9 a. m. — Down railroad to see the glaze, the first we have had this year, but not a very good one.
It is about a fifth or a sixth of an inch thick on the northeast sides of twigs, etc., not transparent, but of an opaque white, granular character.
The woods, especially wooded hillsides half a mile or more distant, have a rich, hoary, frosted look, still and stiff, yet it is not so thick but that the green of the pines and the yellow of the willow bark and the leather-color of oak leaves show through it. These colors are pleasantly toned down.
The pines transmit a subdued green, — some pitch pines a livelier grass green, — deepest in the recesses, and a delicate buff (?) tinge is seen through the frosty veil of the willow.
The birches, owing to the color of their trunks, are the most completely hoary.
The elms, perhaps, are the most distinctly frosted, revealing their whole outlines like ghosts of trees, even a mile off, when seen against a dark hillside.
The ground is encased in a thin black glaze (where it chances to be bare) and the iron rails and the telegraph wire.
Insignificant weeds and stubble along the railroad causeway and elsewhere are now made very conspicuous, both by their increased size and bristling stiffness and their whiteness.
Each wiry grass stem is become a stiff wand. The wind that begins to rise does not stir them you only hear a fine crackling sound when it blows hardest.
Behind each withered vegetable plant stands a stout ice plant, overlapping and concealing it. Stem answers to stem, and fruit to fruit.
The heads of tansy are converted into confectionery somewhat like sugared almonds and regularly roughened (like orange-peel), and those of evening-primrose, and mullein, and hardhack, and lespedeza bear a still coarser kind.
The wild carrot's bird's-nest umbel, now contracted above, is converted into almost a perfect hollow sphere, composed of contiguous thickened meridional ribs, which remind me of the fingers of a starfish (or five-finger).
Each plant preserves its character, though exaggerated.
Pigweed and Roman worm wood are ragged as ever on a larger scale, and the butterweed as stiffly upright.
Tall goldenrod still more recurved. You naturally avoid running against the plant which you did not notice before.
Standing on the south east side, I see the fine dark cores which the stems make. On the opposite side, only the pure white ice plant is seen.
When I reach the woods I am surprised to find that the twigs, etc., are bristling with fine spicule, which stand on a thin glaze. I do not remember to have seen them previous winters.
They are from one quarter to five eighths of an inch long by one twenty-fifth to one fiftieth of an inch wide at base and quite sharp, commonly on the storm side of the twig only and pointing in all directions horizontally and even vertically within an arc of 90°, but sometimes on opposite sides of the twig.
They answer exactly to prickles or spines, especially to those of the locust. I observe them on the locust itself by chance, an icy spine at right angles on a vegetable one, making such a branch as is seen on some species. There are often ten or twelve within an inch along the twigs, but they are most like thorns when fewer. All the twigs and weeds and leaves, even the pine-needles, are armed with them.
The pine-needles especially, beside their hoary glaze, are bristling with countless fine spiculae, which appear to point in almost all directions.
It is also interesting to meet with them by accident on the edges of oak leaves, answering exactly to the vegetable spines there (though they are commonly at right angles with the plane of the leaf and often almost as thick as a comb), and on pine cones, suggesting that there should be something in that soil especially favorable to promote the growth of spines.
As far as I observed, these spines were chiefly confined to the woods, — at least I had not noticed them on the causeway, — as if a fog might have collected in the former place but not in the last. They were, then, built in the mist, by a more delicate accretion. Thus it seems that not leaves only but other forms of vegetation are imitated by frost.
Already the white pine plumes were drooping, but the pitch pines stood stiffly erect. I was again struck by the deep open cup at the extremity of the latter, formed by the needles standing out very regularly around the red-brown buds at the bottom.
It is very warm, and by ten o'clock this ice is rapidly falling from the trees and covering the ground like hail; and before noon all that jewelry was dissolved.
Rice tells me that there was a lark on his place in Sudbury about the 1st of January.
One who has seen them tells me that a covey of thirteen quails daily visits Hayden's yard and barn, where he feeds them and can almost put his hands on them. Thermometer at noon 52°.
Winckelmann says in his "History of Ancient Art," vol. i, page 95: "I am now past forty, and therefore at an age when one can no longer sport freely with life. I perceive, also, that a certain delicate spirit begins to evaporate, with which I raised myself, by powerful soarings, to the contemplation of the beautiful."
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 6, 1857
The glaze, the first we have had this year, but not a very good one. See December 24, 1854 ("A slight glaze, the first of the winter. This gives the woods a hoary aspect and increases the stillness"); December 26, 1855 ("We have this morning quite a glaze, there being at last an inch or two of crusted snow on the ground, the most we have had."); February 7, 1856 ("Begins to snow at 8 A.M.; turns to rain at noon, and clears off, or rather ceased raining, at night, with some glaze on the trees. "); February 8, 1856 ("But yesterday’s snow turning to rain, which froze as it fell, there is now a glaze on the trees, giving them a hoary look, icicles like rakes’ teeth on the rails, and a thin crust over all the snow.”);
Winckelmann says . . . "I am now past forty, and therefore at an age when one can no longer sport freely with life. . . .” See March 5, 1857 ((quoting Winckelmann) "my meditations commenced too late”). See also July 30 1852 ("After midsummer we have a belated feeling . . ., just as in middle age man anticipates the end of life"); January 9, 1853.("Perhaps, all that is best in our experience in middle life may be resolved into the memory of our youth ! ...If the genius visits me now I am not quite taken off my feet, but I remember how this experience is like, but less than, that I had long since."); August 18, 1853 ("What means this sense of lateness that so comes over one now? — now is the season of fruits; but where is our fruit? The year is full of warnings of its shortness, as is life."); , August 23, 1853 (" Perhaps after middle age man ceases to be interested in the morning and in the spring.")
February 6. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, February 6
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
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