensalutedoneanother，andheardandtoldthenews，andwenttheirwaysagain。
Breed’shutwasstandingonlyadozenyearsago，thoughithadlongbeenunoccupied。Itwasaboutthesizeofmine。Itwassetonfirebymischievousboys，oneElectionnight，ifIdonotmistake。
Ilivedontheedgeofthevillagethen，andhadjustlostmyselfoverDavenant’s“Gondibert，“thatwinterthatIlaboredwithalethargy——which，bytheway，Ineverknewwhethertoregardasafamilycomplaint，havinganunclewhogoestosleepshavinghimself，andisobligedtosproutpotatoesinacellarSundays，inordertokeepawakeandkeeptheSabbath，orastheconsequenceofmyattempttoreadChalmers’collectionofEnglishpoetrywithoutskipping。ItfairlyovercamemyNervii。Ihadjustsunkmyheadonthiswhenthebellsrungfire，andinhothastetheenginesrolledthatway，ledbyastragglingtroopofmenandboys，andIamongtheforemost，forIhadleapedthebrook。Wethoughtitwasfarsouthoverthewoods——wewhohadruntofiresbefore——barn，shop，ordwelling-house，oralltogether。“It’sBaker’sbarn，“criedone。“ItistheCodmanplace，“affirmedanother。Andthenfreshsparkswentupabovethewood，asiftherooffellin，andweallshouted“Concordtotherescue！“Wagonsshotpastwithfuriousspeedandcrushingloads，bearing，perchance，amongtherest，theagentoftheInsuranceCompany，whowasboundtogohoweverfar；andeverandanontheenginebelltinkledbehind，moreslowandsure；andrearmostofall，asitwasafterwardwhispered，cametheywhosetthefireandgavethealarm。Thuswekeptonliketrueidealists，rejectingtheevidenceofoursenses，untilataturnintheroadweheardthecracklingandactuallyfelttheheatofthefirefromoverthewall，andrealized，alas！thatwewerethere。Theverynearnessofthefirebutcooledourardor。Atfirstwethoughttothrowafrog-pondontoit；butconcludedtoletitburn，itwassofargoneandsoworthless。Sowestoodroundourengine，jostledoneanother，expressedoursentimentsthroughspeaking-trumpets，orinlowertonereferredtothegreatconflagrationswhichtheworldhaswitnessed，includingBascom’sshop，and，betweenourselves，wethoughtthat，werewethereinseasonwithour“tub，“andafullfrog-pondby，wecouldturnthatthreatenedlastanduniversaloneintoanotherflood。Wefinallyretreatedwithoutdoinganymischief——returnedtosleepand“Gondibert。“Butasfor“Gondibert，“Iwouldexceptthatpassageintheprefaceaboutwitbeingthesoul’spowder——
“butmostofmankindarestrangerstowit，asIndiansaretopowder。“
ItchancedthatIwalkedthatwayacrossthefieldsthefollowingnight，aboutthesamehour，andhearingalowmoaningatthisspot，Idrewnearinthedark，anddiscoveredtheonlysurvivorofthefamilythatIknow，theheirofbothitsvirtuesanditsvices，whoalonewasinterestedinthisburning，lyingonhisstomachandlookingoverthecellarwallatthestillsmoulderingcindersbeneath，mutteringtohimself，asishiswont。Hehadbeenworkingfaroffintherivermeadowsallday，andhadimprovedthefirstmomentsthathecouldcallhisowntovisitthehomeofhisfathersandhisyouth。Hegazedintothecellarfromallsidesandpointsofviewbyturns，alwayslyingdowntoit，asiftherewassometreasure，whichheremembered，concealedbetweenthestones，wheretherewasabsolutelynothingbutaheapofbricksandashes。
Thehousebeinggone，helookedatwhattherewasleft。Hewassoothedbythesympathywhichmymerepresence，implied，andshowedme，aswellasthedarknesspermitted，wherethewellwascoveredup；which，thankHeaven，couldneverbeburned；andhegropedlongaboutthewalltofindthewell-sweepwhichhisfatherhadcutandmounted，feelingfortheironhookorstaplebywhichaburdenhadbeenfastenedtotheheavyend——allthathecouldnowclingto——
toconvincemethatitwasnocommon“rider。“Ifeltit，andstillremarkitalmostdailyinmywalks，forbyithangsthehistoryofafamily。
Oncemore，ontheleft，whereareseenthewellandlilacbushesbythewall，inthenowopenfield，livedNuttingandLeGrosse。
ButtoreturntowardLincoln。