A Book of the Seasons: November 8.

November 8.

Mazes of diamonds –
sun-sparkles seen through the trees  
dancing on the pond.
November 8, 1851

The children greet our

first snow with a shout when they 

come out at recess. 

November 8, 1853 

The chickadee
Hops near to me.
November 8, 1857

I know of but one
or two persons with whom I
can afford to walk.
November 8, 1858

Though she works slowly,
she has much time to work in.
Nature perseveres.
November 8, 1860

A warm, cloudy, rain-threatening morning. About 10 A.M. a long flock of geese are going over from northeast to southwest . . .The sonorous, quavering sounds of the geese are the voice of this cloudy air, – a sound that comes from directly between us and the sky, an aerial sound, and yet so distinct. . . And though these undulating lines are melting into the southwestern sky, the sound comes clear and distinct to you. . . So they migrate, not flitting from hedge to hedge, but from latitude to latitude, from State to State, steering boldly out into the ocean of the air. . November 8 , 1857 

In the afternoon I met Flood, who had just endeavored to draw my attention to a flock of geese in the mizzling air, but encountering me he lost sight of them, while I, at length, looking that way, discerned them, though he could not. This was the third flock to-day. Now if ever, then, we may expect a change in the weather. November 8 , 1857  

The partridges go off with a whir, and then sail a long way level and low through the woods with that impetus they have got, displaying their neat forms perfectly.November 8, 1853

I do not know exactly what that sweet word is which the chickadee says when it hops near to me now in those ravines.

The chickadee

Hops near to me.

November 8, 1857

In a thick white pine wood, as in that swamp at the east end, where the ground is level, the ground now (and for some time) is completely covered with a carpet of pale-brown leaves, completely concealing the green mosses and even some lycopodiums . . . How silently and unobserved by most do these changes take place! November 8, 1857

 Like Viola pedata, I shall be ready to bloom again here in my Indian summer days. Here ever springing, never dying, with perennial root I stand; for the winter of the land is warm to me. November 8, 1851

Consider how persevering Nature is, and how much time she has to work in, though she works slowly. November 8, 1860 

Each phase of nature, while not invisible, is yet not too distinct and obtrusive. It is there to be found when we look for it, but not demanding our attention. It is like a silent but sympathizing companion in whose company we retain most of the advantages of solitude. November 8, 1858

The swamp-pink's large yellowish buds, too, are conspicuous now. November 8, 1857

I stand in Ebby Hubbard’s yellow birch swamp, admiring some gnarled and shaggy picturesque old birches there, which send out large knee-like limbs near the ground, while the brook, raised by the late rain, winds fuller than usual through the rocky swamp. I thought with regret how soon these trees, like the black birches that grew on the hill near by, would be all cut off, and there would be almost nothing of the old Concord left, and we should be reduced to read old deeds in order to be reminded of such things, —deeds, at least, in which some old and revered bound trees are mentioned. These will be the only proof at last that they ever existed.  Pray, farmers, keep some old woods to match the old deeds. Keep them for history’s sake, as specimens of what the township was. Let us not be reduced to a mere paper evidence, to deeds kept in a chest or secretary, when not so much as the bark of the paper birch will be left for evidence, about its decayed stump.   November 8, 1858

Mendon Peak November 8, 2016

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Birches in Season

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Geese in Autumn

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Partridge

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Chickadee in Winter

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Nature

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Indian Summer

October 24, 1858 ("A northeast storm. . .as usual, brings the geese, and at 2.30 P. M. I see two flocks go over. . . . A‘great many must go over to-day and also alight in this neighbor hood. This weather warns of the approach of winter, and this wind speeds them on their way.")

October 30, 1853 ("Now, now is the time to look at the buds [of ] the swamp-pink, some yellowish, some, mixed with their oblong seed- vessels, red, etc. ")

November 3, 1861 ("All this is perfectly distinct to an observant eye, and yet could easily pass unnoticed by most.")

November 4, 1858 ("We cannot see any thing until we are possessed with the idea of it.”)

Nember 4, 1858 ("All this you will see, and much more, if you are prepared to see it, — if you look for it.")

November 5, 1855 ("Swamp-pink buds now begin to show.")

November 6, 1853 (“It is remarkable how little we attend to what is passing before us constantly, unless our genius directs our attention that way.”)

November 7, 1857 ("This has been another Indian-summer day. Thermometer 58° at noon.")

November 7, 1858 ("I heard a chickadee on a hemlock, and was inexpressibly cheered to find that an old acquaintance was yet stirring about the premises, and was, I was assured, to be there all winter.")

November 9, 1850 ("The chickadees, if I stand long enough, hop nearer and nearer inquisitively, from pine bough to pine bough, till within four or five feet, occasionally lisping a note.")

November 9, 1859 ("A fine Indian-summer day. Have had pleasant weather about a week.")

November 13, 1855 ("Seventy or eighty geese, in three harrows successively smaller, flying southwest—pretty well west—over the house. A completely overcast, occasionally drizzling forenoon."

November 15, 1859 ("A fine gossamer is streaming from every fence and tree and stubble, though a careless observer would not notice it.")

November 16, 1852 ("The swamp-pink and blueberry buds attract. ")

November 20, 1857("I see a partridge on the ground under a white oak by Tarbell's black birches, looking just like a snag. This is the second time I have seen them in such a place. Are they not after acorns? ")

 

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 © 2009-2015