Reading Darwin

June 15. 

On the subsidence and elevation of the west coast of South America and of the Cordilleras:

"Daily it is forced home on the mind of the geologist, that nothing, not even the wind that blows, is so unstable as the level of the crust of this earth."

On the Galapagos: 

“The productions of the Galapagos Archipelago, from five to six hundred miles from America, are still of the American type. ..What is most singular, not only are the plants, etc., to a great extent peculiar to these islands, but each [island] for the most part has its own kinds, though they are within sight of each other.”

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 15, 1851

Each island has its own kinds. . . . See August 21, 1851 ("I have now found all the hawkweeds. Singular these genera of plants, plants manifestly related yet distinct. They suggest a history to nature, a natural history in a new sense.”) And (after reading the Origin of the Species) March 22, 1861 ("Every organism, whether animal or vegetable, is contending for the possession of the planet. . . . And each species prevails as much as it does, because of the ample preparations it has made for the contest,- it has secured a myriad chances.”); see also June 15, 1852 ("Flowers were made to be seen, not overlooked. Their bright colors imply eyes, spectators.")


From the Voyage of the Beagle chapter 17 :

....by far the most remarkable feature in the natural history of this archipelago; it is, that the different islands to a considerable extent are inhabited by a different set of beings. . . .I never dreamed that islands, about 50 or 60 miles apart, and most of them in sight of each other, formed of precisely the same rocks, placed under a quite similar climate, rising to a nearly equal height, would have been differently tenanted; but we shall soon see that this is the case.

Moonlight reflections

June 13.




Approaching the pond down Hubbard's Path, after coming out of the woods into a warmer air, I see the moon's inverted pyramid of light shimmering on its surface. I am startled to see midway in the dark water a bright flame- like, more than phosphorescent light crowning the crests of the wavelets. Though one would have said they were of an intenser light than the moon herself, on coming near to the shore of the pond itself I see this is so many broken reflections of the moon's disk.


I see reflections of the moon seeming to slide along a few inches with each wave before they are extinguished like so many lustrous burnished coins poured from a bag. And I see how farther and farther off they gradually merge in the general sheen, which, in fact, is made up of a myriad little mirrors reflecting the disk of the moon with equal brightness to an eye rightly placed.

The pyramid or sheaf of light which we see springing from near where we stand is, in fact, only the outline of that portion of the shimmering surface that an eye takes in. If there were as many eyes as angles presented by the waves, covered with those bright flame-like reflections of the moon's disk, the whole surface would appear as bright as the moon; and these reflections are dispersed in all directions into the atmosphere, flooding it with light.

H.D. Thoreau, Journal, June 13, 1851

I see the moon's inverted pyramid of light shimmering on its surface.. . . which, in fact, is made up of a myriad little mirrors reflecting the disk of the moon See April 3, 1852 ("A pathway of light, of sheeny ripples, extending across the meadow toward the moon, consisting of a myriad little bent and broken moons")   See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, June Moonlight and   Dogen:

~ Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken. Although its light is wide and great, the moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide. The whole moon and the entire sky are reflected in dewdrops on the grass, or even in one drop of water. Enlightenment does not divide you, just as the moon does not break the water. You cannot hinder enlightenment, just as a drop of water does not hinder the moon in the sky. The depth of the drop is the height of the moon. Each reflection, however long or short its duration, manifests the vastness of the dewdrop, and realizes the limitlessness of the moonlight in the sky . ~

June 13. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, June 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 © 2009-2021

Earth-song.

June 13.

Walk to Walden at night (moon not quite full) by railroad and upland wood-path, returning by Wayland road. The different frogs mark the seasons pretty well,- the peeping hyla, the dreaming frog, and the bullfrog. I believe that all may be heard at last occasionally together. The bullfrog belongs to summer. The tree-toad's, too, is a summer sound.

I hear partridges drumming to-night as late as 9 o'clock . What singularly space penetrating and filling sound! Why am I never nearer to its source?

I hear, just as the night sets in, faint notes from time to time from some sparrow falling asleep, - a vesper hymn - and later, in the woods, the chuckling, rattling sound of some unseen bird on the near trees.

As I climb the hill again toward my old bean-field I hear my old musical, simple-noted owl. Then, hearing at first some distinct chirps, I listen to the ancient, familiar, immortal, dear cricket sound under all others, and as these cease I become aware of the general earth-song.


H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 13, 1851

The different frogs mark the seasons pretty well,- the peeping hyla, the dreaming frog, and the bullfrog. See June 9, 1853 ("So there is an evening for the toads and another for the bullfrogs.")

I become aware of the general earth-song. See June 1, 1856 (“Was soothed and cheered by I knew not what at first, but soon detected the now more general creak of crickets”); June 4, 1854 (“These warm and dry days, which put spring far behind, the sound of the cricket at noon has a new value and significance, so serene and cool . . ..”); June 17, 1852 (“The earth-song of the cricket! Before Christianity was, it is. Health! health! health! is the burden of its song. ”) See also note to June 4, 1857 ("One thing that chiefly distinguishes this season from three weeks ago is that fine serene undertone or earth-song as we go by sunny banks and hillsides, the creak of crickets, which affects our thoughts so favorably, imparting its own serenity.")

June 13. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, June 13

The bullfrog belongs 

to summer – the tree-toad's, too, 

is a summer sound.

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

A book of seasons II.

June 12. 

Listen to music religiously, as if it were the last strain you might hear.

There would be this advantage in travelling in your own country, even in your own neighborhood, that you would be so thoroughly prepared to understand what you saw you would make fewer travellers' mistakes.

Is not he hospitable who entertains thoughts?

H. D. Thoreau, Journal,  June 12, 1851

Listen to music religiously, as if it were the last strain you might hear. See May 21, 1851("Only that thought and that expression are good which are musical.");June 22, 1851 ("To the sane man the world is a musical instrument. The very touch affords an exquisite pleasure."); January 15, 1857 ("What is there in music that it should so stir our deeps?"); November 30, 1858 ("I can only think of precious jewels, of music, poetry, beauty, and the mystery of life . . . ")

Traveling in your own country. . . . See  August 6, 1851 ("It takes a man of genius to travel in his own country, in his native village"); September 7, 1851 ("The discoveries which we make abroad are special and particular; those which we make at home are general and significant. The further off, the nearer the surface. The nearer home, the deeper.”); April 16, 1852 ("Many a foreigner who has come to this town has worked for years on its banks without discovering which way the river runs.”).

A book of seasons; the season of the night.

June 11.

The woodland paths are never seen to such advantage as in a moonlight night, opening before me almost against expectation as I walk, as if it were not a path, but an open, winding passage through the bushes, which my feet find. 

Hardly two nights are alike. I now descend round the corner of the grain-field, through the pitch pine wood into a lower field, inclosed by woods, and find myself in a colder, damp and misty atmosphere, with much dew on the grass. There is something creative and primal in the cool mist. It is laden with the condensed fragrance of plants.  I seem to be nearer to the origin of things.

My  spiritual side takes a more distinct form, like my shadow which I see accompanying me with the distinctness of a second person, a certain black companion bordering on the imp. I ask, “Who is this?”  whom I see dodging behind me as I am about to sit down on a rock.

No one, to my knowledge, has observed the minute differences in the seasons.  A book of the seasons, each page of which should be written in its own season and out-of-doors, or in its own locality wherever it may be.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 11, 1851

The woodland paths are never seen to such advantage as in a moonlight night, . . .Hardly two nights are alike. See July 16, 1850   ("Many men walk by day; few walk by night. It is a very different season.); October 26, 1857.(My moods are thus periodical, not two days in my year alike.)

My spiritual side takes a more distinct form. See September 22, 1854 ("By moonlight we are not of the earth earthy, but we are of the earth spiritual.")

A book of the seasons ... See

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 © 2009-2020

Minute differences of the seasons. See June 19, 1852 ("What subtile differences between one season and another! . . . The seasons admit of infinite degrees in their revolutions."); June 6, 1857 (“Each season is but an infinitesimal point. It no sooner comes than it is gone. It has no duration. It simply gives a tone and hue to my thought. Each annual phenomenon is a reminiscence and prompting.”)

Ah, that life that I have known! How hard it is to remember what is most memorable! We remember how we itched, not how our hearts beat. I can some times recall to mind the quality, the immortality, of my youthful life, but in memory is the only relation to it. The very cows have now left their pastures and are driven home to their yards. I meet no creature in the fields.  I hear the night-warbler breaking out as in his dreams, made so from the first for some mysterious reason. Our spiritual side takes a more distinct form, like our shadow which we see accompanying us .  . . . By night no flowers, at least no variety of colors. The pinks are no longer pink; they only shine faintly, reflecting more light. Instead of flowers underfoot, stars overhead. My shadow has the distinctness of a second person, a certain black companion bordering on the imp, and I ask, " Who is this ? " which I see dodging behind me as I am about to sit down on a rock. No one, to my knowledge, has observed the minute differences in the seasons. Hardly two nights are alike. The rocks do not feel warm to-night, for the air is warmest; nor does the sand particularly. A book of the seasons, each page of which should be written in its own season and out-of-doors, or in its own locality wherever it may be.

I see my shadow 

as a second person who 

sits down on this rock. 

June 11, 1851

The night side of the woods

June 11.

A beautiful summer night, not too warm, moon not quite full, after two or three rainy days. Walk to Fair Haven by railroad, returning by Potter's pasture and Sudbury road. 

When I get away from the town and deeper into the night, I hear whip-poor-wills, and see fireflies in the meadow.

The whip-poor-will suggests how wide asunder the woods and the town. Its note is very rarely heard by those who live on the street, and then it is thought  to be of ill omen.  But go into the woods in a warm night at this season, and it is the prevailing sound. 

I hear some whip-poor-wills on hills, others in thick wooded vales that ring hollow and cavernous with their note. I hear now five or six at once.

It is a bird not only of the woods, but of the night side of the woods. It is no more of ill omen here than the night and the moonlight are. 

H.D. Thoreau, Journal, June 11, 1851

See July 16, 1850  ("Many men walk by day; few walk by night. It is a very different season. Instead of the sun, there are the moon and stars; instead of the wood thrush, there is the whip-poor-will; instead of butterflies, fireflies, winged sparks of fire!")

Between heaven and earth

June 7.

It is a certain faeryland where we live. 

You may walk out in any direction over the earth's surface, lifting your horizon, and everywhere your path, climbing the convexity of the globe, leads you between heaven and earth the light of the sun and stars and the habitations of man. 

June 7, 2014

June 7, 2024

I wonder that I ever get five miles on my way, the walk is so crowded with events and phenomena.

How far does our knowledge really extend? We believe that the possibility of the future far exceeds the accomplishment of the past. We find ourselves naturally expecting or prepared for far greater changes than any which we have experienced within the period of distinct memory -- only to be paralleled by experiences which are forgotten. I do not even infer the future from what I know of the past.

I am hardly better acquainted with the past than with the future.

One of those gentle, straight-down rainy days, when the rain begins by spotting the cultivated fields as if shaken from a pepper-box; a fishing day, when I see one neighbor after another, having donned his oil-cloth suit, walking or riding past with a fish-pole, having struck work, - a day and an employment to make philosophers of them all.

H.D. Thoreau, Journal, June 7, 1851

The walk is so crowded with events and phenomena. See August 30, 1856 ("The more thrilling, wonderful, divine objects I behold in a day, the more expanded and immortal I become.")

It is a certain faeryland where we live. See November 21, 1850 ("Seeing the sun falling on a distant white pinewood with mingled gray and green, in an angle where this forest meets a hill covered with shrub oaks, affects me singularly, reinspiring me with all the dreams of my youth. It is a place far away, yet actual and where I have been. It is like looking into dreamland. It is one of the avenues to my future"); June 16, 1854 (" Do I not live in a garden, — in paradise?"); August 6, 1852 ("We live, as it were, within the calyx of a flower.")

I am hardly better acquainted with the past than with the future. Compare May 12, 1857 ("Our past experience is a never-failing capital which can never be alienated, of which each kindred future event reminds us. If you would have the song of the sparrow inspire you a thousand years hence, let your life be in harmony with its strain to-day.”); December 8, 1859 ("Only the poet has the faculty to see present things as if also past and future, as if universally significant.”)

One of those gentle, straight-down rainy days. I see one neighbor after another, having donned his oil-cloth suit, walking or riding past with a fish-pole, having struck work, - - a day and an employment to make philosophers of them all. See June 7, 1854 ("This louring day has been a regular fisherman's day, and I have seen many on the river, a general turnout."); See also January 12, 1855 ("On Flint’s Pond I find Nat Rice fishing. He has not caught one. I asked him what he thought the best time to fish. He said, “When the wind first comes south after a cold spell, on a bright morning.”");  June 26, 1853 ("Many of my fellow-citizens might go fishing a thousand times, perchance, before the sediment of fishing would sink to the bottom and leave their purpose pure, -- before they began to angle for the pond itself.”); December 28, 1856 ("if not catching many fish, still getting what they went for, though they may not be aware of it, i. e. a wilder experience than the town affords.")

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

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 © 2009-2021