Go to Lynn to lecture, via Cambridge.

January 13.

January 13, 2018

Wednesday. Go to Lynn to lecture, via Cambridge. 

4.30 P.M. — At Jonathan Buffum's, Lynn. Lecture in John B. Alley's parlor. 

Mr. J. Buffum describes to me ancient wolf-traps, made probably by the early settlers in Lynn, perhaps after an Indian model; one some two miles from the shore near Saugus, another more northerly; holes say seven feet deep, about as long, and some three feet wide, stoned up very smoothly, and perhaps converging a little, so that the wolf could not get out.

Tradition says that a wolf and a squaw were one morning found in the same hole, staring at each other.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 13, 1858

Lecture at Lynn. Thoreau likely presented “An Excursion to the Maine Woods”.  See Thoreau's Lectures after Walden. 289-92

January 13, 2018

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

January 13.  A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, January 13

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

A tragedy in a quiet swamp

October 8. 

A quiet swamp. October 8, 2020

P. M. — Up Assabet. 

Hemlock leaves are copiously falling. They cover the hillside like some wild grain. 

The changing red maples along the river are past their prime now, earlier than generally elsewhere. They are much faded, and many leaves are floating on the water. 

Those white maples that were so early to change in the water have more than half lost their leaves. 

Walking through the Lee farm swamp, a dozen or more rods from the river, I found a large box trap closed. I opened it and found in it the remains of a gray rabbit, -skin, bones, and mould, - closely fitting the right-angled corner of one side. It was wholly inoffensive, as so much vegetable mould, and must have been dead some years. None of the furniture of the trap remained, but the box itself, with a lid which just moved on two rusty nails; the stick which held the bait, the string, etc., etc., were all gone. The box had the appearance of having been floated off in an upright position by a freshet. It had been a rabbit’s living tomb. He had gradually starved to death in it. What a tragedy to have occurred within a box in one of our quiet swamps! The trapper lost his box, the rabbit its life. The box had not been gnawed. After days and nights of moaning and struggle, heard for a few rods through the swamp, increasing weakness and emaciation and delirium, the rabbit breathes its last. They tell you of opening the tomb and finding by the contortions of the body that it was buried alive. This was such a case. Let the trapping boy dream of the dead rabbit in its ark, as it sailed, like a small meeting-house with its rude spire, slowly, with a grand and solemn motion, far amid the alders. 

Four dark-colored ducks (white beneath), maybe summer, or teal (??), with a loud creaking note of alarm, flew away from near the shore and followed the bend of the river upward. 

I see and hear white-throated sparrows on the swamp white oaks by the river's edge, uttering a faint sharp cheep. 

The chipmunk, the wall-going squirrel, that will cross a broad pasture on the wall, now this side, now that, now on top, and lives under it, — as if it were a track laid for him expressly.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 8, 1857

The changing red maples along the river are past their prime now. . . Compare October 8, 1852 (“Nothing can exceed the brilliancy of some of the maples which stand by the [Walden] shore and extend their red banners over the water.”)

White-throated sparrows on the swamp white oaks by the river's edge. . . See October 8, 1856 (“The trees and weeds by the Turnpike are all alive this pleasant afternoon with twittering sparrows . . .”); October 8, 1855 (" Hear a song sparrow sing. See apparently white-throated sparrows . . .”)

I found a large box trap closed. I opened it and found in it the remains of a gray rabbit . See  December 5, 1853 ("Two other boys asked leave to ride, with four large empty box-traps which they were bringing home from the woods. It was too cold and late to follow box-trapping longer. They had caught five rabbits this fall, baiting with an apple.")

October 8. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, October 8

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, A tragedy in a quiet swamp

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 © 2009-2025

Now for the short days and early twilight.

December 5

Got my boat in. The river frozen over thinly in most places and whitened with snow, which was sprinkled on it this noon.

Many living leaves are very dark red now. Fair Haven Pond is skimmed completely over. The ground has been frozen more or less about a week, not very hard. 

See and hear a downy woodpecker on an apple tree. Have not many winter birds, like this and the chickadee, a sharp note like tinkling glass or icicles?

Now for the short days and early twilight, in which I hear the sound of woodchopping. The sun goes down behind a low cloud, and the world is darkened. 

The partridge budding on the apple tree bursts away from the path-side. 

Suddenly the whole atmosphere fills with a mellow yellowish light equally diffused. It seems much lighter around me than immediately after the sun sank behind the horizon cloud, fifteen minutes before.  Apparently not till the sun had sunk thus far did I stand in the angle of reflection.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 5, 1853

Got my boat in. The river frozen over thinly. See  December 2, 1854 ("Got up my boat and housed it, ice having formed about it."); See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Boat in. Boat out.

The river frozen over thinly in most places. Fair Haven Pond is skimmed completely over.  See  December 5, 1856 ("The river is well skimmed over in most places, though it will not bear, — wherever there is least current, as in broad places, or where there is least wind, as by the bridges. The ice trap was sprung last night.") See also December 4, 1853 ("Goose Pond apparently froze over last night, all but a few rods, but not thick enough to bear. (Flint's Pond only skimmed a little at the shore, like the river.)") December 4, 1856 ("Each day at present, the wriggling river nibbles off the edges of the trap which have advanced in the night. It is a close contest between day and night, heat and cold. ");  December 7, 1856 ("Take my first skate to Fair Haven Pond . . .The ice appears to be but three or four inches thick.”); December 9, 1856 (" Fair Haven was so solidly frozen on the 6th that there was fishing on it,"); December 9, 1859 ("The river and Fair Haven Pond froze over generally last night, though they were only frozen along the edges yesterday. This is unusually sudden.")

A downy woodpecker on an apple tree . . . a sharp note like tinkling glass or icicles. See October 23, 1853 ("I see a downy woodpecker tapping an apple tree, and hear, when I have passed, his sharp, metallic note.");  October 23, 1855 ("A downy woodpecker on an apple tree utters a sharp, shrill, rapid tea te t, t, t, t t t t t. "); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Downy Woodpecker

Now for the short days and early twilight. See note to December 11, 1854 ("The day is short; it seems to be composed of two twilights merely; the morning and the evening twilight make the whole day.”)

The partridge budding on the apple tree bursts away from the path-side.  See November 8, 1853 ("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.")  December 14, 1855 ("Suddenly I heard the screwing mew and then the whir of a partridge on or beneath an old decaying apple tree . . .There were several such, and another partridge burst away from one. They shoot off swift and steady, showing their dark-edged tails, almost like a cannon-ball.") See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Partridge

The whole atmosphere fills with a mellow yellowish light. See note to November 29, 1853 ("I think that we have some such sunsets as this, and peculiar to the season, every year.  I should call it the russet afterglow of the year.")

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

Now for the short days –

sun behind a low cloud and

the world is darkened.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Now for the short days and early twilight.

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

z

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-531205

Dec. 5. P. M. 

Got my boat in.

The river frozen over thinly in most places and whitened with snow, which was sprinkled on it this noon.

4 P. M. To Cliffs.

Many living leaves are very dark red now, the only effect of the frost on them, — the checkerberry, andromeda, low cedar, and more or less lambkill, etc. 

Saw and heard a downy woodpecker on an apple tree.

Have not many winter birds, like this and the chickadee, a sharp note like tinkling glass or icicles? The chip of the tree sparrow, also, and the whistle of the shrike, are they not wintry in the same way? And the sonorous hooting owl? But not so the jay and Fringilla linaria, and still less the crow.

Now for the short days and early twilight, in which I hear the sound of woodchopping.

The sun goes down behind a low cloud, and the world is darkened.

The partridge is budding on the apple tree and bursts away from the path-side.

Fair Haven Pond is skimmed completely over.

The ground has been frozen more or less about a week, not very hard.

Probably stiffened the 3d so as to hinder spading, but softened afterward.

I rode home from the woods in a hay-rigging, with a boy who had been collecting a load of dry leaves for the hog-pen; this the third or fourth load.

Two other boys asked leave to ride, with four large empty box-traps which they were bringing home from the woods. It was too cold and late to follow box-trapping longer. They had caught five rabbits this fall, baiting with an apple.

Before I got home the whole atmosphere was suddenly filled with a mellow yellowish light equally diffused, so that it seemed much lighter around me than immediately after the sun sank behind the horizon cloud, fifteen minutes before.

Apparently not till the sun had sunk thus far did I stand in the angle of reflection.

It is a startling thought that the Assyrian king who with so much pains recorded his exploits in stone at Nineveh, that the story might come down to a distant generation, has indeed succeeded by those means which he used.

All was not vanity, quite.

Layard, at the lake of Wan, says:

 “Early next morning I sought the inscriptions which I had been assured were graven on the rocks near an old castle, standing on a bold projecting promontory above the lake.

After climbing up a dangerous precipice by the help of two or three poles, in which large nails had been inserted to afford a footing, I reached a small natural cave in the rock.

A few crosses and ancient Armenian letters were rudely cut near its entrance.

There was nothing else, and I had to return as I best could, disappointed, as many a traveller has been under similar circumstances before me.”

They were not old enough; that was all.

Wait a thousand years and you will not be disappointed.

First snow.

November 24.

P. M. - To Easterbrooks's. 

Under the two white oaks by the second wall south east of my house, on the east side the wall, I am surprised to find a great many sound acorns still, though everyone is sprouted, — frequently more than a dozen on the short sward within a square foot, each with its radicle two inches long penetrated into the earth. 

But many have had their radicle broken or eaten off, and many have it now dead and withered. 

So far as my observation goes there, by far the greatest number of white oak acorns were destroyed by decaying (whether in consequence of frost or wet), both before and soon after falling. 

Not nearly so many have been carried off by squirrels and birds or consumed by grubs, though the number of acorns of all kinds lying under the trees is now comparatively small to what it was early in October. 

It is true these two trees are exceptions and I do not find sound ones nearly as numerous under others. Nevertheless, the sound white oak acorns are not so generally and entirely picked up as I supposed. 

However, there are a great many more shells or cups than acorns under the trees; even under these two trees, I think, there are not more than a third as many of any kind sound or hollow — as there were, and generally those that remain are a very small fraction of what there were. 

It will be worth the while to see how many of these sprouted acorns are left and are sound in the spring. 

It is remarkable that all sound white oak acorns (and many which are not now sound) are sprouted, and that I have noticed no other kind sprouted, — though I have not seen the chestnut oak and little chinquapin at all. 

It remains to be seen how many of the above will be picked up by squirrels, etc., or destroyed by frost and grubs in the winter.

November 24, 2024                                                 November 24, 2025

The first spitting of snow — a flurry or squall – from out a gray or slate-colored cloud that came up from the west. This consisted almost entirely of pellets an eighth of an inch or less in diameter. 

These drove along almost horizontally, or curving upward like the outline of a breaker, before the strong and chilling wind. The plowed fields were for a short time whitened with them. 

The green moss about the bases of trees was very prettily spotted white with them, and also the large beds of cladonia in the pastures. They come to contrast with the red cockspur lichens on the stumps, which you had not noticed before. Striking against the trunks of the trees on the west side they fell and accumulated in a white line at the base. 

Though a slight touch, this was the first wintry scene of the season. 

The air was so filled with these snow pellets that we could not not see a hill half a mile off for an hour. 

The hands seek the warmth of the pockets, and fingers are so benumbed that you cannot open your jack-knife. 

The rabbits in the swamps enjoy it, as well as you. Methinks the winter gives them more liberty, like a night. 

I see where a boy has set a box trap and baited it with half an apple, and, a mile off, come across a snare set for a rabbit or partridge in a cow-path in a pitch pine wood near where the rabbits have nibbled the apples which strew the wet ground. How pitiable that the most that many see of a rabbit should be the snare that some boy has set for one! 




The bitter-sweet of a white oak acorn which you nibble in a bleak November walk over the tawny earth is more to me than a slice of imported pineapple. 

We do not think much of table-fruits. They are especially for aldermen and epicures. They do not feed the imagination. That would starve on them. These wild fruits, whether eaten or not, are a dessert for the imagination. 

The south may keep her pineapples, and we will be content with our strawberries. 



H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 24, 1860 

I am surprised to find a great many sound acorns still, each with its radicle two inches long penetrated into the earth. It is remarkable that all sound white oak acorns (and many which are not now sound) are sprouted, and that I have noticed no other kind sprouted.  See October 7, 1860 ("I see one small but spreading white oak full of acorns just falling and ready to fall. . . . Some that have fallen have already split and sprouted.”); October 8, 1860 ("I find a great many white oak acorns already sprouted, although they are but half fallen, and can easily believe that they sometimes sprout before they fall. It is a good year for them."); October 11, 1860 ("There is a remarkably abundant crop of white oak acorns this fall."); October 13, 1860 ("This is a white oak year"); October 29, 1860 ("At some of the white oaks visited on the 11th, where the acorns were so thick on the ground and trees, I now find them perhaps nearly half picked up, yet perhaps little more than two thirds spoiled. The good appear to be all sprouted now."); and note to November 27, 1852 (“I find acorns which have sent a shoot down into the earth this fall.”)

The first spitting of snow. The hands seek the warmth of the pockets, and fingers are so benumbed that you cannot open your jack-knife. See November 24, 1858 ("There is a slight sugaring of snow on the ground. ") See also November 17, 1855 ("Just after dark the first snow is falling, after a chilly afternoon with cold gray clouds, when my hands were uncomfortably cold.”) and note to November 29, 1856 ("This the first snow I have seen, ")

The air was so filled with these snow pellets that for an hour we could not see a hill half a mile off. See January 30, 1856 ("It has just begun to snow, — those little round dry pellets like shot. Stops snowing before noon, not having amounted to anything.”); December 14, 1859( Snow-storms might be classified. . . .Also there is the pellet or shot snow, which consists of little dry spherical pellets the size of robin-shot. This, I think, belongs to cold weather. Probably never have much of it.”)

The plowed fields were for a short time whitened. See November 24, 1858 (“Plowed ground is quite white”); See also  October 19, 1854 (“The country above Littleton (plowed ground) more or less sugared with snow,”); November 8, 1853 ("The snow begins to whiten the plowed ground now."); December 16, 1857 ("Plowed grounds show white first.”)

Snow pellets . . .contrast with the red cockspur lichens on the stumps, not noticed before. See December 26, 1855 ("The scarlet fruit of the cockspur lichen, seen glowing through the more opaque whitish or snowy crust of a stump, is, on close inspection, the richest sight of all ”)

The first wintry scene of the season. The rabbits in the swamps enjoy it, as well as you. See November 24, 1858 ("When I looked out this morning, the landscape presented a very pretty wintry sight, little snow as there was. Being very moist, it had lodged on every twig,") See also November 8, 1853 (“Our first snow,. . . The children greet it with a shout when they come out at recess. ”); November 23, 1852 ("There is something genial even in the first snow, and Nature seems to relent a little of her November harshness.")

The winter gives them more liberty, like a night. See December 8, 1850 ("The dear privacy and retirement and solitude which winter makes possible!”)