Cold Tuesday.

February 6.

The coldest morning this winter. Our thermometer stands at -14° at 9 A.M.; others, we hear, at 6 A.M. stood at -18°, at Gorham, N. H., -30°. 

There are no loiterers in the street, and the wheels of wood wagons squeak as they have not for a long time, —actually shriek. Frostwork keeps its place on the window within three feet of the stove all day in my chamber. 

At 4 P.M. the thermometer is at -10°; at six it is at -14°. I was walking at five, and found it stinging cold. It stung the face. 

The setting sun no sooner leaves our west windows than a solid but beautiful crystallization coats them. A solid sparkling field in the midst of each pane, with broad, flowing sheaves surrounding it. 

It has been a very mild as well as open winter up to this. 

At 9 o’clock P.M., thermometer at -16°. They say it did not rise above -6° to-day.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 6, 1855

Frostwork keeps its place on the window within three feet of the stove all day in my chamber. See February 5, 1855 ("It was quite cold last evening, and I saw the scuttle window reflecting the lamp from a myriad brilliant points when I went up to bed."); February 7, 1855 (" The latches are white with frost, and every nail-head in entries, etc., has a white cap. Thermometer at about 7.30 A. M. gone into the bulb, -19° at least. The cold has stopped the clock.") See also December 28, 1859 ("In the morning the windows are like ground glass (covered with frost), and we cannot see out."); January 4, 1856 ("It is snapping cold this night (10 P. M.). I see the frost on the windows sparkle as I go through the passageway with a light ")'; February 17, 1860 ("Grows colder yet at evening, and frost forms on the windows.")

They say it did not rise above -6° to-day. See January 23, 1857 ("I may safely say that -5° has been the highest temperature to-day”); 

February  6. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, February 6

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, I love you like I love the sky

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 © 2009-2022