At 5 P.M. I found the fringed gentian now somewhat stale and touched with frost, being in the meadow toward Peter's. Probably on high, moist ground it is fresher.
It may have been in bloom a month. It has been cut off by the mower, and apparently has put out in consequence a mass of short branches full of flowers. This may make it later.
I doubt if I can find one naturally grown. At this hour the blossoms are tightly rolled and twisted, and I see that the bees have gnawed round holes in their sides to come at the nectar. They have found them, though I had not.
It is too remarkable a flower not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare. It is one of the errands of the walker, as well as of the bees, for it is a very singular and agreeable surprise to come upon this conspicuous and handsome and withal blue flower at this season, when flowers have passed out of our minds and memories; the latest of all to begin to bloom.
It is remarkable how tightly the gentians roll and twist up at night, as if that were their constant state. Probably those bees were working late that found it necessary to perforate the flower.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 19, 1852
Ths conspicuous and handsome and withal blue flower at this season, when flowers have passed out of our minds and memories. See. October 5, 1858 ("8 A. M. — I go to Hubbard’s Close to see when the fringed gentians open. They begin to open in the sun about 8.30 A. M., or say 9"); October 10, 1858 ("To Annursnack . . . I find the fringed gentian abundantly open at 3 and at 4 P. M., — in fact, it must be all the afternoon, — open to catch the cool October sun and air in its low position. Such a dark blue! surpassing that of the male bluebird’s back, who must be encouraged by its presence."); October 12, 1857 ("To Annursnack . . . The fringed gentian by the brook opposite is in its prime, and also along the north edge of the Painted-Cup Meadows"); October 18, 1857 ("The fringed gentian closes every night and opens every morning in my pitcher.")See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau: The Fringed Gentian
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