Chapter 89 Old Resident; Winter Visitor - 1

I have had some happy blizzards, and have had some pleasant winter evenings by the fire, when the wild whirling of the snow outside silenced even the cries of the owls.For weeks I met no one in my walks, except those who occasionally came to the woods to cut the logs, and carried them away in sledges.Yet those gales and snows taught me to carve a path out of the snowy depths of the woods, for once, after I had gone through, the wind blew some of the oak leaves where I had trod; and they remained there, absorbing the sun. The light melted away the snow, so that not only would I have a dry path to walk under my feet, but at night their black lines would guide me.As for intercourse with people, I cannot help recalling the forest dwellers of old.According to the memories of many residents in my town, the road near my house was filled with the chatter and laughter of the residents, and the forests on both sides, dotted here and there, used to have their small gardens and small houses, although at that time The forest is much denser than it is now.In places, which I myself remember, the thick pine-woods rubbed against the sides of the buggies; and women and children who had to walk alone to Lincoln often passed in such terror that they even galloped for a part of the way.Although it is mainly a trivial path to the neighboring villages, or only used by woodcutters, it has fascinated some travellers, when it was richer in flowers and willows than it is now. , It is also more nostalgic in memory.From the village to the forest there is now a large open field, then a marshy area of ​​maple forests, where many logs were the foundations of the paths, and now a dusty road, from Stradden, now a workhouse. , past the Grange, and down the road to Brister Hill, no doubt traces of it can still be found.

East of my bean-field, on the other side of the road, lived Cato Ingraham, slave of Lord Duncan Ingraham, squire of Concord; he built a house for his slave, He was also allowed to live in Walden Woods,—this Cato is not the one from Utica, but from Concord.Some say he is black from Guinea.A few people remember a small field in his walnut grove, which he cultivated, hoping to be useful when he was old, and a young white speculator later bought it.Now he also has a long and narrow house.Cato's half-disappeared cellar hole still exists, but few people know it, because a row of pine trees hides it from the traveler.Now it is full of smooth sumac trees (Rhusglabra), and a very primitive yellow aster (Solidagostricta) also grows luxuriantly there.

Just round the corner of my bean field, closer to the town, a Negro woman, Silva, had her little house, where she wove fine linen for the local masters, and with a loud, raging voice, sang Her piercing voice resounded in the Walden woods.Finally, in 1812, her house was burned by some British soldiers, some prisoners on parole, who happened to be out of the house at that time, and her cat, dog, and old hen were all burned to death.She led a hard life, almost inhuman.An old man who could be called a regular visitor in this forest remembered that when he passed her house one afternoon, he heard her muttering to herself over the boiling pot,—"You are all bones, bones! "I've also seen bricks left in the oak forest.

Down the road, on the right hand, on Brister's Hill, lives Brister, Freeman, "a clever Negro," once Lord Cummings' slave,--this Brister himself planted The apple tree that was cultivated is still growing there, and it has become a very large and ancient tree, but the fruit still tastes like a wild wild apple.Not long ago I read his epitaph in Lincoln Cemetery, where he lay beside a British Grenadier who died in the retreat at Concord,--"Sybio Boris Te", - he is entitled to be called Scibbio Africanus - "a colored man", as if he had been colourless.The tombstone also told me with great emphasis when he died; this was an indirect way, telling me that this person had lived.Living with him was his good wife Fanta, who could tell fortunes, but was very pleasant,--strong, round, and black, blacker than any child of the night, so The black ball is unprecedented in Concord area.