Chapter 48 Acoustic - 6

There was also an owl who kept singing and serenading me. Listening closely, you may feel that this is the most tragic sound in nature, as if it wants to use this sound to condense the moaning of human beings at the end of their lives. , keep it forever in its song,--the groan is the poor frail remnant of man, who left hope behind, howling like an animal at the mouth of Hades, but with The sobbing sound of a human being, it sounds especially frightening because of some beautiful "Gurger" sound - I found that when I tried to imitate that sound, I started to pronounce the word "Gerrer" myself —it expresses a condensed, corrupted state of mind, in which all healthy and courageous thoughts are destroyed.It reminds me of gravediggers, the howls of idiots and madmen.But now there is an echo, from among the distant trees, really beautiful because of the distance, ho-ho-ho, hoo hoo; what most of it suggests is really only pleasant associations, whether you Hear it day or night, summer or winter.

I find it gratifying to have owls.Let them howl like idiots for man.It is a sound most suited to swamps and gloomy forests where the day does not shine, and reminds one of a vast and uncivilized nature as yet undiscovered by man.It can represent the obscurity of absolute folly and the insatiable thoughts that everyone has.All day the sun had shone on the surface of some wild swamp, where lichens grew on solitary needle firs, and little hawks circled overhead, while titmouses crept among the ivy, and grouse and rabbits hid below. but now, when a more gloomy and more fitting day comes, there is another crop of creatures waking up in a flurry of occasions, expressing the meaning of nature there.

Late at night, I heard vehicles crossing the bridge in the distance——this sound can be heard the farthest in the night—and the barking of dogs, and sometimes I heard a restless cow barking in the cowshed far away.Meanwhile, the shores of the lake resound with the cries of frogs, and the obstinate elves of the old drunkards and feasters, still unrepentant, will sing their rounds on their Styx-like lakes, and beg the Naxe of Walden to forgive me for doing so. For though there are no reeds on the lake, frogs are plentiful,--they still gladly follow the tumultuous law of their old feast, though their throats are hoarse and solemn, and they laugh at joy , the wine also lost its aroma, and became only the cooking wine used to fill their stomachs, and the drunkenness no longer overwhelmed their memories of the past. They only felt full, and the water in their stomachs was heavy. feel bloated.When the tallest frog, with his chin resting on a heart-shaped leaf, as if hanging a napkin under his salivating mouth, took a sip of the previously despised water-wine under the north bank, passed the glass across, and at the same time issued a Er-er-er-ronk, Thor-er-er-ronk, Thor-er-er-ronk!a voice, and at once, from a distance over the water, the command was repeated, by another frog, a little lower in rank, with a protruding belly, who had swallowed his mouthful of wine, and when the wine was ordered to parade along the lake For a week, the drinker's frog uttered Thor--r-r-ronk with satisfaction, and each passed in turn to the most underfed, most leaky, and most flat-bellied frog, all in order. There was no mistake; and the goblet was passed again and again till the sun cleared away the morning mist, and only the venerable old Frog had not yet plunged to the bottom of the lake, and from time to time he called out Torronk in vain, pausing for an accent .

I don't know if I've ever heard the golden rooster crow in the glade, I think it makes sense to keep a cockerel, but treat him like a songbird for his music The most wonderful of all birds, whose music, if domesticated without being converted into fowl, would at once become the most famous music in our woods, surpassing the cry of the goose, or the howl of the owl; and , think again of the old hens, whose clamor fills the pause after their husbands have silenced their horns!No wonder humans have incorporated this bird among poultry—not to mention eggs and drumsticks.In the winter dawn, walking in the forest where there are many birds of this kind, in their old forest, listening to the wild rooster crowing on the tree, making a loud and sharp sound, which can be heard for miles, and the earth trembles , all the faint voices of the birds were overwhelmed—just imagine!This would set the nation on alert, and who wouldn't rise earlier, day by day, until he was unspeakably healthy, rich, and wise?Poets all over the world have praised the notes of this foreign bird, as well as those of some of their own songbirds.Any climate is suitable for the growth of the brave golden rooster, which is more earthy than the original birds.It is ever healthy, its lungs are ever strong, its spirit never fails.Even sailors in the Atlantic and Pacific get up at the sound of it, but its cry has never awakened me from my deep sleep.I do not feed dogs, cats, cows, pigs, or hens, and you may say that I lack the sounds of domestic animals; but I also have no churning of cream, spinning wheels, singing of boiling water, or hissing of coffee pots. , the cry of a child, etc. to comfort me, old-fashioned people would be mad or bored to death.Not even the mice in the walls, they were all starved to death, perhaps never attracted at all—only squirrels on the roof, under the floor, and nighthawks on the beams, and a blue jay under the window, pointed Howling, a rabbit or a woodchuck under the house, an owl or an owl behind the house, a flock of wild geese on the lake, or a laughing loon, and a fox barking at night.Not even skylarks or orioles, gentle migratory birds that have never visited my forest dwelling.There are no crowing roosters or noisy hens in the courtyard.No patio at all!Nature stretches all the way to your window.Just under your window a grove grows up to your lintel.Wild sumac and blackberry vines crawled into your cellar; tall pines leaned and squeezed against the cabin, and their roots got tangled under it for lack of place.It's not that the phoenix blows away the curtains, but that you break off the pine branches behind the house or pull out the roots for fuel!There is no way in the snow to the vestibule door,—no door,—no

The vestibule,—and there is no way to the civilized world!