A Book of the Seasons: A Pleasing Melancholy

A year is made up of a certain series and 

number of sensations and thoughts 

which have their language in nature . . .

 Each experience reduces itself to a mood of the mind. 

Henry Thoreau, June 6, 1857

I hear a cricket

and am penetrated with 

the sense of autumn. 

August 4, 1851

A sound reminds me

past autumns, lapse of time – so

little brought to pass.

August 18, 1856

May 24. Our most glorious experiences are a kind of regret . . . the painful, plaintively sad surprise of our Genius remembering our past lives and contemplating what is possible . . . it is glorious for us to be able to regret even such an existence.  May 24, 1851

July 31.  I hear the distant sound of a flail, and thoughts of autumn occupy my mind, and the memory of past years. July 31, 1856

August 17.   I feel as if this coolness would do me good. If it only makes my life more pensive! Why should pensiveness be akin to sadness? There is a certain fertile sadness which I would not avoid, but rather earnestly seek. It is positively joyful to me. It saves my life from being trivial. My life flows with a deeper current, no longer as a shallow and brawling stream, parched and shrunken by the summer heats. This coolness comes to condense the dews and clear the atmosphere. August 17, 1851

August 18. It plainly makes men sad to think. Hence pensiveness is akin to sadness.  August 18, 1851

August 18. What means this sense of lateness that so comes over one now? — now is the season of fruits; but where is our fruit? August 18, 1853 

August 18.  I hear the steady (not intermittent) shrilling of apparently the alder cricket, clear, loud, and autumnal, a season sound. Hear it, but see it not. It reminds me of past autumns and the lapse of time, suggests a pleasing, thoughtful melancholy, like the sound of the flail.  Such preparation, such an outfit has our life, and so little brought to pass!  August 18, 1856 

August 20.  There is more shadow in the landscape than a week ago, methinks, and the creak of the cricket sounds cool and steady. The grass and foliage and landscape generally are of a more thought-inspiring color, suggest what some perchance would call a pleasing melancholy. August 20, 1858

August 28. In my experience, at least of late years, all that depresses a man's spirits is the sense of remissness, — duties neglected, unfaithfulness, — or shamming, impurity, falsehood, selfishness, inhumanity, and the like.  August 28, 1854

August 28. Perchance you have worried yourself, despaired of the world, meditated the end of life, and all things seemed rushing to destruction; but nature has steadily and serenely advanced with a turtle's pace. August 28, 1856

October 26. I awoke this morning to infinite regret. October 26, 1851

October 31. I hear the sound of the flailing . . . and gradually draw near to it from the woods, thinking many things.  October 31, 1860

See also 

A Book of the Seasons,   by Henry Thoreau, Midsummer midlife blues

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Cricket in August

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  A Pleasing Melancholy

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 ©  2009-2026

https://tinyurl.com/hdtmelancholy

Seasons of the mind. The off side of summer glistens.

August 7.

It is inspiriting at last to hear the wind whistle and moan about my attic, after so much trivial summer weather, and to feel cool in my thin pants. 

August 7, 1854

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? Do not your thoughts begin to acquire consistency as well as flavor and ripeness? How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of character? 

Already some of my small thoughts — fruit of my spring life — are ripe, like the berries which feed the first broods of birds; and other some are prematurely ripe and bright, like the lower leaves of the herbs which have felt the summer's drought. 

Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio.

I walk over the pinweed-field. It is just cool enough in my thin clothes. 

There is a light on the earth and leaves, as if they were burnished. It is the glistening autumnal side of summer. 

I feel a cool vein in the breeze, which braces my thought, and I pass with pleasure over sheltered and sunny portions of the sand where the summer's heat is undiminished, and I realize what a friend I am losing.

In mid-summer we are of the earth, — confounded with it, — and covered with its dust. Now we begin to erect our selves somewhat and walk upon its surface. I am not so much reminded of former years, as of existence prior to years.

August 7, 2014

This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 7, 1854

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? See August 9, 1854 ("'Walden' published.") See also January 30, 1854 ("The winter was made to concentrate and harden and mature the kernel of [man’s] brain.” ); August 29, 1859 ("But in this cooler weather I feel as if the fruit of my summer were hardening and maturing a little, acquiring color and flavor like the corn and other fruits in the field. ")

Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. See August 3, 1852 (" By some fortunate coincidence of thought or circumstance I am attuned to the universe, I am fitted to hear, my being moves in a sphere of melody.”); May 23, 1854 ("There was a time when . . .I sat and listened to my thoughts, and there was a song in them. I sat for hours on rocks and wrestled with the melody which possessed me. . . Think . . . of so living as to be the lyre which the breath of the morning causes to vibrate with that melody which creates worlds.")

Strains . . . surpassing any oratorio. See September 7, 1851 ("My profession is to be always on the alert to find God in nature, to know his lurking-places, to attend all the oratorios, the operas, in nature.”)

This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield. Compare July 28, 1854 (“We postponed the fulfillment of many of our hopes for this year, and, having as it were attained the ridge of the summer, commenced to descend the long slope toward winter, the afternoon and down-hill of the year”); August 5, 1854 ("It is one long acclivity from winter to midsummer and another long declivity from midsummer to winter.")

August 7. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 7

The fruit of my spring

and summer ripens – its seed

hardens within me.

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

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

out-of-doors, in its own locality."  

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

 

tinyurl.com/hdt-540807 

***

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? Do not your thoughts begin to acquire consistency as well as flavor and ripeness? How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of character? Already some of my small thoughts -- fruit of my  spring life -- are ripe, like the berries which feed the first broods of birds; and other some are prematurely ripe and bright, like the lower leaves of the herbs which knave felt the summer's drought. Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio. 

P. M. – To Peter’s, Beck Stow’s, and Walden.

Liatris.

Still autumnal, breezy with a cool vein in the wind; so that, passing from the cool and breezy into the sunny and warm places, you begin to love the heat of summer. It is the contrast of the cool wind with the warm sun.

I walk over the pinweed-field.

It is just cool enough in my thin clothes.

There is a light on the earth and leaves, as if they were burnished.

It is the glistening autumnal side of summer.

I feel a cool vein in the breeze, which braces my thought, and I pass with pleasure over sheltered and sunny portions of the sand where the summer’s heat is undiminished, and I realize what a friend I am losing.

The pinweed does not show its stamens - I mean the L.thymifolia.

It was open probably about July 25.

 This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield.

The waters now are some degrees cooler. Winds show the under sides of the leaves.

The cool nocturnal creak of the crickets is heard in the mid-afternoon. Tansy is apparently now in its prime, and the early goldenrods have acquired a brighter yellow. 

From this off side of the year, this imbricated slop, with alternating burnished surfaces and shady ledges, much more light and heat are reflected (less absorbed), me thinks than from the springward side. In mid-summer we are of the earth, -confounded with it, - and covered with its dust.

Now we begin to erect ourselves somewhat and walk upon its surface I am not so much reminded of former years, as of existence prior to years.

From Peter’s I look over the Great Meadows.

There are sixty or more men in sight on them, in squads of half a dozen far and near, revealed by their white shirts.

They are alternately lost and reappear from behind a distant clump of trees.

A great part of the farmers of Concord are now in the meadows, and toward night great loads of hay are seen rolling slowly along the river’s bank, — on the firmer ground there, - and perhaps fording the stream itself, toward the distant barn, followed by a troop of tired haymakers.

The very shrub oaks and hazels now look curled and dry in many places.

The bear oak acorns on the former begin to be handsome.

Tansy is in full blaze in some warm, dry places.

 It must be time, methinks, to collect the hazelnuts and dry them; many of their leaves are turned.

 The Jersey tea fruit is blackened.

 The bushy gerardia is apparently out in some places.

 Blueberries pretty thick in Gowing’s Swamp.

 Some have a slightly bitterish taste.

 A wasp stung me at one high blueberry bush on the forefinger of my left hand, just above the second joint.

 It was very venomous; a white spot with the red mark of the sting in the centre, while all the rest of the finger was red, soon showed where I was stung, and the finger soon swelled much below the joint, so that I could not completely close the finger, and the next finger sympathized so much with it that at first there was a little doubt which was stung.

 These insects are effectively weaponed.

 But there was not enough venom to prevail further than the finger.

 Trillium berry.

 

 

The meadow-haying season.

August 5. 

August 5, 2013

By boat to Coreopsis Bend. 

A general fog in the morning, dispersed by 8 o'clock. At first the air still and water smooth, afterward a little breeze from time to time, — judging from my sail, from the north-northeast. 

A platoon of haymakers has just attacked the meadow-grass in the Wheeler meadow.

Methinks the river's bank is now in its most interesting condition, most verdurous and florid consisting of light rounded masses of verdure and bloom, and the river, slightly raised by the late rains, takes all rawness from the brim. Now, then, the river's brim is in perfection, after the mikania is in bloom and before the pontederia and pads and the willows are too much imbrowned, and the meadows all shorn.

But already very many pontederia leaves and pads have turned brown or black. The fall, in fact, begins with the first heats of July. Skunk-cabbage, hellebores, convallarias, pontederias, pads, etc., appear to usher it in.  

It is one long acclivity from winter to midsummer and another long declivity from midsummer to winter.

I find that we are now in the midst of the meadow-haying season, and almost every meadow or section of a meadow has its band of half a dozen mowers and rakers, either bending to their manly work with regular and graceful motion or resting in the shade, while the boys are turning the grass to the sun. I passed as many as sixty or a hundred men thus at work to-day. They stick up a twig with the leaves on, on the river's brink, as a guide for the mowers, that they may not exceed the owner's bounds. I hear their scythes cronching the coarse weeds by the river's brink as I row near. The horse or oxen stand near at hand in the shade on the firm land, waiting to draw home a load anon. I see a platoon of three or four mowers, one behind the other, diagonally advancing with regular sweeps across the broad meadow and ever and anon standing to whet their scythes. Or else, having made several bouts, they are resting in the shade on the edge of the firm land. In one place I see one sturdy mower stretched on the ground amid his oxen in the shade of an oak, trying to sleep; or I see one wending far inland with a jug to some well-known spring.

Though yesterday was rainy, the air to-day is filled with a blue haze.

Near Lee's (returning), see a large bittern, pursued by small birds, alight on the shorn meadow near the pickerel-weeds, but, though I row to the spot, he effectually conceals himself.

Now Lee and his men are returning to their meadow-haying after dinner, and stop at the well under the black oak in the field. I too repair to the well when they are gone, and taste the flavor of black strap on the bucket's edge. 

As I return down-stream, I see the haymakers now raking with hand or horse rakes into long rows or loading, one on the load placing it and treading it down, while others fork it up to him; and others are gleaning with rakes after the forkers. All farmers are anxious to get their meadow-hay as soon as possible for fear the river will rise.

I see very few whorled or common utricularias, but the purple ones are exceedingly abundant on both sides the river, apparently from one end to the other. The broad pad field on the southwest side of Fair Haven is distinctly purpled with them. Their color is peculiarly high for a water plant.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 5, 1854

A general fog in the morning. See July 18, 1852 ("Now the fogs have begun, in midsummer and mid-haying time"); July 22, 1851 ("The season of morning fogs has arrived."); August 1, 1856 ("We have a dense fog every night, which lifts itself but a short distance during the day."); August 8, 1852 ("Awoke into a rosy fog. I was enveloped by the skirts of Aurora.")

A platoon of haymakers has just attacked the meadow-grass . . . We are now in the midst of the meadow-haying season. See August 5, 1858 ("This forenoon there were no hayers in the meadow, but before we returned we saw many at work.") See also August 6, 1854 ("We prefer to sail to-day (Sunday) because there are no haymakers in the meadow."); August 6, 1855 ("Meadow-haying on all hands.”); August 6, 1858 ("We pass haymakers in every meadow,") and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Haymaking

Long declivity from midsummer to winter. See July 28, 1854 (“The long slope toward winter, the afternoon and down-hill of the year.”); August 18, 1853 ("What means this sense of lateness that so comes over one now, — as if the rest of the year were down-hill.“).

August 5. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 5

Mowers and rakers

bending to their manly work

with graceful motion.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The meadow-haying season

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

tinyurl.com/540805

Wood thrush still sings

July 31. 

Blue-curls. 

Wood thrush still sings. 

Desmodium rotundifolium. Lespedeza hirta, say 26th, at Heywood Peak. 

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 31, 1854

Blue-curls. See July 31, 1856 ("Trichostema has now for some time been springing up in the fields, giving out its aromatic scent when bruised, and I see one ready to open.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Blue-Curls

Wood thrush still sings See July 30, 1853 ("The wood thrush still sings and the peawai."); August 12, 1854 ("Have not heard a wood thrush since last week of July.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Wood Thrush

Desmodium rotundifolium. Lespedeza hirta. See August 7, 1856 (“At Blackberry Steep . . .[t]he D. rotundifolium is there abundant; also, beside, Lespedeza hirta and capitata, the elliptic-oblong L. violacea and the angustata, as also at Heywood Peak. All these plants seem to love a dry open hillside, a steep one. Are rarely upright, but spreading, wand-like.”); August 19, 1856 ("I spent my afternoon among the desmodiums and lespedezas, sociably.")

The ridge of summer

July 28.

July 28, 2014

Methinks the season culminated about the middle of this month, — that the year was of indefinite promise before, but that, after the first intense heats, we postponed the fulfillment of many of our hopes for this year, and, having as it were attained the ridge of the summer, commenced to descend the long slope toward winter, the afternoon and down-hill of the year.

Last evening it was much cooler, and I heard a decided fall sound of crickets.

• Partridges begin to go off in packs.
• Lark still sings, and robin.
• Small sparrows still heard.
• Kingbird lively.
• Veery and wood thrush (?) not very lately, nor oven-bird.
• Red-eye and chewink common.
• Night-warbler and evergreen-forest note not lately. 
• Cherry-bird common. 
• Turtle dove seen.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 28, 1854

The long slope toward winter, the afternoon and down-hill of the year. See July 26, 1853 ("This the afternoon of the year.How apt we are to be reminded of lateness, even before the year is half spent!"); July 30, 1852 ("After midsummer we have a belated feeling . . . see in each sight and hear in each sound some presage of the fall, just as in middle age man anticipates the end of life"); August 5, 1854 ( ".long declivity from midsummer to winter”); August 18, 1853 ("What means this sense of lateness that so comes over one now, — as if the rest of the year were down-hill"); See also A Book of the Seasons: Midsummer midlife blues.

Partridges begin to go off in packs. See July 25, 1854 ("I now start some packs of partridges, old and young, going off together without mewing.") See also note to August 24, 1855 ("Scare up a pack of grouse”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau The Partridge.

Veery and wood thrush not very lately, nor oven-bird, See June 28, 1852 ("When I get nearer the wood, the veery is heard, and the oven-bird, or whet-saw, sounds hollowly from within the recesses of the wood. ... Now it is starlight [y]et I hear a chewink, veery, and wood thrush. ") See also May 13, 1856 (“At the swamp, hear the yorrick of Wilson’s thrush; the tweezer-bird or Sylvia Americana. Also the oven-bird sings.”); June 15, 1854 ("Thrasher and catbird sing still; summer yellowbird and Maryland yellow-throat sing still; and oven-bird and veery"); July 10, 1854 ("The singing birds at present are . . . Red-eye, tanager, wood thrush, chewink, veery, oven-bird, — all even at midday.") July 27, 1852 ("Have I heard the veery lately?"): July 30, 1852 ("How long since I heard a veery? Do they go, or become silent, when the goldfinches herald the autumn? "); August 6, 1852 ("With the goldenrod comes the goldfinch. About the time his cool twitter is heard, does not the bobolink, thrasher, catbird, oven-bird, veery, etc., cease?") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Veery and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Oven-bird

July 28. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 28

Cooler last evening 

and I heard a decided 

fall sound of crickets.

The ridge of summer

the long slope toward winter –

all our hopes postponed.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The ridge of summer

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

tinyurl.com/hdt-540728

Morning fog and melting heat.

July 22

The hottest night, — the last. It was almost impossible to pursue any work out-of- doors yesterday. There were but few men to be seen out. You were prompted often, if working in the sun, to step into the shade to avoid a sunstroke. 

Fogs almost every morning now. Now clouds have begun to hang about all day, which do not promise rain, as it were the morning fogs elevated but little above the earth and floating through the air all day.

P. M. -- To Assabet Bath. 

There is a cool wind from the east, which makes it cool walking that way while it is melting hot walking westward. 

Zizania, a day, with a handsome light-green panicle a foot or more long , a long slender stem, and corn-like leaves frequently more than an inch wide. 

Gerardia flava, apparently two or three days, Lupine Hillside up railroad, near fence.

Solidago odora, a day or two, Lupine Hillside, and what I will call S. puberula, to-morrow. S. altissima on railroad, a day or two.

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

The hottest night, — the last . . . There is a cool wind from the east, which makes it cool walking that way while it is melting hot walking westward. See July 22, 1852 ("A strong west wind, saving us from intolerable heat, accompanied by a blue haze, making the mountains invisible. We have more of the furnace-like heat to-day, after all."); July 22, 1855 (''Dog day weather begins.") See also
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Locust, Dogdayish Days

There were but few men to be seen out. See July 22, 1853 (" I enjoy walking in the fields less at this season than at any other; there are so many men in the fields haying now.")

Fogs almost every morning now. See July 22, 1851 ("The season of morning fogs has arrived.”); See also July 18, 1852 ("Now the fogs have begun, in midsummer and mid-haying time "); July 19, 1853 ("This morning a fog and cool.")

Lupine Hillside.  See July 12, 1857 ("It is always pleasant to go over the bare brow of Lupine Hill and see the river and meadows thence.")

Gerardia flava, apparently two or three days. See July 28, 1853 ("The Gerardia flava in the hickory grove behind Lee's Cliff."); July 28, 1856 (Gerardia flava, apparently several days.) [Gerardia flava now know as Aureolaria flava (smooth false foxglove)]

Solidago. See July 17, 1853 ("Rank weeds begin to block up low wood-paths, — goldenrods, asters, etc."); July 18, 1854 ("Methinks the asters and goldenrods begin, like the early ripening leaves, with midsummer heats."); July 19, 1851 ("Beyond the bridge there is a goldenrod partially blossomed."); July 24, 1856 ("In the low Flint's Pond Path, beyond Britton's, the tall rough goldenrod makes a thicket higher than my head."); July 28, 1852 ("Solidago altissima (?) beyond the Corner Bridge, out some days at least . . . Goldenrod and asters have fairly begun."); August 14, 1856 ("Solidago odora abundantly out.")

July 22. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 22

Fogs every morning. 

Clouds now hang about all day

but it does not rain.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  Melting Heat

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-540722

[At dusk we hike to the view without headlamps on, arriving to a spectacular light show of constant lightning flashes and bolts to the northwest — so far  away we only occasionally  hear the thunder.  we water the dogs and  linger as long as we dare. Loki watches the light show.   My water bottle has dropped somewhere on the trail so we walk back the same route. Little Acorn is on an elastic leach strapped to my waist, her first outing since her surgery 10 day ago. A short hike.  It has been a 90 degree day and two fans so loud  in the family room we do not hear when the deluge hits home a little later.  ~ zphx 20160722]

Darting forked lightning

July 20.

A very hot day, a bathing day. Warm days about this. 

Corn in blossom these days.

P. M. — To Hubbard Bath. 

July 20, 2020

A muttering thunder-cloud in northwest gradually rising and with its advanced guard hiding in the sun and now and then darting forked lightning. 

The wind rising ominously also drives me home again.

At length down it comes upon the thirsty herbage, beating down the leaves with grateful, tender violence and slightly cooling the air. 

How soon it sweeps over and we see the flash in the southeast!

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 20, 1854

A very hot day, a bathing day.  See July 3, 1854 ("What a luxury to bathe now! It is gloriously hot, — the first of this weather."; July 19, 1854 ("The more smothering, furnace-like heats are beginning, and the locust days.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Luxury of Bathing

Corn in blossom these days. See July 12, 1851 ("The earliest corn is beginning to show its tassels now, and I scent it as I walk, — its peculiar dry scent."); July 27, 1852 ("I now perceive the peculiar scent of the corn-fields. The corn is just high enough, and this hour is favorable. I should think the ears had hardly set yet.")

We see the flash in the southeast. See July 20, 1851 (“A thunder-shower in the night . . .the lightning filled the damp air with light, like some vast glow-worm in the fields of ether opening its wings.”) Compare July 23, 1854 ("See a thunder-cloud coming up in northwest, but as I walk and wind in the woods, lose the points of compass and cannot tell whether it is travelling this way or not. At length the sun is obscured by its advance guard, but, as so often, the rain comes, leaving thunder and lightning behind.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Lightning

Darting forked lightning

wind rising ominously

drives me home again.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Darting forked lightning

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

tinyurl.com/hdt-540720

Children of the sun.

July 18

Methinks the asters and goldenrods begin, like the early ripening leaves, with midsummer heats.

July 18, 2014

Now look out for these children of the sun, when already the fall of some of the very earliest spring flowers has commenced.

The Island is now dry and shows few flowers. Where I looked for early spring flowers I do not look for midsummer ones. Such places are now parched and withering. 

Blue vervain, apparently a day; one circle is open a little below the top. 

As I go along the Joe Smith road, every bush and bramble bears its fruit; the sides of the road are a fruit garden; blackberries, huckleberries, thimble-berries, fresh and abundant, no signs of drought; all fruits in abundance; the earth teems.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 18, 1854

Methinks the asters and goldenrods begin, like the early ripening leaves, with midsummer heats. See July 15, 1854 ("The stems and leaves of various asters and golden-rods, which ere long will reign along the way, begin to be conspicuous."): July 19, 1851 ("Beyond the bridge there is a goldenrod partially blossomed. . . .Yesterday it was spring, and to-morrow it will be autumn."); July 26, 1853 ("I mark again, about this time when the first asters open. . . This the afternoon of the year."); July 28, 1852 ("Goldenrod and asters have fairly begun; there are several kinds of each out. "); August 30, 1853 ("Why so many asters and goldenrods now?")

Blue vervain, apparently a day; one circle is open a little below the top. See July 17, 1852 ("Verbena hastata, blue vervain. "); August 6, 1852 ("Blue vervain is now very attractive to me, and then there is that interesting progressive history in its rising ring of blossoms. It has a story. ");See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Blue Vervain

All fruits in abundance; the earth teems. See July 18, 1853 ("Now are the days to go a-berrying.")

July 18. See A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Midsummer's deepened shade and
A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 18

With midsummer heats

come asters and goldenrods  –

children of the sun.

A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Children of the sun

A Book of 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 © 2009-2025

tinyurl.com/hdt-540718b

Midsummer's deepened shade; a sultry, languid debauched look.

July 18

July 18, 2014

A hot midsummer day with a sultry mistiness in the air and shadows on land and water beginning to have a peculiar distinctness and solidity. The river, smooth and still, with a deepened shade of the elms on it, like midnight suddenly revealed, its bed-curtains shoved aside, has a sultry languid look.

The atmosphere now imparts a bluish or glaucous tinge to the distant trees. A certain debauched look. This a crisis in the season. 

After this the foliage of some trees is almost black at a distance. 

I do not know why the water should be so remarkably clear and the sun shine through to the bottom of the river, making it so plain. Methinks the air is not clearer nor the sun brighter, yet the bottom is unusually distinct and obvious in the sun. There seems to be no concealment for the fishes. On all sides, as I float along, the recesses of the water and the bottom are unusually revealed, and I see the fishes and weeds and shells. I look down into the sunny water. 

We have very few bass trees in Concord, but walk near them at this season and they will be betrayed, though several rods off, by the wonderful susurrus of the bees, etc., which their flowers attract. It is worth going a long way to hear. I am warned that I am passing one in two instances on the river, —only two I pass, — by this remarkable sound. At a little distance it is like the sound of a waterfall or of the cars; close at hand like a factory full of looms. They are chiefly humblebees, and the great globose tree is all alive with them. I hear the murmur distinctly fifteen rods off. You will know if you pass within a few rods of a bass tree at this season in any part of the town, by this loud murmur, like a water fall, which proceeds from it.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 18, 1854

A certain debauched look: See June 16, 1852 ("The earth looks like a debauchee after the sultry night") and July 24, 1851 ("Nature is like a hen panting with open mouth, in the grass, as the morning after a debauch.")

After this the foliage of some trees is almost black at a distance. See July 27, 1859 ("Now observe the darker shades, and especially the apple trees, square and round, in the northwest landscape. Dogdayish.")

Bass tree susurrus:  See July 16, 1852 ("The air is full of sweetness. The tree is full of poetry."); July 17, 1856 ("Hear at distance the hum of bees from the bass with its drooping flowers at the Island,. . . It sounds like the rumbling of a distant train of cars.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Basswood

I look down into the sunny water. See July 27, 1860 ("The water has begun to be clear and sunny, revealing the fishes and countless minnows of all sizes and colors”). July 28, 1859 ("The season has now arrived when I begin to see further into the water.");  July 30, 1856 ("The water is suddenly clear.”); August 8, 1859 ("The river, now that it is so clear and sunny, is better than any aquarium. ")

July 18. See A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Children of the sun and A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 18

.

Hot midsummer day

a crisis in the season

a deepened black shade

like midnight revealed

by bed-curtains shoved aside.

A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Midsummer's deepened shade

A Book of 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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