The fruit stems of the dogwood still hold on

January 27

I have just sawed a wheel an inch and three quarters thick off the end of (apparently) a stick of red oak in my pile. I count twenty-nine rings, and about the same number of rings, or divisions of some kind, with more or less distinctness, in the bark, which is about a quarter of an inch thick. 

Is not the whole number of rings contained in the bark of all trees which have a bark externally smooth? 

This stick has two centres of growth, each a little one side of the middle. I trace one easily to a limb which was cut off close to the tree about three and a half inches above the lower side of the section. The two centres are one inch apart on the lower side, two inches and five eighths on the upper side. 

There are three complete circles to the main one on the lower side, and ten on the upper side, before they coalesce; hence it was seven years closing up through an inch and three quarters of height. 

There is a rough ridge, confined to the bark only and about a quarter of an inch  high, extending from the crotch diagonally down the tree, apparently to a point over the true centre of growth. 

P. M.—Walk on the river from the old stone to Derby’s Bridge. 

It is open a couple of rods under the stone bridge, but not a rod below it, and also for forty rods below the mouth of Loring’s Brook, along the west side, probably because this is a mill-stream. 

The only other open places within the limits mentioned yesterday are in one or two places close under the bank, and concealed by it, where warm springs issue, the river, after freezing, having shrunk and the ice settled a foot or eighteen inches there, so that you can see water over its edge. 

The white maple at Derby’s Bridge measures fifteen feet in circumference at ground, including apparently a very large sucker, and ten feet five inches, at four feet above the ground, not including sucker, there free. 

The lodging snow of January 13th, just a fortnight ago, still adheres in deep and conspicuous ridges to large exposed trees, too stubborn to be shaken by the wind, showing from which side the storm came.

The fruit stems of the dogwood still hold on, and a little fruit. 

See what I think are bass nuts on the snow on the river, at Derby’s railroad bridge, probably from up-stream.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 27, 1856

Open forty rods below the mouth of Loring’s Brook, along the west side, probably because this is a mill-stream. See January 26, 1856 ("[The river is not open], excepting the small space against Merrick’s below the Rock (now closed), since January 7th, when it closed at the Hubbard Bath, or nearly three weeks, —a long time, methinks, for it to be frozen so solidly.");  January 30, 1856 ("As I walked above the old stone bridge on the 27th, I saw where the river had recently been open under the wooded bank on the west side; and recent sawdust and shavings from the pail-factory, and also the ends of saplings and limbs of trees which had been bent down by the ice, were frozen in. In some places some water stood above the ice, and as I stood there, I saw and heard it gurgle up through a crevice and spread over the ice. This was the influence of Loring’s Brook, far above.”);  February 1, 1856 ("This has been a memorable January for snow and cold . . . The river has been closed up from end to end, with the exception of one or two insignificant openings on a few days . . . We have completely forgotten the summer. There has been no January thaw"); February 22, 1856 ([T]he river is still perfectly closed (as it has been for many weeks), both against Merrick’s and in the Assabet, excepting directly under this upper stone bridge and probably at mouth of Loring’s Brook. I am surprised that the warm weather within ten days has not caused the river to open at Merrick’s, but it was too thick to be melted); February 27, 1856 (Am surprised to see how the ice lasts on the river. It but just begins to be open for a foot or two at Merrick’s, and you see the motion of the stream. It has been tight even there (and of course everywhere else on the main stream, and on North Branch except at Loring’s Brook and under stone bridge) since January 25th…That is, we may say that the river has been frozen solidly for seven weeks.). See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Ice-Out

Bass nuts.  See April 8, 1856 ("Found beneath the surface, on the sphagnum, near wrinkled shells, a little like nutmegs, perhaps bass nuts, collected after a freshet by mice! ") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Basswood

January 27.  See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  January 27

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  The fruit stems of the dogwood still hold on

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

A Book of the Seasons: January 26

January 26.

Obey the moment,
inexorable rider,
impetus of life.
January 26, 1852

While men believe in 

the infinite some ponds will

be thought bottomless.

January 26, 1852

The wintriest scene

while the snow is yet falling

seen in perfection.

January 26, 1855

Cocks crow in the yard
and the hens cackle and scratch.
Eggs must be plenty.
January 26, 1858

Sitting in the woods

in a wam rain meditating

under umbrella.

January 26, 1858

Sitting in warm rain

I meditate in the woods

under my umbrella.

January 26, 1858

Though you walk each day,

you do not foresee the walk

you have the next day. 

January 26, 1860

January 26, 2019

The white maple buds look large, with bursting downy scales as in spring. January 26, 1856

I like to sit still under my umbrella and meditate in the woods in this warm rain. January 26, 1858



A new disposition of the clouds will make the most familiar country appear foreign. January 26, 1852

January 26, 2018

January 26, 2018

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

What you recall of a walk the second day will differ from the first. January 10, 1854

A remarkably cold, as well as snowy, January.

January 26. 

When I took the ether my consciousness amounted to this: I put my finger on myself in order to keep the place, otherwise I should never have returned to this world. 

They have cut and sawed off the butt of the great elm at nine and a half feet from the ground, and I counted the annual rings there with the greatest ease and accuracy. Indeed I never saw them so distinct on a large butt. The tree was quite sound there, not the least hollow even at the pith. 

There were one hundred and twenty—seven rings. Supposing the tree to have been five years old when nine and a half feet high, then it was one hundred and thirty-two years old, or came up in the year 1724, just before Lovewell’s Fight. 

There were two centres, fourteen inches apart. There were thirteen distinct rings about each centre, before they united and one ring inclosed both. Then there was a piece of bark,  say six or eight inches long. This was not overgrown but by the twenty—fourth ring. 

These two centres of growth corresponded in position to the two main branches six feet above, and I inferred that when the tree was about eighteen years old, the fork commenced at nine and a half feet from the ground, but as it increased in diameter, it united higher and higher up. 

I remember that the bark was considerably nearer one centre than the other. There was bark in several places completely overgrown and included on the extreme butt end where cut off, having apparently overgrown its own furrows. 

Its diameter, where I counted the rings, was, one way, as near as I could measure in spite of the carf, four feet and three inches; another, four feet and eight inches; and five feet. On the line by which I counted, which was the long way of the tree, it had grown in the first fifty years twenty inches, or two fifths of an inch a year; the last fifty, five and three quarters inches or about one ninth of an inch a year; and there was a space of about five inches between the two, or for the intermediate twenty-seven years.

At this height, it had grown on an average annually nearly twenty-four one-hundredths of an inch from the centre on one side. 

The white or sap wood averaged about two inches thick. The bark was from one to two inches thick, and in the last case I could count from twelve to fifteen distinct rings in it, as if it were regularly shed after that period. 

The court-house elm measured, at six feet from the ground on the west side, twelve feet one and one half inches in circumference. The willow by the Jim Jones house, fourteen feet at about eighteen inches from ground; thirteen feet eight inches, at about six inches from ground; and it bulged out much larger above this. 

P. M. —Walk down the river as far as the south bend behind Abner Buttrick’s. I also know its condition as far as the Hubbard Bridge in the other direction.

There is not a square foot open between these extremes, and, judging from what I know of the river beyond these limits, I may safely say that it is not open (the main stream, I mean) anywhere in the town. (Of the North Branch above the Bath Place, the goose ground, say to the stone bridge, I cannot speak confidently?) The same must have been the case yesterday, since it was colder. Probably the same has been true of the river, excepting the small Space against Merrick’s below the Rock (now closed), since January 7th, when it closed at the Hubbard Bath, or nearly three weeks, —a long time, methinks, for it to be frozen so solidly. 

A sleigh might safely be driven now from Carlisle Bridge to the Sudbury meadows on the river.

Methinks it is a remarkably cold, as well as snowy, January, for we have had good sleighing ever since the 26th of December and no thaw. 

Walk as far as Flint’s Bridge with Abel Hunt, where I take to the river. I tell him I have come to walk on the river as the best place, for the snow has drifted somewhat in the road, while it was converted into ice almost entirely on the river. 

“But,” asks he, “are you not afraid that you will get in?” 

“Oh, no, it will bear a load of wood from one end to the other.” 

"But then there may be some weak places.” 

Yet he is some seventy years old and was born and bred immediately on its banks. Truly one half the world does not know how the other half lives.  

Men have been talking now for a week at the post office about the age of the great elm, as a matter interesting but impossible to be determined. The very choppers and travellers have stood upon its prostrate trunk and speculated upon its age, as if it were a profound mystery. I stooped and read its years to them (127 at nine and a half feet), but they heard me as the wind that once sighed through its branches. They still surmised that it might be two hundred years old, but they never stooped to read the inscription. 

Truly they love darkness rather than light. One said it was probably one hundred and fifty, for he had heard somebody say that for fifty years the elm grew, for fifty it stood still, and for fifty it was dying. (Wonder what portion of his career he stood still!) 

Truly all men are not men of science. They dwell within an integument of prejudice thicker than the bark of the cork tree, but it is valuable chiefly to stop bottles with. Tied to their buoyant prejudices, they keep themselves afloat when honest swimmers sink.

The white maple buds look large, with bursting downy scales as in spring. 

I observe that the crust is strongest over meadows, though the snow is deep there and there is no ice nor water beneath, but in pastures and upland generally I break through. Probably there is more moisture to be frozen in the former places, and the snow is more compact.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 26, 1856

When I took the ether ... See May 12, 1851

A Book of the Seasons: January 25

January 25

January 25, 2024

The fine tops of trees –

I see every stem and twig

relieved against the sky.

January 25, 1852

In keeping a journal of one's walks and thoughts it seems to be worth the while to record those phenomena which are most interesting to us at the time. Such is the weather . . . affecting surely our mood and thoughts. January 25, 1860 

It may be cloudless

or there may be sailing clouds

which threaten no storm.

January 25, 1860

The cold for some weeks has been intense, as low as twenty and twenty-one degrees in the early morning. A Canadian winter. Some say that we have not had so long a spell of cold weather since '31, when they say it was not seen to thaw for six weeks. But last night and to-day the weather has moderated. It is glorious to be abroad this afternoon. The snow melts on the surface. The warmth of the sun reminds me of summer.  Januiary  25, 1852

Intense cold for weeks,

a Canadian winter –

the warmth of the sun.

Januiary 25, 1852

There is something springlike in this afternoon. In winter, after middle, we are interested in what is springlike. The earth and sun appear to have approached some degrees. The banks seem to lie in the embrace of the sun. January 25, 1853

Springlike afternoon.

Earth and sun appear to have

approached some degrees.

January 25, 1853

A very cold day. Saw a man in Worcester this morning who took a pride in never wearing gloves or mittens But this morning he had to give up. The 22d, 23d, 24th, and 25th of this month have been the coldest spell of weather this winter. Clear and cold and windy.   January 25, 1854

A very cold day.

This month the coldest spell of

weather this winter.

January 25, 1854

It is a rare day for winter, clear and bright, yet warm . . . You dispense with gloves. January 25, 1855

 Clear and bright yet warm.

 It is a rare winter day –

you dispense with gloves.

January 25, 1855

The hardest day to bear that we have had, for, beside being 5° at noon and at 4 P. M., there is a strong northwest wind. It is worse than when the thermometer was at zero all day. January 25, 1856

Hardest day to bear –

there is a strong northwest wind

and zero all day.

January 25, 1856

Still another very cold morning. Smith's thermometer over ours at -29°, ours in bulb; but about seven, ours was at -8° and Smith's at -24; ours therefore at first about -23°.   January 25, 1857

Very cold morning.

Smith's at -24;

ours -23.

January 25, 1857

A warm, moist day. Thermometer at 6.30 P.M. at 49°. January 25, 1858

The finest winter day is a cold but clear and glittering one . . . Also warm and melting days in winter are inspiring, though less  characteristic.   January 25, 1860

Characteristic

cold clear and glittering–

finest winter day.

January 25, 1860 

January 25, 2022

January 25, 2024

If you make the least correct 

observation of nature this year,

 you will have occasion to repeat it

 with illustrations the next, 

and the season and life itself is prolonged.

  April 7, 1853  

January 25

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, January 25

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

http://tinyurl.com/hdtjan25

What a stern, bleak, inhospitable aspect nature now wears!

January 25.

P. M. —Up river. 

The hardest day to bear that we have had, for, beside being 5° at noon and at 4 P. M., there is a strong northwest wind. It is worse than when the thermometer was at zero all day. 

Pierce says it is the first day that he has not been able to work outdoors in the sun. 

The snow is now very dry and powdery, and, though so hard packed, drifts somewhat. 

The travellers I meet have red faces. Their ears covered. Pity those who have not thick mittens. No man could stand it to travel far toward this wind. It stiffens the whole face, and you feel a tingling sensation in your forehead. Much worse to bear than a still cold. 

I see no life abroad, no bird nor beast. What a stern, bleak, inhospitable aspect nature now wears! (I am off Clamshell Hill.) Where a few months since was a fertilizing river reflecting the sunset, and luxuriant meadows resounding with the hum of insects, is now a uniform crusted snow, with dry powdery snow drifting over it and confounding river and meadow.

I make haste away, covering my ears, before I freeze there. The snow in the road has frozen dry, as dry as bran. 

A closed pitch pine cone gathered January 22d opened last night in my chamber. 

If you would be convinced how differently armed the squirrel is naturally for dealing with pitch pine cones, just try to get one off with your teeth. He who extracts the seeds from a single closed cone with the aid of a knife will be constrained to confess that the squirrel earns his dinner. It is a rugged customer, and will make your fingers bleed. But the squirrel has the key to this conical and spiny chest of many apartments. He sits on a post, vibrating his tail, and twirls it as a plaything. But so is a man commonly a locked-up chest to us, to open whom, unless we have the key of sympathy, will make our hearts bleed. 

The elms, they adjourn not night nor day; they pair not off. They stand for magnificence; they take the brunt of the tempest; they attract the lightning that would smite our roofs, leaving only a few rotten members scattered over the highway. The one by Holbrook’s is particularly regular and lofty for its girth, a perfect sheaf, but thin-leaved, apparently a slow grower. It bore a tavern sign for many a year. Call it the Bond (?) elm.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 25, 1856

The elms ... take the brunt of the tempest; they attract the lightning ... See June 19, 1854 ( “Suddenly comes the gust, and the big drops slanting from the north, and the birds fly as if rudderless, and the trees bow and are wrenched. It rains against the windows like hail and is blown over the roofs like steam or smoke. It runs down the large elm at Holbrook's and shatters the house near by. ”)

A Book of the Seasons: January 24.

January 24

From night into day

I look into the clear sky

with its floating clouds.

Greenish blue patches

of winter sky seen in the

west before sundown.

And now the crescent

of the moon – and farther off –

her attendant star.

January 24, 1852

January 24, 2020

Between winter and summer there is, to my mind, an immeasurable interval. January 24, 1858

It has been so cold since the rise that you can now cross the channel almost anywhere. January 24, 1859

Thermometer about 6.30 a.m. in the bulb!! . . .ours would have stood at -26° at 6.30, if the thermometer had been long enough. At 11.30 a.m. ours was -1°, at 4 p.m., +12°.  January 24, 1857

Where the mountains in the horizon are well wooded and the snow does not lodge, they still look blue. January 24, 1852

All but a narrow segment of the sky in the northwest and southeast being suddenly overcast by a passing kind of snow-squall, though no snow falls, January 24, 1852

I have not been able to find any tracks of muskrats this winter. I suspect that they very rarely venture out in winter with their wet coats.  January 24, 1856

How, then, can the musquash draw air through the ice as is asserted? He might, however, come to breathe in such a bubble as this already existing. January 24, 1859. 

I see a few fishes dart in the brooks. January 24, 1858

At Hosmer's tub spring a small frog is active! January 24, 1858

Saw a red squirrel out. January 24, 1854

A great many hemlock cones have fallen on the snow and rolled down the hill.  January 24, 1856

I see squirrel-tracks about the hemlocks. They are much like rabbits, only the toes , are very distinct. From this they pass into a semicircular figure sometimes. Some of the first are six inches from outside to outside lengthwise with one to two feet of interval. Are these the gray or red?  January 24, 1856

Higher up, against the Wheeler Swamp, I see where many squirrels —perhaps red, for the tracks appear smaller—have fed on the alder cones on the twigs which are low or frozen into the ice, stripping them to the core just as they do the pine cones.  January 24, 1856

That Wheeler swamp is a great place for squirrels. I observe many of their tracks along the riverside there. The nests are of leaves, and apparently of the gray species. January 24, 1856

I knew that a crow had that day plucked the cedar berries and barberries by Flint’s Pond and then flapped silently through the trackless air to Walden, where it dined on fisherman’s bait, though there was no living creature to tell me. January 24, 1856

Here are the tracks of a crow, like those of the 22d, with a long hind toe, nearly two inches. The two feet are also nearly two inches apart. I see where the bird alighted, descending with an impetus and breaking through the slight crust, planting its feet side by side.  January 24, 1856

How different this partridge-track, with its slight hind toe, open and wide-spread toes on each side, both feet forming one straight line.  The middle toe alternately curved to the right and to the left, and what is apparently the outer toe in each case shorter than the inner one.  January 24, 1856

I see under a great many trees, black willow and swamp white oak, the bark scattered over the snow, some pieces six inches long, and above see the hole which a woodpecker has bored.  January 24, 1856

Scare a shrike from an apple tree. He flies low over the meadow, somewhat like a woodpecker, and alights near the top twig of another apple tree. January 24, 1860

See a hawk sail over meadow and woods; not a hen-hawk; possibly a marsh hawk. January 24, 1860

At Nut Meadow Brook the small-sized water-bugs are as abundant and active as in summer. I see forty or fifty circling together in the smooth and sunny bays all along the brook. January 24, 1858

Like the water-bugs the dormant buds and catkins which overhang the brook might be waked up in midwinter, but these bugs are much the most susceptible to the genial influences.  January 24, 1858

The larger spiders generally rest on the ice with all their legs spread, but on being touched they gather them up. January 24, 1859

The droppings of a skunk left on a rock, perhaps at the beginning of winter, were full of grasshoppers' legs. January 24, 1860

I see two of those black and red-brown fuzzy caterpillars in a mullein leaf on this bare edge-hill, which could not have blown from any tree, I think. They apparently take refuge in such places. One on the railroad causeway where it is high, in the open meadow. January 24, 1858

I see an abundance of caterpillars of various kinds on the ice of the meadows, many of those large, dark, hairy, with longitudinal light stripes, somewhat like the common apple one. Many of them are frozen in yet, some for two thirds their length, yet all are alive. January 24, 1859

I also see a great many of those little brown grasshoppers and one perfectly green one, some of them frozen in, but generally on the surface, showing no signs of life; yet when I brought them home to experiment on, I found them all alive and kicking in my pocket. January 24, 1859

There were also a small kind of reddish wasp, quite lively, on the ice, and other insects; those naked, or smooth, worms or caterpillars. January 24, 1859

A grasshopper on the snow. January 24, 1860

This shows what insects have their winter quarters in the meadow-grass. This ice is a good field for an entomologist. January 24, 1859

The blue vervain stands stiffly and abundant in one place, with much rather large brown seed in it. It is in good condition.  January 24, 1860

See a large flock of lesser redpolls, eating the seeds of the birch (and perhaps alder) in Dennis Swamp by railroad. . . .They alight on the birches, then swarm on the snow beneath, busily picking up the seed in the copse. January 24, 1860

The sprouts of the canoe birch are not reddish like the white, but a yellowish brown. The small white begin to cast off their red cuticle the third or fourth year and reveal a whitish one. January 24, 1858

As I stand at the south end of J. P. B.'s moraine, I watch six tree sparrows, which come from the wood and alight and feed on the ground, which is their bare. . . . These birds, though they have bright brown and buff backs, hop about amid the little inequalities of the pasture almost unnoticed, such is their color and so humble are they. January 24, 1860

I walk along the sides of the stream, admiring the rich mulberry catkins of the alders, which look almost edible. They attract us because they have so much of spring in them. January 24, 1856

When the snow raises us one foot higher than we have been accustomed to walk, we are surprised at our elevation! So we soar. January 24, 1856

The snow is so deep along the sides of the river that I can now look into nests which I could hardly reach in the summer. . . . They have only an ice egg in them now. January 24, 1856

When clouds rise in mid afternoon, you cannot foresee what sunset picture they are preparing for us. January 24, 1852

Walden and White Ponds are a vitreous greenish blue, like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown.  January 24, 1852

I look into the clear sky with its floating clouds in the northwest as from night into day, now at 4 P.M. The sun sets about five. January 24, 1852

When the cars passed, I being on the pond ( Walden )  the sun was setting and suffusing the clouds far and near with rosy light  Even the steam from the engine  as its flocks or wreaths rose above the shadow of the woods, became a rosy cloud even fairer than the rest  but it was soon dissipated. January 24, 1852

Those Andromeda Ponds are very attractive spots to me. They are filled with a dense bed of the small andromeda, a dull red mass as commonly seen, brighter or translucent red looking toward the sun, grayish looking from it… January 24, 1855

When I come out on to the causeway, I behold a splendid picture in the west. A single elm by Hayden's stands in relief against the amber and golden, deepening into dusky but soon to be red horizon. January 24, 1852

And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night. January 24, 1852

January 24, 2020

*****

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  the Blue Vervain

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Andromeda Phenomenon

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Birches in Season

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

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Water-bug (Gyrinus)

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau. Wasps and Hornets

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Spiders on Ice

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Insects in my Path.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, insects and worms come forth 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Lesser Redpoll

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

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Winter Birds

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The  Northern Shrike

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the American Crow

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

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  the Marsh Hawk (Northern Harrier)

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

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Skunk

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Winter Colors

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, When the ice turns green

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Winter Sunsets

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Steam of the Engine

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, January  Moonlight

*****

January 24, 2020

*****

October 28, 1852 ("That star which accompanies the moon will not be her companion tomorrow.” )
December 11, 1854 ("That peculiar clear vitreous greenish sky in the west, as it were a molten gem.”)
December 14. 1851("There is a beautifully pure greenish-blue sky under the clouds now in the southwest just before sunset.")

December 18, 1855 ("A dark-colored spider of the very largest kind on ice.")

December 20, 1854 ("The sky in the eastern horizon has that same greenish-vitreous, gem-like appearance which it has at sundown")

December 23, 1851 (“I find that the evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red . . . and I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.”)

December 23, 1859 ("A little black, or else a brown, spider (sometimes quite a large one) motionless on the snow or ice.")

January 5, 1858 ("I see one of those fuzzy winter caterpillars, black at the two ends and brown-red in middle, crawling on a rock by the Hunt's Bridge causeway.")

January 6, 1854 ("Frequently see a spider apparently stiff and dead on snow.")

January 8, 1857 ("I picked up on the bare ice of the river, opposite the oak in Shattuck's land, on a small space blown bare of snow, a fuzzy caterpillar, black at the two ends and red-brown in the middle, rolled into a ball.”)

January 8, 1860 ("Hear the goldfinch notes (they may be linarias), and see a few on the top of a small black birch by the pond-shore, of course eating the seed. Thus they distinguish its fruit from afar. When I heard their note, I looked to find them on a birch, and lo, it was a black birch! [Were they not linarias? Vide Jan. 24]")

January 11, 1852 ("The glory of these afternoons, though the sky may be mostly overcast, is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset.")

January 16, 1860 ("I see a flock of tree sparrows busily picking something from the surface of the snow amid some bushes. . . . the tree sparrow comes from the north in the winter . . . The bird understands how to get its dinner perfectly.")

January 19, 1859 ("The inner toe is commonly close to the middle one. It makes a peculiar curving track (or succession of 'curves), stepping round the planted foot each time with a sweep. You would say that it toed in decidedly and walked feebly. ")
January 20, 1857 ("Heard, in the Dennis swamp by the railroad this afternoon, the peculiar goldfinch-like mew — also like some canaries — of, I think, the lesser redpoll (?). Saw several. Heard the same a week or more ago.")

January 22, 1856 ("See the track of a crow, the toes as usual less spread and the middle one making a more curved furrow in the snow than the partridge as if they moved more unstably.")
January 22, 1859 ("Perhaps the caterpillars, etc., crawl forth in sunny and warm days in midwinter when the earth is bare, and so supply the birds, and are ready to be washed away by a flow of water! I find thus a great variety of living insects now washed out. ")

January 22, 1859 ("J. Farmer tells me that he once saw a musquash rest three or four minutes under the ice with his nose against the ice in a bubble of air about an inch in diameter, and he thinks that they can draw air through the ice,")
January 23, 1852 ("And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene.")
January 23, 1857 ("The coldest day that I remember recording . . . I may safely say that -5° has been the highest temperature to-day.")

A great many hemlock

cones have fallen on the snow

and rolled down the hill. 

January 24, 1856 

January 25, 1854 ("A very cold day. . . .The 22d, 23d, 24th, and 25th of this month have been the coldest spell of weather this winter.")

January 25, 1856 ("The hardest day to bear that we have had, for, beside being 5° at noon and at 4 P. M., there is a strong northwest wind. It is worse than when the thermometer was at zero all day. ")

January 25, 1857 ("Still another very cold morning.")
January 30, 1860 ("The small water-bugs are gyrating abundantly in Nut Meadow Brook.")
February 1, 1856 ("The two inner toes are near together; the middle, more or less curved often.")

February 8, 1852 ("I now walk over fields raised a foot or more above their summer level, and the prospect is altogether new.")

February 24, 1854 "The other day I thought that I smelled a fox very strongly, and went a little further and found that it was a skunk.”)

February 24, 1857 ("I have seen the probings of skunks for a week or more. “)

February 26, 1860 ("They appear to come out commonly in the warmer weather in the latter part of February.”)
March 5, 1854("See a small blackish caterpillar on the snow. Where do they come from?")

March 8, 1855 ("I see of late more than before of the fuzzy caterpillars, both black and reddish-brown.”)

January 24, 2021

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 © 2009-2017