A tragedy in a quiet swamp

October 8. 

A quiet swamp. October 8, 2020

P. M. — Up Assabet. 

Hemlock leaves are copiously falling. They cover the hillside like some wild grain. 

The changing red maples along the river are past their prime now, earlier than generally elsewhere. They are much faded, and many leaves are floating on the water. 

Those white maples that were so early to change in the water have more than half lost their leaves. 

Walking through the Lee farm swamp, a dozen or more rods from the river, I found a large box trap closed. I opened it and found in it the remains of a gray rabbit, -skin, bones, and mould, - closely fitting the right-angled corner of one side. It was wholly inoffensive, as so much vegetable mould, and must have been dead some years. None of the furniture of the trap remained, but the box itself, with a lid which just moved on two rusty nails; the stick which held the bait, the string, etc., etc., were all gone. The box had the appearance of having been floated off in an upright position by a freshet. It had been a rabbit’s living tomb. He had gradually starved to death in it. What a tragedy to have occurred within a box in one of our quiet swamps! The trapper lost his box, the rabbit its life. The box had not been gnawed. After days and nights of moaning and struggle, heard for a few rods through the swamp, increasing weakness and emaciation and delirium, the rabbit breathes its last. They tell you of opening the tomb and finding by the contortions of the body that it was buried alive. This was such a case. Let the trapping boy dream of the dead rabbit in its ark, as it sailed, like a small meeting-house with its rude spire, slowly, with a grand and solemn motion, far amid the alders. 

Four dark-colored ducks (white beneath), maybe summer, or teal (??), with a loud creaking note of alarm, flew away from near the shore and followed the bend of the river upward. 

I see and hear white-throated sparrows on the swamp white oaks by the river's edge, uttering a faint sharp cheep. 

The chipmunk, the wall-going squirrel, that will cross a broad pasture on the wall, now this side, now that, now on top, and lives under it, — as if it were a track laid for him expressly.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 8, 1857

The changing red maples along the river are past their prime now. . . Compare October 8, 1852 (“Nothing can exceed the brilliancy of some of the maples which stand by the [Walden] shore and extend their red banners over the water.”)

White-throated sparrows on the swamp white oaks by the river's edge. . . See October 8, 1856 (“The trees and weeds by the Turnpike are all alive this pleasant afternoon with twittering sparrows . . .”); October 8, 1855 (" Hear a song sparrow sing. See apparently white-throated sparrows . . .”)