I observe that in the cut by Walden Pond the sand and stones fall from the overhanging bank and rest on the snow below; and thus, perchance, the stratum deposited by the side of the road in the winter can permanently be distinguished from the summer one by some faint seam, to be referred to the peculiar conditions under which it was deposited.
The pond has been frozen over since I was there last.
Certain meadows, as Heywood's, contain warmer water than others and are slow to freeze. I do not remember to have crossed this with impunity in all places. The brook that issues from it is still open completely, though the thermometer was down to eight below zero this morning.
The blue jays evidently notify each other of the presence of an intruder, and will sometimes make a great chattering about it, and so communicate the alarm to other birds and to beasts.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 31, 1850
The thermometer was down to eight below zero this morning. See December 31, 1859 ("Thermometer at 7.45 a. m., -1°. ") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The weather, New Year's Eve
Walden pond has frozen over since I was there last. See December 26, 1850 ("Walden not yet more than half frozen over.”). See also December 31, 1853 ("Walden froze completely over last night.”) and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Annual ice-in at Walden
The blue jays evidently notify each other of the presence of an intruder. See. January 7, 1851 ("January thaw . . . The birds acknowledge the difference in the air; the jays are more noisy, and the chickadees are oftener heard"); January 8. 1860 ("We discover a new world every time that we see the earth again after it has been covered for a season with snow. I see the jay and hear his scream oftener for the thaw."); February 2, 1854 ("The scream of the jay is a true winter sound."); February 12, 1854 ("To make a perfect winter day like this, you must have a clear, sparkling air, with a sheen from the snow, sufficient cold, little or no wind; and . . . you hear the lisping tinkle of chickadees from time to time and the unrelenting steel-cold scream of a jay, unmelted, that never flows into a song, a sort of wintry trumpet, screaming cold; hard, tense, frozen music, like the winter sky itself") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Blue Jay
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