We have just built our house in rather an out-of-the-way place—on the bank of a river, and under the shade of a patch of woods which is a veritable remain of quite an ancient forest.  The checkerberry and partridge-plum, with their glossy green leaves and scarlet berries, still carpet the ground under its deep shadows; and prince’s-pine and other kindred evergreens declare its native wildness,—for these are children of the wild woods, that never come after plough and harrow have once broken a soil.  
When we tried to look out the spot for our house, we had to get a surveyor to go before us and cut a path through the dense underbrush that was laced together in a general network of boughs and leaves, and grew so high as to overtop our heads.  Where the house stands, four or five great old oaks and chestnuts had to be cut away to let it in; and now it stands on the bank of the river, the edges of which are still overhung with old forest-trees, chestnuts and oaks, which look at themselves in the glassy stream.
 
A little knoll near the house was chosen for a garden-spot; a dense, dark mass of trees above, of bushes in mid-air, and of all sorts of ferns and wild-flowers and creeping vines on the ground.  All these had to be cleared out, and a dozen great trees cut down and dragged off to a neighbouring saw-mill, there to be transformed into boards to finish off our house.  Then, fetching a great machine, such as might be used to pull a giant’s teeth, with ropes, pulleys, oxen, and men, and might and main, we pulled out the stumps, with their great prongs and their network of roots and fibres; and then, alas! we had to begin with all the pretty wild, lovely bushes, and the checkerberries and ferns and wild blackberries and huckleberry-bushes, and dig them up remorselessly, that we might plant our corn and squashes.  And so we got a house and a garden right out of the heart of our piece of wild wood, about a mile from the city of H-.
 
Well, then, people said it was a lonely place, and far from neighbours,—by which they meant that it was a good way for them to come to see us.  But we soon found that whoever goes into the woods to live finds neighbours of a new kind, and some to whom it is rather hard to become accustomed.
 
For instance, on a fine day early in April, as we were crossing over to superintend the building of our house, we were startled by a striped snake, with his little bright eyes, raising himself to look at us, and putting out his red, forked tongue.  Now there is no more harm in these little garden-snakes than there is in a robin or a squirrel—they are poor little, peaceable, timid creatures, which could not do any harm if they would; but the prejudices of society are so strong against them that one does not like to cultivate too much intimacy with them.  So we tried to turn out of our path into a tangle of bushes; and there, instead of one, we found four snakes.  We turned on the other side, and there were two more.  In short, everywhere we looked, the dry leaves were rustling and coiling with them; and we were in despair.  In vain we said that they were harmless as kittens, and tried to persuade ourselves that their little bright eyes were pretty, and that their serpentine movements were in the exact line of beauty: for the life of us, we could not help remembering their family name and connections; we thought of those disagreeable gentlemen the anacondas, the rattlesnakes, and the copper-heads, and all of that bad line, immediate family friends of the old serpent to whom we are indebted for all the mischief that is done in this world.  So we were quite apprehensive when we saw how our new neighbourhood was infested by them, until a neighbour calmed our fears by telling us that snakes always crawled out of their holes to sun themselves in the spring, and that in a day or two they would all be gone.
 
So it proved.  It was evident they were all out merely to do their spring shopping, or something that serves with them the same purpose that spring shopping does with us; and where they went afterwards we do not know.  People speak of snakes’ holes, and we have seen them disappearing into such subterranean chambers; but we never opened one to see what sort of underground housekeeping went on there.  After the first few days of spring, a snake was a rare visitor, though now and then one appeared.
 
One was discovered taking his noontide repast one day in a manner which excited much prejudice.  He was, in fact, regaling himself by sucking down into his maw a small frog, which he had begun to swallow at the toes, and had drawn about half down.  The frog, it must be confessed, seemed to view this arrangement with great indifference, making no struggle, and sitting solemnly, with his great unwinking eyes, to be sucked in at the leisure of his captor.  There was immense sympathy, however, excited for him in the family circle; and it was voted that a snake which indulged in such very disagreeable modes of eating his dinner was not to be tolerated in our vicinity.  So I have reason to believe that that was his last meal.
 
Another of our wild woodland neighbours made us some trouble.  It was no other than a veritable woodchuck, whose hole we had often wondered at when we were scrambling through the underbrush after spring flowers.  The hole was about the size of a peck-measure, and had two openings about six feet apart.  The occupant was a gentleman we never had had the pleasure of seeing, but we soon learned his existence from his ravages in our garden.  He had a taste, it appears, for the very kind of things we wanted to eat ourselves, and helped himself without asking.  We had a row of fine, crisp heads of lettuce, which were the pride of our gardening, and out of which he would from day to day select for his table just the plants we had marked for ours.  He also nibbled our young beans; and so at last we were reluctantly obliged to let John Gardiner set a trap for him.  Poor old simple-minded hermit, he was too artless for this world!  He was caught at the very first snap, and found dead in the trap,—the agitation and distress having broken his poor woodland heart, and killed him.  We were grieved to the very soul when the poor fat old fellow was dragged out, with his useless paws standing up stiff and imploring.  As it was, he was given to Denis, our pig, which, without a single scruple of delicacy, ate him up as thoroughly as he ate up the lettuce.
 
This business of eating, it appears, must go on all through creation.  We eat ducks, turkeys, and chickens, though we don’t swallow them whole, feathers and all.  Our four-footed friends, less civilized, take things with more directness and simplicity, and chew each other up without ceremony, or swallow each other alive.  Of these unceremonious habits we had other instances.
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