In New England Fields and Woods

In Short

This book is a series of fifty-seven lyrical sketches that observe the natural world of Vermont through the turning of the calendar year. Moving from the heraldry of the crow in March to the winter-defying chickadee in February, it documents the habits of local wildlife, the craft of angling, and the fading remnants of a frontier era. It has lasted because of its observational precision and a deep, elegiac empathy for a wild environment that the author knows is being irrevocably altered by human settlement and industrial ambition.

The Story

The narrative begins with a meditation on the "nameless season"—that liminal space between winter’s final grip and spring’s first stirrings. The author, a keen observer of the fields and woods near his home, introduces the reader to the seasonal calendar, treating the return of the crow as a trumpet blast announcing the end of winter’s whiteness. As the year unfurls, each month brings its own specific dramas: the return of the swallows, the nesting rituals of the flicker, the emergence of the woodchuck, and the vibrant, greening life of May.

The arc of the book is not driven by a singular human plot but by the steady, inexorable rhythm of nature. However, a subtext of loss runs throughout these observations. As the author moves into the summer months, he describes the joys of camping and the "gentle" sport of photography, which he contrasts with the more traditional, extractive pursuits of hunting. Yet, these moments of pastoral joy are frequently interrupted by the intrusion of human industry, represented by the "remorseless fangs" of a sawmill that gnaws away at the beauty of a favorite stream.

As the calendar turns toward autumn and winter, the tone shifts from discovery to reflection. The author recounts the "Century of Extermination" that has thinned the ranks of the wild, leaving the modern observer to find only footprints where once roamed the panther and the wolf. In the final months of the year, the landscape is blanketed by snow, and the author finds himself in a contemplative, winter-bound state. The stories of the woodpile and the ice-storm emphasize the transition of the forest into mere fuel, a "black sepulchre" where the life of the tree is extinguished for human warmth.

The book concludes with the small, persistent vitality of the chickadee, a creature that braves the deepest frost and serves as a companion to the author during the long, cold wait for spring. The ending is quiet and cyclical, acknowledging that while the author’s own days of vigorous sport are finished—marked by his final, bittersweet shot at a ruffed grouse—the natural world continues its cycle, even if it is a diminished version of the wild landscape he remembers from his youth.

How It Unfolds

The thawing season The author observes the first signs of life, specifically the crow, which serves as a herald of spring long before the snow has finished melting. He describes the reawakening of the hibernating woodchuck and the return of birds, establishing a pattern of close, patient observation.

The shift to activity As May brings a "blaze of sun," the author records the nesting habits of birds and the maturation of plant life. He transitions into the summer months, focusing on the bullfrog’s song and the deliberate, quiet art of the angler.

The summer retreat The author explores the culture of the camp, emphasizing the importance of the open-air fire over the "tame" heat of a stove. He reflects on the transience of these camps, describing how quickly nature reclaims a site once the campers have departed.

The encroaching desolation The mood darkens as the author revisits a childhood haunt now destroyed by a sawmill. He laments the loss of the wilderness and the "irreparable loss" of the natural beauty he once knew.

The closing winter The book concludes with the onset of winter, detailing the silence of the woods and the harsh reality of the snow-covered landscape. The author finds solace in the chickadee, a tiny, resilient bird that provides the final image of courage before the cycle begins again.

The People

The central "characters" are, in truth, the inhabitants of the woods: the fox, the raccoon, the bullfrog, and the ruffed grouse. These creatures are not merely objects of study but neighbors whose habits the author knows intimately.

The human presence is anchored by the "old sportsman," a figure of fading strength who represents the author’s own history. This man wants to preserve the integrity of his sport, but he is hindered by his own aging body and the dwindling game. He ends his journey with a sense of resignation, choosing to hang up his gun after one final, successful shot, accepting that his era of interaction with the wilderness is closing. Then there is the "boy," who appears in the camping sketches, embodying a fresh, unburdened curiosity. He sees the world through "undimmed eyes," representing the capacity for wonder that the author fears is becoming lost to the adults who have turned to the "race for wealth." Together, these figures mark the passage of time—one looking backward with mourning, the other looking forward with the hope of discovery.

In Its Own Voice

"The robin's impatient yelp not yet attuned to happy song, the song sparrow's trill, the bluebird's serene melody, do not herald the coming of spring, but attend its vanguard."

(Describing the early, tentative sounds of the approaching season.)

"This little brother of the bear is one of the few remaining links that connect us with the old times, when there were trees older than living men, when all the world had not entered for the race to gain the prize of wealth, or place, or renown."

(Reflecting on the raccoon as a symbol of a lost, pre-industrial era.)

What It's Really About

The book is an argument for the intrinsic value of the wild, set against the backdrop of a New England that is rapidly losing its untamed character. Its primary theme is the conflict between memory and reality; the author is constantly attempting to reconcile the vibrant, abundant nature of his youth with the "desolate" and "harried" landscape he observes in his later years. It asks whether humanity can exist in the natural world without destroying the very qualities that make it restorative. Ultimately, it is a plea for observation over exploitation, suggesting that the most meaningful connection one can have with the woods is through quiet attention, patience, and a willingness to witness the world without necessarily taking from it.

Why Read It Today

Readers who love the classic nature writing of Henry David Thoreau or John Burroughs will find a kindred spirit here. The writing feels like a walk through a quiet, frost-bitten Vermont forest; it is observant, slow-paced, and deeply atmospheric. You will come away with a heightened awareness of the small, often overlooked details of the changing seasons, from the "sullen patter" of rain on a tent to the "nasal snicker" of a red squirrel.

However, prospective readers should be aware that this is a product of the late 19th century. The author’s focus is exclusively on the woods of his region, and his perspective is that of a man who belonged to a generation of hunters. While he eventually advocates for the "bloodless" weapon of the camera, his earlier descriptions of shooting birds and trapping may strike modern readers as jarring or insensitive. Additionally, the prose is formal and at times quite dense, reflecting the period's preference for complex sentence structures and botanical specificity. If you are looking for a fast-paced narrative, you will not find it here; but if you want to sit by a "reluctant camp-fire" and listen to the voice of an observant, melancholic naturalist, this book offers a profound sense of companionship.