Now they rustle as you walk through them in the woods.

October 22.

October 22, 2023

This and the last two days Indian-summer weather, following hard on that sprinkling of snow west of Concord. Pretty hard frosts these nights. 

Many leaves fell last night, and the Assabet is covered with their fleets. Now they rustle as you walk through them in the woods. Bass trees are bare. 

The redness of huckleberry bushes is past its prime. 

I see a snapping turtle, not yet in winter quarters. 

The chickadees are picking the seeds out of pitch pine cones.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 22, 1854

This and the last two days Indian-summer weather. See  October 22, 1853 ("A week or more of fairest Indian summer ended last night . . .It was so warm day before yesterday, I worked in my shirt-sleeves in the woods."); October 25, 1854 ("A beautiful, calm Indian-summer afternoon, the withered reeds on the brink reflected in the water. "); October 31, 1854 ("Ever since October 27th we have had remarkably warm and pleasant Indian summer, with frequent frosts in the morning. Sat with open window for a week.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Indian Summer

Now they rustle as you walk through them in the woods See October 22, 1857 ("As I go through the woods now, so many oak and other leaves have fallen the rustling noise somewhat disturbs my musing.") See also  October 10, 1851 ("You make a great noise now walking in the woods.”); October 28, 1860 ("We make a great noise going through the fallen leaves in the woods and wood-paths now, so that we cannot hear other sounds. . .”); October 28, 1852 ("I hear no sound but the rustling of the withered leaves, and, on the wooded hilltops, the roar of the wind.")

The chickadees are picking the seeds out of pitch pine cones. See October 23, 1852 ("The chickadees flit along, following me inquisitively a few rods with lisping, tinkling note, — flit within a few feet of me from curiosity, head downward on the pines.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Chickadee in Winter

So many leaves fell

now they rustle as you walk 

through them in the woods.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Now they rustle as you walk 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

"A book, each page written in its own season,

out-of-doors, in its own locality.”

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2024

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