By Aldo Leopold

One hundred and twenty acres, according to the County Clerk, is the extent of my worldly domain. But the County Clerk is a sleepy fellow, who never looks at his record books before nine o‘clock. What they would show at daybreak is the question here at issue.

Books or no books, it is a fact, patent both to my dog and myself, that at daybreak I am the sole owner of all the acres I can walk over. It is not only boundaries that disappear, but also the thought of being bounded. Expanses unknown to deed or map are known to every dawn, and solitude, supposed no longer to exist in my county, extends on every hand as far as the dew can reach.

Like other great landowners, I have tenants. They are negligent about rents, but very punctilious about tenures. Indeed at every daybreak from April to July they proclaim their boundaries to each other, and so acknowledge, at least by inference, their fiefdom to me.

This daily ceremony, contrary to what you might suppose, begins with the utmost decorum. Who originally laid down its protocols I do not know. At 3:30 a.m., with such dignity as I can muster of a July morning, I step from my cabin door, bearing in either hand my emblems of sovereignty, a coffee pot and notebook. I seat myself on a bench, facing the white wake of the morning star. I set the pot beside me. I extract a cup from my shirt front, hoping none will notice its informal mode of transport. I get out my watch, pour coffee, and lay notebook on knee. This is the cue for the proclamations to begin.

At 3:35 the nearest field sparrow avows, in a clear tenor chant, that he holds the jackpine copse north to the riverbank, and south to the old wagon track. One by one all the other field sparrows within earshot recite their respective holdings. There are no disputes, at least at this hour, so I just listen, hoping inwardly that their womenfolk acquiesce in this happy accord over the status quo ante.

Before the field sparrows have quite gone the rounds, the robin in the big elm warbles loudly his claim to the crotch where the icestorm tore off a limb, and all appurtenances pertaining thereto (meaning, in his case, all the angleworms in the not-very-spacious subjacent lawn).

The robin‘s insistent caroling awakens the oriole, who now tells the world of orioles that the pendant branch of the elm belongs to him, together with all fiber-bearing milkweed stalks near by, all loose strings in the garden, and the exclusive right to flash like a burst of fire from one of these to another.

My watch says 3:50. The indigo bunting on the hill asserts title to the dead oak limb left by the 1936 drouth, and to divers near-by bugs and bushes. He does not claim, but I think he implies, the right to out-blue all bluebirds, and all spiderworts that have turned their faces to the dawn.

Next the wren—the one who discovered the knothole in the eave of the cabin—explodes into song. Half a dozen other wrens give voice, and now all is bedlam. Grosbeaks, thrashers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, vireos, towhees, cardinals—all are at it. My solemn list of performers, in their order and time of first song, hesitates, wavers, ceases, for my ear can no longer filter out priorities. Besides, the pot is empty and the sun is about to rise. I must inspect my domain before my title runs out.

We sally forth, the dog and I, at random. He has paid scant respect to all these vocal goings-on, for to him the evidence of tenantry is not song, but scent. Any illiterate bundle of feathers, he says, can make a noise in a tree. Now he is going to translate for me the olfactory poems that who-knows-what silent creatures have written in the summer night. At the end of each poem sits the author—if we can find him. What we actually find is beyond predicting: a rabbit, suddenly yearning to be elsewhere; a woodcock, fluttering his disclaimer; a cock pheasant, indignant over wetting his feathers in the grass.

Once in a while we turn up a coon or mink, returning late from the night‘s foray. Sometimes we rout a heron from his unfinished fishing, or surprise a mother wood duck with her convoy of ducklings, headed full-steam for the shelter of the pickerelweeds. Sometimes we see deer sauntering back to the thickets, replete with alfalfa blooms, veronica, and wild lettuce. More often we see only the interweaving darkened lines that lazy hoofs have traced on the silken fabric of the dew.

I can feel the sun now. The bird-chorus has run out of breath. The far clank of cowbells bespeaks a herd ambling to pasture. A tractor roars warning that my neighbor is astir. The world has shrunk to those mean dimensions known to county clerks. We turn toward home, and breakfast.

奥尔多·利奥波德

照县书记的说法，现世我拥有一百二十亩土地。但县书记是个瞌睡虫，从来不会在九点之前翻看记录簿。天亮时，他们还在争论着这个问题。

有没有记录簿，我和我的狗都十分明白，天亮时这片足之所及的土地将全部归我。那些（土地间的）分界线和被束缚的思想将一同灰飞烟灭。（那片土地）延伸到地契都没提到的地方，地图上更查不到。孤独感，仿佛从我生活的郡县中搬离，蔓延至触手可及甚至露珠都可到达的地方。

就像其他土地主一样，我也有很多租客。他们总是疏于缴纳租金，却对地界的大小斤斤计较。事实上，从四月到七月的每个黎明，它们都向彼此宣告自己的地界范围，而且特别机智地，至少我推断，它们在向我宣告。

这项日常的仪式，也许和你猜测的截然相反，每次都开始得极其端庄正式。我不知道是谁最初制定了这些礼节。凌晨三点半，带着在一个七月的清晨所能召集的所有尊严，我走出了小木屋，一手端着咖啡壶，一手拿着笔记本，威严四射。我坐在一条长凳上，面朝着熹微的晨星。我把咖啡壶放在边上。从前襟费力地掏出一只茶杯，希望没人看到这尴尬的一幕。我拿出手表，倒满咖啡，把笔记本摊放在膝盖上。这是宣告仪式即将开始的信号。

三点三十五分，最近田地里的麻雀开始鸣叫，声音清脆高亢，北起湖边的矮松林，南至老旧的马车道路，响彻大地。随即，剩下的麻雀一个接一个地开始在自己的领土中叫唱。毫无纷争地，至少在这一个小时里，我就这样听着，打心底里希望它们的女伴像往常一样接受这欢乐的乐响。

地里的麻雀还未四散离去，大榆树上的知更鸟便响亮地叫起来，宣布那被冰暴压垮的一根枝条的岔口被其占领，以及周遭所有的附属物。（就其而言，指那些生活在下面不十分宽敞草地里面的蚯蚓。）

知更鸟持续不断的欢唱惊醒了莺鸟，莺鸟便告诉其他同伴，橡树的垂枝是它的，乳草叶是它的，花园里散落的所有枝枝叶叶都是它的，连在其中如火般来去的特权也由其独享。

时间来到了三点五十分。山上靛蓝色的鹀鸟宣称1936年因旱灾枯死的橡树枝为其所有，一并被占有的还有潜鸟窝旁的虫子和灌木丛。它没有向蓝知更鸟挑战权威，也没有占领等候黎明的紫露草，但我想它深有此意。

接着，发现屋檐板上节孔的鹪鹩爆发了歌唱。另外六只鹪鹩也唱了起来，霎时间一派喧闹。松雀，鸫鸟，黄莺，知更鸟，燕雀，红眼雀，红衣凤头鸟，百鸟齐鸣。演员们隆重地依次登场献唱它们的第一支歌，歌声嘤嘤挫挫，此起彼伏，又戛然而止，我的耳朵已然不能消受。况且，咖啡已经喝完，太阳就要升起。我必须在权利殆尽前视察我的领地。

带上我的狗，我们漫无目的地出发了。它对这些声音毫不重视，因为对它来说，领地要靠气味辨认，而非歌声。它说，但凡长了羽毛的家伙，都能在树上弄出点声响。现在，它将要为我翻译那些嗅到的诗作，不知道是哪些沉默的小东西在夏夜里创作的。倘若我们能够找到，诗人就藏在每节诗的结尾处。事实上，我们不可预料地发现了一只兔子突然渴望离开这是非之地；一只丘鹬激动地振翅表明自己的抗议；一只公鸡愤愤地在草地里浸润自己的羽毛。

偶尔我们还能发现夜里动身偷袭而晚归的浣熊或是水貂。有时候我们会赶跑正在垂钓的苍鹭，或者惊起一只带着幼崽的林鸳鸯妈妈，为了藏避而向着氤氲的梭鱼草团全速前进。有时候我们看着一头鹿在长满苜蓿花，婆婆纳和野生莴苣的灌木丛中悠然漫步。更多的时候，我们只能看到在露水浸润的土地上留下的松散蹄印。

此刻，阳光倾泻在我的脸颊上。鸟儿们还在声嘶力竭地叫唱。远处，一群牛在草地上漫步，牛铃声叮当作响。拖拉机轰轰隆隆，邻居们已开始劳作。世界又回到了一百二十亩地的大小。我带着我的狗转身回家，早餐正等着我们。