Sweet Nothings
Thoreau's Journal: 26-May-1857

My mother was telling to-night of the sounds she used to hear summer nights when she was young and lived on the Virginia Road,—the lowing of cows, or cackling of geese, or the beating of a drum as far off as Hildreth’s, but above all Joe Merriam whistling to his team, for he was an admirable whistler. Says she used to get up at midnight and go and sit on the door-step when all in the house were asleep, and she could hear nothing in the world but the ticking of the clock in the house behind her.


Anonymous said...

If only the world could be so silent again.

pwax said...

And now the Merriams are no more than a memory and a historic plaque on an old house. But the field where that whistling happened is still there, one of the few places left where you can collect arrowheads