Notwithstanding all the snow the skunk-cabbage is earlier than last year.

April 4. 

P. M. —— To Clamshell, etc. 

The alder scales south of the railroad, beyond the bridge, are loosened. This corresponds to the opening (not merely expansion showing the fuzziness) of the white maple buds. 

There is still but little rain, but the fog of yesterday still rests on the earth. My neighbor says it is the frost coming out of the ground. This, perhaps, is not the best description of it. It is rather the moisture in this warm air, condensed by contact with the snow and ice and frozen ground. 

Where the fields are bare I slump now three or four inches into the oozy surface, also on the bare brows of hills clad with cladonias. These are as full of water as a sponge. 

The muskrats, no doubt, are now being driven out of the banks. I hear, as I walk along the shore, the dull sound of guns —probably most of them fired at muskrats — borne along the river from different parts of the town; one every two or three minutes. 

Already I hear of a small fire in the woods in Emerson’s lot, set by the engine, the leaves that are bare are so dry. 

I find many sound cabbages shedding their pollen under Clamshell Hill. They are even more forward generally here than at Well Meadow. Probably two or three only, now dead among the alders at the last place, were earlier. This is simply the earliest flower such a season as this, i. e. when the ground continues covered with snow till very late in the spring. 

For this plant occupies ground which is the earliest to be laid bare, those great dimples in the snow about a springy place in the meadow, five or ten feet over, where the sun and light have access to the earth a month before it is generally bare. In such localities, then, they will enjoy the advantage over most other plants, for they will not have to contend with abundance of snow, but only with the cold air, which may be no severer than usual. Cowslips and a few other plants sometimes enjoy the same advantage.

Sometimes, apparently, the original, now outer, spathe has been frost-bitten and is decayed, and a fresh one is pushing up. I see some of these in full bloom, though the opening to their tents is not more than half an inch wide. They are lapped like tent doors, effectually protected. 

Methinks most of these hoods open to the south. It is remarkable how completely the spadix is protected from the weather, first by the ample hood, whose walls are distant from it, next by the narrow tent-like doorway, admitting air and light and sun, generally I think on the south side, and also by its pointed top, curved downward protectingly over it. It looks like a monk in his crypt with powdered head. The sides of the doorway are lapped or folded, and one is considerably in advance of the other. It is contrived best to catch the vernal warmth and exclude the winter’s cold.

Notwithstanding all the snow the skunk-cabbage is earlier than last year, when it was also the earliest flower and blossomed on the 5th of April. It is, perhaps, owing to the long continued warm weather from March 13th to 28th. 

Yet it has been a hard winter for many plants, on dry, exposed hills. I am surprised to see the clover, cinquefoil, etc., etc., on the top of the bank at Clamshell completely withered and straw-colored, probably from the snow resting on it so long and incessantly. And plants that grow on high land are more backward than last year. 

The ground no sooner begins to be bare to a considerable extent than I see a marsh hawk, or harrier. 

The sap of the white birch at Clamshell begins to flow.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 4, 1856

. . . the skunk-cabbage is earlier. . . See April 10, 1855 ("The morning of the 6th, when I found the skunk cabbage out, it was so cold I suffered from numbed fingers, having left my gloves behind." ). Compare March 18, 1860 ("skunk-cabbage, now generally and abundantly in bloom all along under Clamshell").

The ground no sooner begins to be bare to a considerable extent than I see a marsh hawk, or harrier. See March 27, 1855 ("See my frog hawk. (C. saw it about a week ago.) It is the hen-barrier, i.e. marsh hawk, male. Slate-colored; beating the bush; black tips to wings and white rump."); April 5, 1854 ("These days, when a soft west or southwest wind blows and it is truly warm, and an outside coat is oppressive, — these bring out the butterflies and the frogs, and the marsh hawks which prey on the last. Just so simple is every year."); April 8, 1856 ("See two marsh hawks this afternoon, circling low over the meadows along the water’s edge. This shows that frogs must be out."); April 23, 1855  ("I have seen also for some weeks occasionally a brown hawk with white rump, flying low, which I have thought the frog hawk in a different stage of plumage; but can it be at this season? and is it not the marsh hawk? Yet it is not so heavy nearly as the hen-hawk -- probably female hen-harrier [i. e. marsh hawk]"). See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  the Marsh Hawk (Northern Harrier)

A Book of the Seasons: April 3.

April 3.

And the sough of the
wind in the pines sounds warmer --
whispering summer.


This first hazy day
wind in the pines sounds warmer,
whispering summer.
April 3, 1854

Wind in the pines sounds
warmer — whispering summer—
this first hazy day
April 3, 1854



White maple trees stand
in the midst of the old snow --
buds slightly opened.
April 3, 1856



Early in the spring
this susurrus as we paddle —
the hum of the bee.
April 3, 1858


This susurrus thus
early in the spring we hear
the hum of the bees.
April 3, 1858

Rain-drops full of light
hanging so regularly

under each birch twig.
April 3, 1859

April 3, 2015

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

I revive with Nature.

April 3.

When I awake this morning I hear the almost forgotten sound of rain on the roof. 

Looking out, I see the air full of fog, and that the snow has gone off wonderfully during the night. The drifts have settled and the patches of bare ground extended themselves, and the river is fast spreading over the meadows. 

The pattering of the rain is a soothing, slumberous sound, which tempts me to lie late, yet there is more fog than rain. 

Here, then, at last, is the end of the sleighing, which began the 25th of December. Not including that date and to-day it has lasted ninety-nine days. I hear that young Demond of the Factory will have come into town one hundred times in his sleigh the past winter, if he comes to-day, having come probably only once in a day. 

P. M. — To Hunt’s Bridge. 

It is surprising how the earth on bare south banks begins to show some greenness in its russet cheeks in this rain and fog, -- a precious emerald-green tinge, almost like a green mildew, the growth of the night, -- a green blush suffusing her cheek, heralded by twittering birds. 

How encouraging to perceive again that faint tinge of green, spreading amid the russet on earth’s cheeks! I revive with Nature; her victory is mine. This is my jewelry. 

It rains very little, but a dense fog, fifteen or twenty feet high, rests on the earth all day, spiriting away the snow, —behind which the cockerels crow and a few birds sing or twitter. 

The osiers look bright and fresh in the rain and fog, like the grass. Close at hand they are seen to be beaded with drops from the fog. There seems to be a little life in the bark now, and it strips somewhat more freely than in winter. What a lusty growth have these yellow osiers! Six feet is common the last year, chiefly from the summit of the pollards, —but also from the sides of the trunk,—filling a quadrant densely with their yellow rays. 

The white maple buds on the south side of some trees have slightly opened, so that I can peep into their cavities and detect the stamens. They will probably come next to the skunk-cabbage this year, if the cowslip does not. 

Yet the trees stand in the midst of the old snow. 

I see small flocks of robins running on the bared portions of the meadow. Hear the sprayey tinkle of the song sparrow along the hedges. 

Hear also squeaking notes of an advancing flock of redwings [or grackles, am uncertain which makes that squeak] somewhere high in the sky. At length detect them high overhead, advancing northeast in loose array, with a broad extended front, competing with each other, winging their way to some northern meadow which they remember. 

Coming home along the causeway, a robin sings (though faintly) as in May.

The road is a path, here and there shovelled through drifts which are considerably higher than a man’s head on each side. 

The river is now generally and rapidly breaking up. It is surprising what progress has been made since yesterday. It is now generally open about the town. 

It has gradually worn and melted away at the bends, where it is shallow and swift, and now small pieces are breaking off around the edges and floating down these reaches.  

It is not generally floated off, but dissolved and melted where it is, for the open reaches gradually extend themselves till they meet, and there is no space or escape for floating ice in any quantity, until the ice is all gone from the channel. 

I think that what I have seen floating in former years is commonly such as had risen up afterward from the bottom of flooded meadows. Sometimes, however, you observe great masses of floating ice, consisting of that which is later to break up, the thicker and more lasting ice from broad bays or between bridges.

There is now an open water passage on each side of the broad field of ice in the bay above the railroad.

The water, which is rapidly rising, has overflowed the icy snow on the meadows, which is seen a couple of feet beneath it, for there is no true ice there. It is this rising of the water that breaks up the ice more than anything. 

The Mill Brook has risen much higher comparatively than the river.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 3, 1856


I revive with Nature; her victory is mine.  See January 9, 1853 ("May I lead my life the following year as innocently! May it be as fair and smell as sweet! I anticipate nature. It will go forth in April, this vestal now cherishing her fire, to be married to the sun. How innocent are Nature's purposes!")

Coming home along the causeway, a robin sings (though faintly) as in May. See April 1, 1857("A true April evening, feeling and looking as if it would rain, and already I hear a robin or two singing their evening song."); April 2, 1856 ("Robins are peeping and flitting about. Am surprised to hear one sing regularly their morning strain"); April 1, 1854 ("The robin now begins to sing sweet powerfully.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Robins in Spring

April 3. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, April 3

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

* * *

Relaxing  on a rock in the upper moss trial, looking at the horizon and the trees, i do not see the Red pine in front of me. I notice and am puzzled for a moment then take it to be a deformed White pine -- but do not see i as a Red pine until Jane remarks and i go down to look at the bark. Obvious red pine.

And then suddenly all around are unseen signs: needles, cones seedlings that i have walked right by. I remember  distinctly seeing White pine. looking at the seedlings in the trail while Jane was inspecting the wintergreen .

 Going back up to the original view of the tree’s crown, it is now obviously and forever a Red pine.

I did not apprehend what I did not expect. I did not have the idea of the red pine, because it did not connect to my experience of these woods.

As HDT says, one never learns something one does not already half-know. One can never know or see — even the obvious--- what one does not somehow expect. January 5, 1860 ("A man receives only what he is ready to receive. His observations make a chain. He does not observe the phenomenon that cannot be linked with the rest which he has observed, however novel and remarkable it may be. A man tracks himself through life, apprehending only what he already half knows.”); November 4, 1858 ("We cannot see any thing until we are possessed with the idea of it, and then we can hardly see anything else. In my botanical rambles I find that first the idea, or image, of a plant occupies my thoughts, though it may at first seem very foreign to this locality, and for some weeks or months I go thinking of it and expecting it unconsciously, and at length I surely see it, and it is henceforth an actual neighbor of mine. This is the history of my finding a score or more of rare plants which I could name.”; August 22, 1860 ("I never find a remarkable Indian relic but I have first divined its existence, and planned the discovery of it. Frequently I have told myself distinctly what it was to be before I found it. “)

So the question is, how did Jane see the red pine? 

April 3, 2016

Postscript.  Later we go back up the moss trial and find this is not a lone Red pine, but there are several others nearby on this south facing ridge.

A Book of the Seasons: April 2.

April 2.

April 2, 2021

Soothing rain beating

against and amusing our

thoughts, swelling the brooks.

April 2, 1852

Rain now turns to snow

with large flakes that cohere in

the air as they fall.

April 2, 1852

Looking up, the flakes

are black against the sky and

now the ground whitens.

 April 2, 1852

Far into the pine woods
tree behind tree,
one tower behind another
silvery needles,
stage above stage,
relieved with shade.
The edge of the wood
is not a plane surface.
April 2, 1853

Something reminds me
of the song of the robin,
rainy days, past springs.
April 2, 1854

It is wintry cold
and ice has formed in my boat
nearly an inch thick.
April 2, 1855

To stretch on bare ground
feel its warmth in my back and
smell earth and dry leaves.
April 2, 1856

Set out apple trees,
but in  the night cold with snow 
several inches deep.
April 2, 1857

Approaching a wood,
I hear the pine warbler call-
ing the pines to life.
April 2, 1858

No fruit grows in vain. 

The red squirrel harvests the 

fruit of the pitch pine.

April 2, 1859 

Cold and windy and
the ground slightly whitened by
a flurry of snow.
April 2, 1860

April 2, 2014

For a long distance, as we paddle up the river, we hear the two-stanza'd lay of the pewee on the shore, - pee-wet, pee-wee, etc. Those are the two obvious facts to eye and ear, the river and the pewee. We hardly set out to return, when the water looked sober and rainy. There was more appearance of rain in the water than in the sky, - April weather look. And soon we saw the dimples of drops on the surface . The clouds, the showers, and the breaking away now in the west, all belong to the summer side of the year and remind me of long-past days.We land in a steady rain and walk inland by R. Rice's barn, regardless of the storm, toward White Pond. At last the drops fall wider apart, and we pause in a sandy field near the Great Road of the Corner, where it was agreeably retired and sandy, drinking up the rain. The rain was soothing, so still and sober, gently beating against and amusing our thoughts, swelling the brooks. The robin now peeps with scared note in the heavy overcast air, among the apple trees. The hour is favorable to thought. The rain now turns to snow with large flakes, so soft many cohere in the air as they fall. They make us white as millers and wet us through. I hear a solitary hyla for the first time. At Hubbard's Bridge, count eight ducks going over. Looking up, the flakes are black against the sky. And now the ground begins to whiten. April 2, 1852 


The rain cleared away yesterday afternoon, and today the air is remarkably clear. I can see far into the pine woods to tree behind tree, and one tower behind another of silvery needles, stage above stage, relieved with shade. The edge of the wood is not a plane surface, but has depth. Hear and see what I call the pine warbler, -- vetter vetter vetter vetter vet, -- the cool woodland sound. The first this year of the higher-colored birds, after the bluebird and the blackbird's wing. It so affects me as something more ten April 2, 1853


I was sitting on the rail over the brook, when I heard something which reminded me of the song of the robin in rainy days in past springs. Why is it that not the note itself, but something which reminds me of it, should affect me most? April 2, 1854


Not only the grass but the pines also were greener yesterday for being wet. To-day, the grass being dry, the green blades are less conspicuous than yesterday. It would seem, then, that this color is more vivid when wet, and perhaps all green plants, like lichens, are to some extent greener in moist weather. Green is essentially vivid, or the color of life, and it is therefore most brilliant when a plant is moist or most alive. A plant is said to be green in opposition to being withered and dead. The word, according to Webster, is from the Saxon grene, to grow, and hence is the color of herbage when growing. High winds all night, rocking the house, opening doors, etc. To-day also. It is wintry cold also, and ice has formed nearly an inch thick in my boat. April 2, 1855



I hear a few song sparrows tinkle on the alders by the railroad. They skulk and flit along below the level of the ground in the ice-filled ditches; and bluebirds warble over the Deep Cut. A foot or more of snow in Andromeda Ponds. In the warm recess at the head of Well Meadow, which makes up on the northeast side of Fair Haven, I find many evidences of spring . . . It will take you half a lifetime to find out where to look for the earliest flower . . . Here, where I come for the earliest flowers, I might also come for the earliest birds. They seek the same warmth and vegetation. And so probably with quadrupeds,—rabbits, skunks, mice, etc. I hear now, as I stand over the first skunk-cabbage, the notes of the first red-wings, like the squeaking of a sign, over amid the maples yonder. Robins are peeping and flitting about. Am surprised to hear one sing regularly their morning strain, seven or eight rods off, yet so low and smothered with its ventriloquism that you would say it was half a mile off. It seems to be wooing its mate, that sits within a foot of it. There are many holes in the surface of the bare, springy ground amid the rills, made by the skunks or mice, and now their edges are bristling with feather like frostwork, as if they were the breathing-holes or nostrils of the earth. . . . It is evident that it depends on the character of the season whether this flower or that is the most forward; whether there is more or less snow or cold or rain, etc. I am tempted to stretch myself on the bare ground above the Cliff, to feel its warmth in my back, and smell the earth and the dry leaves. I see and hear flies and bees about. A large buff-edged butterfly flutters by along the edge of the Cliff, — Vanessa antiopa. Though so little of the earth is bared, this frail creature has been warmed to life again . . . A woodchuck has been out under the Cliff, and patted the sand, cleared out the entrance to his burrow. . . . Some of the earliest plants are now not started because covered with snow. April 2, 1856


A great change in the weather. I set out apple trees yesterday, but in the night it was very cold, with snow, which is now several inches deep. On the sidewalk in Cambridge I see a toad, which apparently hopped out from under a fence last evening, frozen quite hard in a sitting posture. Carried it into Boston in my pocket, but could not thaw it into life. April 2, 1857



At Hubbard’s Grove I see a woodchuck. He waddles to his hole and then puts out his gray nose within thirty feet to reconnoitre . . . The hazel has just begun to shed pollen here, perhaps yesterday in some other places. This loosening and elongating of its catkins is a sufficiently pleasing sight, in dry and warm hollows on the hillsides. It is an unexpected evidence of life in so dry a shrub. On the side of Fair Haven Hill I go looking for bay wings, turning my glass to each sparrow on a rock or tree. At last I see one, which flies right up straight from a rock eighty [or] one hundred feet and warbles a peculiar long and pleasant strain, after the manner of the skylark, methinks, and close by I see another, apparently a bay-wing, though I do not see its white in tail, and it utters while sitting the same subdued, rather peculiar strain. See how those black ducks, swimming in pairs far off on the river, are disturbed by our appearance, swimming away in alarm, and now, when we advance again, they rise and fly up-stream and about, uttering regularly a crack cr-r-rack of alarm, even for five or ten minutes, as they circle about, long after we have lost sight of them. Now we hear it on this side, now on that . . .Approaching the side of a wood on which were some pines, this afternoon, I heard the note of the pine warbler, calling the pines to life, though I did not see it. It has probably been here as long as I said before. Returning, I saw a sparrow-like bird flit by in an orchard, and, turning my glass upon it, was surprised by its burning yellow. This higher color in birds surprises us like an increase of warmth in the day. April 2, 1858


There are many fuzzy gnats now in the air, windy as it is. Especially I see them under the lee of the middle Conantum cliff, in dense swarms, all headed one way, but rising and falling suddenly all together as if tossed by the wind. They appear to love best a position just below the edge of the cliff, and to rise constantly high enough to feel the wind from over the edge, and then sink suddenly down again. They are not, perhaps, so thick as they will be, but they are suddenly much thicker than they were, and perhaps their presence affects the arrival of the phoebe, which, I suspect, feeds on them. . . . As I go down the street just after sunset, I hear many snipe to-night. This sound is annually heard by the villagers, but always at this hour, i. e. in the twilight, — a hovering sound high in the air, — and they do not know what to refer it to.. . . Hardly one in a hundred hears it, and perhaps not nearly so many know what creature makes it. Perhaps no one dreamed of snipe an hour ago, but . . . but as soon as the dusk begins, so that a bird's flight is concealed, you hear this peculiar spirit-suggesting sound, now far, now near, heard through and above the evening din of the village.April 2, 1859


Cold and windy. 2 P. M. — Thermometer 31°, or fallen 40° since yesterday, and the ground slightly whitened by a flurry of snow. I had expected rain to succeed the thick haze. It was cloudy behind the haze and rained a little about 9 P. M., but, the wind having gone northwest (from southwest), it turned to snow. April 2, 1860



A drifting snow-storm, perhaps a foot deep on an average. April 2, 1861

*****

The Earliest Flower

Robins in Spring

the Red-wing in Spring 

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

I am tempted to stretch myself on the bare ground above the Cliff, to feel its warmth in my back, and smell the earth and the dry leaves.

April 2.

8 A. M. — To Lee’s Cliff via railroad, Andromeda Ponds, and Well Meadow. 

I go early, while the crust is hard. I hear a few song sparrows tinkle on the alders by the railroad. They skulk and flit along below the level of the ground in the ice-filled ditches; and bluebirds warble over the Deep Cut. A foot or more of snow in Andromeda Ponds. 

In the warm recess at the head of Well Meadow, which makes up on the northeast side of Fair Haven, I find many evidences of spring. Pushed up through the dead leaves, yet flattened by the snow and ice which has just melted here, behold! the skunk-cabbage has been in bloom, i.e. has shed pollen some time and been frost-bitten and decayed. All that now sheds pollen here has been frost-bitten. Others are ready to shed it in a day or two. 

I find no other flower nearly so forward as this. The cowslip appears to be coming next to it. Its buds are quite yellowish and half an inch, almost, in diameter. The alder scales do not even appear relaxed yet. This year, at least, the cabbage is the first flower; and perhaps it is always earlier than I have thought, if you seek it in a favorable place.

The springy soil in which it grows melts the snows early, and if, beside, it is under the south side of a hill in an open oozy alder swamp in a recess sheltered from cold Winds like this, it may commonly be the first flower.  

It will take you half a lifetime to find out where to look for the earliest flower. I have hitherto found my earliest at Clamshell, a much more exposed place. Look for some narrow meadowy bay, running north into a hill and protected by the hill-on the north and partly on the east and west. At the head of this meadow, where many springs ooze out from under the hill and saturate all the ground, dissolving the snow early in the spring, in the midst, or on the edge, of a narrow open alder swamp, there look for the earliest skunk-cabbage and cowslip, where some little black rills are seen to meander or heard to tinkle in the middle of the coldest winter. There appear the great spear-heads of the skunk-cabbage, yellow and red or uniform mahogany-color, ample hoods sheltering their purple spadixes. 

The plaited buds of the hellebore are four or five inches high. There are beds of fresh green moss in the midst of the shallow water. What is that coarse sedge-like grass, rather broadly triangularish, two inches high in the water? This and the cress have been eaten, probably by the rabbits, whose droppings are abundant. I see where they have gnawed and chipped off the willow osiers. Common grass is quite green. 

Here, where I come for the earliest flowers, I might also come for the earliest birds. They seek the same warmth and vegetation. And so probably with quadrupeds,—rabbits, skunks, mice, etc. I hear now, as I stand over the first skunk-cabbage, the notes of the first red-wings, like the squeaking of a sign, over amid the maples yonder. 

Robins are peeping and flitting about. Am surprised to hear one sing regularly their morning strain, seven or eight rods off, yet so low and smothered with its ventriloquism that you would say it was half a mile off. It seems to be wooing its mate, that sits within a foot of it. 

There are many holes in the surface of the bare, springy ground amid the rills, made by the skunks or mice, and now their edges are bristling with feather like frostwork, as if they were the breathing-holes or nostrils of the earth. 

That grass which had grown five inches on the 30th is apparently the cut-grass of the meadows. The withered blades which are drooping about the tufts are two feet long. I break the solid snow-bank with my feet and raise its edge, and find the stiff but tender yellow shoots beneath it. They seem not to have pierced it, but are prostrate beneath it. They have actually grown beneath it, but not directly up into it to any extent; rather flattened out beneath it.

Cross Fair Haven Pond to Lee’s Cliff. 

The crow foot and saxifrage seem remarkably backward; no growth as yet. But the catnip has grown even six inches, and perfumes the hillside when bruised. The columbine, with its purple leaves, has grown five inches, and one is flower-budded, apparently nearer to flower than anything there. Turritis stricta very forward, four inches high.

It is evident that it depends on the character of the season whether this flower or that is the most forward; whether there is more or less snow or cold or rain, etc. 

I am tempted to stretch myself on the bare ground above the Cliff, to feel its warmth in my back, and smell the earth and the dry leaves. 

I see and hear flies and bees about. A large buff-edged butterfly flutters by along the edge of the Cliff, — Vanessa antiopa. Though so little of the earth is bared, this frail creature has been warmed to life again. 

Here is the broken shell of one of those large white snails (Helix albolabris) on the top of the Cliff. It is like a horn with ample mouth wound on itself. I am rejoiced to find anything so pretty. I cannot but think it nobler, as it is rarer, to appreciate some beauty than to feel much sympathy with misfortune. The Powers are kinder to me when they permit me to enjoy this beauty than if they were to express any amount of compassion for me. I could never excuse them that. 

A woodchuck has been out under the Cliff, and patted the sand, cleared out the entrance to his burrow.

Muskrat-houses have been very scarce indeed the past winter. If they were not killed off, I cannot but think that their instinct foresaw that the river would not rise. The river has been at summer level through the winter up to April! 

I returned down the middle of the river to near the Hubbard Bridge without seeing any opening. 

Some of the earliest plants are now not started because covered with snow, as the stellaria and shepherd’s purse. Others, like the Cares Pennsylvanica, the crowfoot, saxifrage, callitriche, are either covered or recently uncovered. I think it must be partly owing to the want of rain, and not wholly to the snow, that the first three are so backward. 

The white maples and hazels and, for the most part, the alders still stand in snow; yet those alders on the bare place by the skunk-cabbage, above named, appear to be no more forward! 

Maybe trees, rising so high, are more affected by cold winds than herbaceous plants.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 2, 1856

It will take you half a lifetime to find out where to look for the earliest flower. . . .It is evident that it depends on the character of the season whether this flower or that is the most forward; whether there is more or less snow or cold or rain, etc. See February 28, 1857 ("It takes several years' faithful search to learn where to look for the earliest flowers. “); March 18, 1860 ("skunk-cabbage, now generally and abundantly in bloom all along under Clamshell . . .There is but one flower in bloom in the town, and this insect knows where to find it. You little think that it knows the locality of early flowers better than you. ") April 4, 1856 ("I find many sound cabbages shedding their pollen under Clamshell Hill. . . . This is simply the earliest flower such a season as this, i. e. when the ground continues covered with snow till very late in the spring. "); April 7, 1855 ("At six this morn to Clamshell. The skunk-cabbage open yesterday, — the earliest flower this season.");  April 8, 1855 (“As to which are the earliest flowers, it depends on the character of the season, and ground bare or not, meadows wet or dry, etc., etc., also on the variety of soils and localities within your reach.”) April 10, 1855 ("These few earliest flowers  . . .are remote and unobserved and often surrounded with snow, and most have not begun to think of flowers yet.");April 17, 1855 ("So quickly and surely does a bee find the earliest flower, as if he had slumbered all winter at the root of the plant. No matter what pains you take, probably —undoubtedly—an insect will have found the first flower before you.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Earliest Flower

I am tempted to stretch myself on the bare ground . . . and smell the earth and the dry leaves. . . . See March 4, 1854 ("I begin to sniff the air and smell the ground”); March 18,1853 ("To-day first I smelled the earth.”); May 4, 1859 ("I draw near to the land; I begin to lie down and stretch myself on it. After my winter voyage I begin to smell the land.”); May 16, 1852 ("The whole earth is fragrant as a bouquet held to your nose.”)


I hear now, as I stand over the first skunk-cabbage, the notes of the first red-wings, like the squeaking of a sign, over amid the maples yonder. See ; March 29, 1857 ("I hear that sign-squeaking blackbird, and, looking up, see half a dozen on the top of the elm at the foot of Whiting’s lot. . .on the whole I think them grackles (?). Possibly those I heard on the 18th were the same ?? Does the red-wing ever make a noise like a rusty sign?"); April 3, 1856 ("Hear also squeaking notes of an advancing flock of redwings [or grackles, am uncertain which makes that squeak]") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Red-wing in Spring 


Robins are peeping and flitting about. Am surprised to hear one sing regularly their morning strain.  See April 2, 1852 ("The air is full of the notes of birds, - song sparrows, red-wings, robins (singing a strain) "); April 2, 1854("I heard something which reminded me of the song of the robin in rainy days in past springs. ") See also   March 18, 1858 (“The robin does not come singing, but utters a somewhat anxious or inquisitive peep at first.”); March 20, 1858 (“Now first I hear a very short robin's song.”); March 31, 1852 (“The robins sing at the very earliest dawn. I wake with their note ringing in my ear.”); April 1, 1854 ("The robin now begins to sing sweet powerfully. . . .”); April 1, 1857 (“Already I hear a robin or two singing their evening song.”);  See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Robins in Spring

Muskrat-houses have been very scarce indeed the past winter. See April 1, 1860 ("The river was lowest for March yesterday, . . . so low that the mouths of the musquash-burrows in the banks are exposed with the piles of shells before them.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Musquash

A Book of the Seasons April 1.

April 1. 

Good solid winter.
Intense cold, deep lasting snows;
clear, tense winter sky.
April 1, 1852 

The star-studded sky,
water reflecting the stars.
The dark land between.
April 1, 1853 

Warm and showery
April begins like itself,
a burst of melody.
April 1, 1854

Warm rain on the roof
puddles shining in the road,
April comes in true.
April 1, 1855

The snow is so deep

we are confined to the roads

or the river still.

April 1, 1856

True April evening,
A robin or two singing
and it looks like rain.
April 1, 1857

How to see a hawk  

distant in the sky once you

turn your eyes away?

April 1, 1858

Pre-VEE, the phoebe
sings with emphasis as it
sits over the water.
April 1, 1859

The first hylodes now

heard by chance, but no doubt they

have been heard some time.

April 1, 1860

Sentences, statements,

opinions. affirmations —

fruit a thinker bears.

 April 1, 1860

April 1, 2018

I hear a robin singing in the woods south of Hosmer's, just before sunset. It is a sound associated with New England village life. It brings to my thoughts summer evenings when the children are playing in the yards before the doors and their parents conversing at the open windows. It foretells all this now, before those summer hours are come. April 1, 1852

As I come over the Turnpike, the song sparrow's jingle comes up from every part of the meadow, as native as the tinkling rills or the blossoms of the spirea, the meadow-sweet, soon to spring. Its cheep is like the sound of opening buds. The sparrow is continually singing on the alders along the brook-side, while the sun is continually setting. April 1, 1852

Saw the fox-colored sparrows and slate-colored snowbirds on Smith's Hill, the latter singing in the sun, — a pleasant jingle. April 1, 1852

Saw the first bee of the season on the railroad causeway, also a small red butterfly and, later, a large dark one with buff-edged wings . . . We have had a good solid winter, which has put the previous summer far behind us; intense cold, deep and lasting snows, and clear, tense winter sky. It is a good experience to have gone through with. April 1, 1852

There will be no moon till toward morning. There are but three elements in the landscape now, -- the star-studded sky, the water, reflecting the stars and the lingering daylight, and the dark narrow land between. A slight mist is rising from the surface of the water. April 1, 1853


The robin now begins to sing sweet powerfully. April 1, 1854

The birds sing this warm, showery day after a fortnight's cold with a universal burst and flood of melody. The tree sparrows, hyemalis, and song sparrows are particularly lively and musical in the yard this rainy and truly April day. The air rings with them. April 1, 1854

The month comes in true to its reputation. We wake, though late, to hear the sound of a strong, steady, and rather warm rain on the roof, and see the puddles shining in the road. April 1, 1855



At the first Conantum Cliff I am surprised to see how much the columbine leaves have grown in a sheltered cleft; also the cinquefoil, dandelion, yarrow, sorrel, saxifrage, etc., etc. They seem to improve the least warmer ray to advance themselves, and they hold all they get. April 1, 1855

On some roads you walk in a path recently shovelled out, with upright walls of snow three or four feet high on each side and a foot of snow beneath you. The drifts on the east side of the depot, which have lain there a great part of the winter, still reach up to the top of the first pane of glass. But, generally speaking . . . the snow is so deep, that we are confined to the roads or the river still. April 1, 1856


Hear a phoebe, and this morning ... It is a true April evening, feeling and looking as if it would rain, and already I hear a robin or two singing their evening song. April 1, 1857


See wood turtles coupled on their edges at the bottom, where the stream has turned them up. April 1, 1858

I see six Sternothaerus odoratus in the river thus early. Two are fairly out sunning. One has crawled up a willow. It is evident, then, that they may be earlier in other places or towns than I had supposed, where they are not concealed by such freshets as we have. I took up and smelt of five of these, and they emitted none of their peculiar scent! It would seem, then, that this may be connected with their breeding, or at least with their period of greatest activity. They are quite sluggish now. April 1, 1858

I observed night before last, as often before, when geese were passing over in the twilight quite near, though the whole heavens were still light and I knew which way to look by the honking, I could not distinguish them. It takes but a little obscurity to hide a. bird in the air. How difficult, even in broadest daylight, to discover again a hawk at a distance in the sky when you have once turned your eyes away! April 1, 1858


At the Pokelogan up the Assabet, I see my first phcebe, the mild bird. It flirts its tail and sings pre vit, pre vit, pre vit, pre vit incessantly, as it sits over the water, and then at last, rising on the last syllable, says pre-vEE, as if insisting on that with peculiar emphasis. April 1, 1859


I hear the first hylodes by chance, but no doubt they have been heard some time. April 1, 1860

As we paddle up the Assabet we hear the wood turtles -- the first I have noticed — and painted turtles rustling down the bank into the water, and see where they have travelled over the sand and the mud. This and the previous two days have brought them out in numbers . . . Also see the sternothærus on the bottom. April 1, 1860


The fruit a thinker bears is sentences, - statements or opinions. He seeks to affirm something as true. I am surprised that my affirmations or utterances come to me ready-made, - not fore-thought, - so that I occasionally awake in the night simply to let fall ripe a statement which I had never consciously considered before, and as surprising and novel and agreeable to me as anything can be. As if we only thought by sympathy with the universal mind, which thought while we were asleep. There is such a necessity to make a definite statement that our minds at length do it without our consciousness. April 1, 1860

*****

 A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Buff-edged butterfly

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Small Red Butterfly

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The first frogs to begin calling

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Musk Turtle (Sternothaerus odoratus )

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Painted Turtle (Emys picta);

 A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Wood Turtle (Emys insculpta)

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Robins in Spring

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Song Sparrow 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Fox-colored Sparrow.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Dark-eyed Junco (Fringilla hyemalis)

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Eastern Phoebe

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, at the Leaning Hemlocks.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, White Maple Buds and Flowers

 

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

The sleighing lasts till April.

April 1.

P. M. — Down railroad, measuring snow, and to Fair Haven Hill.

How rapidly the snow has melted on the east side of the railroad causeway.  The east side of railroad is a peculiarly sheltered place and hence bare, while the earth generally is covered. It has melted at about the same rate west of railroad and in Trillium Woods since the 19th. We have had none since March 20th, and that was very moist and soon melted.

It is a question'whether it is better sleighing or wheeling now, taking all our roads together. At any rate we may say the sleighing lasted till April. 

In some places it still fills the roads level with the walls, and bears me up still in the middle of the day. It grows more and more solid, apparently freezing at night quite through.

William Wheeler (of the Corner road) tells me that he was surprised to find that it would bear his oxen where three or four feet deep behind his house. 

On some roads you walk in a path recently shovelled out, with upright walls of snow three or four feet high on each side and a foot of snow beneath you. 

The drifts on the east side of the depot, which have lain there a great part of the winter, still reach up to the top of the first pane of glass.

But, generally speaking, we slump so much, especially in the woods, except in the morning, and the snow is so deep, that we are confined to the roads or the river still. Choppers cannot work in the woods yet, and teams cannot get in for wood yet.

This old snow is solid and icy and wastes very slowly. It seems to be gradually turning to ice. I observe that, while the snow has melted unevenly in waves and ridges, there is a transparent icy glaze about one sixteenth of an inch thick but as full of holes as a riddle, spread like gauze level over all, resting on the prominent parts of the snow, leaving hollows beneath from one inch to six or more inches in depth. I often see the spiders running underneath this. 

This is the surface, which has melted and formed an icy crust, and, being transparent, it has transmitted the heat to the snow beneath and has outlasted that. This crashes and rattles under your feet.

The bare places now are the steep south and west, or southwest, sides of hills and cliffs, and also next to woods and houses on the same sides, the bridges and brows of hills and slighter ridges and prominences in the fields, low open ground protected from the northwest wind, under trees, etc.

Going by the path to the Springs, I find great beds of oak leaves, sometimes a foot thick, very dry and crisp and filling the path, or one side of it, in the woods for a quarter of a mile, inviting one to lie down. 

They have absorbed the heat and settled, like the single one seen yesterday, in mass a foot or more, making a path to that depth. Yet when they are unusually thick they preserve the snow beneath and are found to cover an almost icy mound.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 1, 1856