A fine, clear, cold winter morning --
The sun is rising
and the smokes from the chimneys
blush like sunset clouds
. . .
I hardly get out
a couple of miles before
the sun is setting
. . .
I see the sun set
and make haste with the red sky
over my shoulder.
It has been a warm, clear, glorious winter day.
December 10, 2022
A fine, clear, cold winter morning, with a small leaf frost on trees, etc. The thermometer at 7.15 and at 7.30 3°.
Going to the post-office at the former hour, I notice those level bars, as it were, of frozen mist against the Walden wood.
When I return, the sun is rising and the smokes from the chimneys, which slant from northwest to southeast, though it seems quite still, blush like sunset clouds.
It is remarkable how suggestive the slightest drawing as a memento of things seen. For a few years past I have been accustomed to make a rude sketch in my journal of plants, ice, and various natural phenomena, and though the fullest accompanying description may fail to recall my experience, these rude outline drawings do not fail to carry me back to that time and scene. It is as if I saw the same thing again, and I may again attempt to describe it in words if I choose.
Yesterday I walked under the murderous Lincoln Bridge, where at least ten men have been swept dead from the cars within as many years. I looked to see if their heads had indented the bridge, if there were sturdy blows given as well as received, and if their brains lay about. But I could see neither the one nor the other. The bridge is quite uninjured, even, and straight, not even the paint worn off or discolored. The ground is clean, the snow spotless, and the place looks as innocent as a bank whereon the wild thyme grows. It does its work in an artistic manner.
We have another bridge of exactly the same character on the other side of the town, which has killed one, at least, to my knowledge. Surely the approaches to our town are well guarded. These are our modern Dragons of Wantley. Boucaniers of the Fitchburg Railroad, they lie in wait at the narrow passes and decimate the employees.
The Company has signed a bond to give up one employee at this pass annually. The Vermont mother commits her son to their charge, and when she asks for him, again the Directors say: "I am not your son's keeper. Go look beneath the ribs of the Lincoln Bridge." It is a monster which would not have minded Perseus with his Medusa's head. If he could be held back only four feet from where he now crouches, all travellers might pass in safety and laugh him to scorn. This would require but a little resolution in our legislature, but it is preferred to pay tribute still.
I felt a curiosity to see this famous bridge, naturally far greater than my curiosity to see the gallows on which Smith was hung, which was burned in the old court house, for the exploits of this bridge are ten times as memorable. Here they are killed without priest, and the bridge, unlike the gallows, is a fixture. Besides, the gallows bears an ill name, and I think deservedly. No doubt it has hung many an innocent man, but this Lincoln Bridge, long as it has been in our midst and busy as it has been, no legislature, nobody, indeed, has ever seriously complained of, unless it was some be reaved mother, who was naturally prejudiced against it.
To my surprise, I found no difficulty in getting a sight of it. It stands right out in broad daylight in the midst of the fields. No sentinels, no spiked fence, no crowd about it, and you have to pay no fee for looking at it. It is perfectly simple and easy to construct, and does its work silently. The days of the gallows are numbered. The next time this county has a Smith to dispose of, they have only to hire him out to the Fitchburg Railroad Company. Let the priest accompany him to the freight-train, pray with him, and take leave of him there.
Another advantage I have hinted at, an advantage to the morals of the community, that, strange as it may seem, no crowd ever assembles at this spot; there are no morbidly curious persons, no hardened reprobates, no masculine women, no anatomists there.
Does it not make life more serious ? I feel as if these were stirring times, as good as the days of the Crusaders, the Northmen, or the Boucaniers.
Gathered this afternoon quite a parcel of walnuts on the hill. It has not been better picking this season there. They lie on the snow, or rather sunk an inch or two into it. And some trees hang quite full. See the squirrel-tracks leading straight from tree to tree.
It has been a warm, clear, glorious winter day, the air full of that peculiar vapor.
How short the afternoons! I hardly get out a couple of miles before the sun is setting.
The nights are light on account of the snow, and, there being a moon, there is no distinct interval between the day and night.
I see the sun set from the side of Nawshawtuct, and make haste to the post-office with the red sky over my shoulder. When the mail is distributed and I come forth into the street on my return, the apparently full moon has fairly commenced her reign, and I go home by her light.
Bradford, in his "History of the Plymouth Plantation," written between 1630 and 1650, uses, on page 235, the word " kilter," speaking of guns being out of kilter, proving that this is an old word; yet it is not in my dictionaries.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 10, 1856
A fine, clear, cold winter morning, . . . a warm, clear, glorious winter day. See December 10, 1853 ("These are among the finest days in the year, on account of the wholesome bracing coolness and clearness.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The world can never be more beautiful than now.
It is remarkable how suggestive the slightest drawing as a memento of things seen. Compare October 26, 1853 ("You only need to make a faithful record of an average summer day's experience and summer mood, and read it in the winter, and it will carry you back to more than that summer day alone could show."); April 7, 1853 ("If you make the least correct observation of nature this year, you will have occasion to repeat it with illustrations the next, and the season and life itself is prolonged.")
How short the afternoons! I hardly get out a couple of miles before the sun is setting. See November 27, 1853 ("The days are short enough now. The sun is already setting before I have reached the ordinary limit of my walk, November 28, 1859 ("We make a good deal of the early twilights of these November days, they make so large a part of the afternoon.”); December 5, 1853 ("Now for the short days and early twilight”); December 9, 1856 ("The worker who would accomplish much these short days must shear a dusky slice off both ends of the night”); December 11, 1854 (“The day is short; it seems to be composed of two twilights merely”)
Gathered this afternoon quite a parcel of walnuts on the hill. See October 24, 1852 ("I see, far over the river, boys gathering walnuts.”);October 27, 1857 ("Now it is time to look out for walnuts"); October 28, 1852 ("The boys are gathering walnuts. Their leaves are a yellowish brown.”); November 16, 1850 ("The walnut trees spot the sky with black nuts"); November 9, 1852 ("Fore part of November time for walnutting."); November 20, 1858 ("When walnut husks have fairly opened, showing the white shells within, — the trees being either quite bare or with a few withered leaves at present, — a slight jar with the foot on the limbs causes them to rattle down in a perfect shower, and on bare, grass-grown pasture ground it is very easy picking them up."); December 5, 1856 ("There are a great many walnuts on the trees, seen black against the sky, and the wind has scattered many over the snow-crust. It would be easier gathering them now than ever. “); December 14, 1855 (" getting over the wall under the walnut trees on the south brow of the hill, I see the broad tracks of squirrels, probably red, where they have ascended and descended the trees, and the empty shells of walnuts which they have gnawed left on the snow.”)
The nights are light on account of the snow, and, there being a moon, there is no distinct interval between the day and night See August 5, 1851 (“When the moon is on the increase and half full it is already in mid-heaven at sunset so that there is no marked twilight intervening” )
When I return, the sun is rising and the smokes from the chimneys, which slant from northwest to southeast, though it seems quite still, blush like sunset clouds.
It is remarkable how suggestive the slightest drawing as a memento of things seen. For a few years past I have been accustomed to make a rude sketch in my journal of plants, ice, and various natural phenomena, and though the fullest accompanying description may fail to recall my experience, these rude outline drawings do not fail to carry me back to that time and scene. It is as if I saw the same thing again, and I may again attempt to describe it in words if I choose.
Yesterday I walked under the murderous Lincoln Bridge, where at least ten men have been swept dead from the cars within as many years. I looked to see if their heads had indented the bridge, if there were sturdy blows given as well as received, and if their brains lay about. But I could see neither the one nor the other. The bridge is quite uninjured, even, and straight, not even the paint worn off or discolored. The ground is clean, the snow spotless, and the place looks as innocent as a bank whereon the wild thyme grows. It does its work in an artistic manner.
We have another bridge of exactly the same character on the other side of the town, which has killed one, at least, to my knowledge. Surely the approaches to our town are well guarded. These are our modern Dragons of Wantley. Boucaniers of the Fitchburg Railroad, they lie in wait at the narrow passes and decimate the employees.
The Company has signed a bond to give up one employee at this pass annually. The Vermont mother commits her son to their charge, and when she asks for him, again the Directors say: "I am not your son's keeper. Go look beneath the ribs of the Lincoln Bridge." It is a monster which would not have minded Perseus with his Medusa's head. If he could be held back only four feet from where he now crouches, all travellers might pass in safety and laugh him to scorn. This would require but a little resolution in our legislature, but it is preferred to pay tribute still.
I felt a curiosity to see this famous bridge, naturally far greater than my curiosity to see the gallows on which Smith was hung, which was burned in the old court house, for the exploits of this bridge are ten times as memorable. Here they are killed without priest, and the bridge, unlike the gallows, is a fixture. Besides, the gallows bears an ill name, and I think deservedly. No doubt it has hung many an innocent man, but this Lincoln Bridge, long as it has been in our midst and busy as it has been, no legislature, nobody, indeed, has ever seriously complained of, unless it was some be reaved mother, who was naturally prejudiced against it.
To my surprise, I found no difficulty in getting a sight of it. It stands right out in broad daylight in the midst of the fields. No sentinels, no spiked fence, no crowd about it, and you have to pay no fee for looking at it. It is perfectly simple and easy to construct, and does its work silently. The days of the gallows are numbered. The next time this county has a Smith to dispose of, they have only to hire him out to the Fitchburg Railroad Company. Let the priest accompany him to the freight-train, pray with him, and take leave of him there.
Another advantage I have hinted at, an advantage to the morals of the community, that, strange as it may seem, no crowd ever assembles at this spot; there are no morbidly curious persons, no hardened reprobates, no masculine women, no anatomists there.
Does it not make life more serious ? I feel as if these were stirring times, as good as the days of the Crusaders, the Northmen, or the Boucaniers.
Gathered this afternoon quite a parcel of walnuts on the hill. It has not been better picking this season there. They lie on the snow, or rather sunk an inch or two into it. And some trees hang quite full. See the squirrel-tracks leading straight from tree to tree.
It has been a warm, clear, glorious winter day, the air full of that peculiar vapor.
How short the afternoons! I hardly get out a couple of miles before the sun is setting.
The nights are light on account of the snow, and, there being a moon, there is no distinct interval between the day and night.
I see the sun set from the side of Nawshawtuct, and make haste to the post-office with the red sky over my shoulder. When the mail is distributed and I come forth into the street on my return, the apparently full moon has fairly commenced her reign, and I go home by her light.
Bradford, in his "History of the Plymouth Plantation," written between 1630 and 1650, uses, on page 235, the word " kilter," speaking of guns being out of kilter, proving that this is an old word; yet it is not in my dictionaries.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 10, 1856
A fine, clear, cold winter morning, . . . a warm, clear, glorious winter day. See December 10, 1853 ("These are among the finest days in the year, on account of the wholesome bracing coolness and clearness.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The world can never be more beautiful than now.
It is remarkable how suggestive the slightest drawing as a memento of things seen. Compare October 26, 1853 ("You only need to make a faithful record of an average summer day's experience and summer mood, and read it in the winter, and it will carry you back to more than that summer day alone could show."); April 7, 1853 ("If you make the least correct observation of nature this year, you will have occasion to repeat it with illustrations the next, and the season and life itself is prolonged.")
How short the afternoons! I hardly get out a couple of miles before the sun is setting. See November 27, 1853 ("The days are short enough now. The sun is already setting before I have reached the ordinary limit of my walk, November 28, 1859 ("We make a good deal of the early twilights of these November days, they make so large a part of the afternoon.”); December 5, 1853 ("Now for the short days and early twilight”); December 9, 1856 ("The worker who would accomplish much these short days must shear a dusky slice off both ends of the night”); December 11, 1854 (“The day is short; it seems to be composed of two twilights merely”)
Gathered this afternoon quite a parcel of walnuts on the hill. See October 24, 1852 ("I see, far over the river, boys gathering walnuts.”);October 27, 1857 ("Now it is time to look out for walnuts"); October 28, 1852 ("The boys are gathering walnuts. Their leaves are a yellowish brown.”); November 16, 1850 ("The walnut trees spot the sky with black nuts"); November 9, 1852 ("Fore part of November time for walnutting."); November 20, 1858 ("When walnut husks have fairly opened, showing the white shells within, — the trees being either quite bare or with a few withered leaves at present, — a slight jar with the foot on the limbs causes them to rattle down in a perfect shower, and on bare, grass-grown pasture ground it is very easy picking them up."); December 5, 1856 ("There are a great many walnuts on the trees, seen black against the sky, and the wind has scattered many over the snow-crust. It would be easier gathering them now than ever. “); December 14, 1855 (" getting over the wall under the walnut trees on the south brow of the hill, I see the broad tracks of squirrels, probably red, where they have ascended and descended the trees, and the empty shells of walnuts which they have gnawed left on the snow.”)
December 10. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, December 10
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 © 2009-2023
https://tinyurl.com/HDT18561210
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