Down Boston Road around Quail Hill

January 16.

P. M. — Down Boston road around Quail Hill
Very warm, — 45° at 2 p. m. 

There is a tender crust on the snow, and the sun is brightly reflected from it.

Looking toward Billerica from the cross-road near White's, the young oaks on the top of a hill in the horizon are very red, perhaps seven or eight miles off and directly opposite to the sun, far more red, no doubt, than they would appear near at hand, really bright red; but nowhere else that I perceive. It is an aerial effect, depending on their distance and elevation and being opposite to the sun, and also contrasted with the snowy ground. 

Looking from Smith's Hill on the Turnpike, the hills eight or ten miles west are white, but the mountains thirty miles off are blue, though both may be equally white at the same distance.

I see a flock of tree sparrows busily picking something from the surface of the snow amid some bushes. I watch one attentively, and find that it is feeding on the very fine brown chaffy-looking seed of the panicled andromeda.

This shrub grows unobserved by most, known only to botanists, and at length matures its hard, dry seed vessels, which, if noticed, are hardly supposed to contain seed. But there is no shrub nor weed which is not known to some bird.

Though you may have never noticed this shrub, the tree sparrow comes from the north in the winter straight to it, and confidently shakes its panicle, and then feasts on the fine shower of seed that falls from it. The bird understands how to get its dinner perfectly.

H.D. Thoreau, Journal, January 16, 1860


Looking from Smith's Hill on the Turnpike, the hills eight or ten miles west are white, but the mountains thirty miles off are blue, See September 24, 1851 ("You see distinctly eight or ten miles the russet earth and even houses, and then its outline is distinctly traced against the further blue mountains, thirty or thirty-five miles distant."); April 1, 1852 ("The mountains, which an hour ago were white, are now all blue, the mistiness has increased so much in the horizon")

The young oaks on the top of a hill in the horizon are very red, perhaps seven or eight miles off and directly opposite to the sun. See  March 23, 1859 ("The dense birches. . . reflect deep, strong purple and violet colors from the distant hillsides opposite to the sun."); ;April 3, 1853 ("Looking up the river yesterday, in a direction opposite to the sun, not long before it set, the water was of a rich, dark blue — while looking at it in a direction diagonal to this, i. e. northeast, it was nearly slate-colored..");April 5, 1856 ("We overlook the bright-blue flood alternating with fields of ice (we being on the same side with the sun)"); April 9, 1859 ("Standing low and more opposite to the sun, then all these dark-blue ripples are all sparkles too bright to look at.");  November 17, 1859 (“How fair and memorable this prospect when you stand opposite to the sun, these November afternoons, and look over the red andromeda swamp”).  November 20, 1858 ("As I returned over Conantum summit yesterday, just before sunset, . . . I was surprised to see a broad halo travelling with me and always opposite the sun to me, at least a quarter of a mile off and some three rods wide, on the shrub oaks")

Looking from Smith's Hill on the Turnpike. See August 5, 1852 ("From Smith's Hill beyond, there is as good a view of the mountains as from any place in our neighborhood,"); April 1, 1852 ("The mountains, which an hour ago were white, are now all blue, the mistiness has increased so much in the horizon") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, On Smith's Hill and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Mountains in the Horizon

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I see a flock of tree sparrows busily picking some thing from the surface of the snow amid some bushes. I watch one attentively, and find that it is feeding on the very fine brown chaffy-looking seed of the panicled andromeda. It understands how to get its dinner, to make the plant give down, perfectly

 It flies up and alights on one of the dense brown panicles of the hard berries, and gives it a vigorous shaking and beating with its claws and bill, sending down a shower of the fine chaffy-looking seed on to the snow beneath. It lies very distinct, though fine almost as dust, on the spotless snow. It then hops down and briskly picks up from the snow what it wants. 

How very clean and agreeable to the imagination, and withal abundant, is this kind of food! How delicately they fare! These dry persistent seed-vessels hold their crusts of bread until shaken. The snow is the white table-cloth on which they fall. No anchorite with his water and his crust fares more simply. It shakes down a hundred times as much as it wants at each shrub, and shakes the same or another cluster after each successive snow. How bountifully Nature feeds them! 

No wonder they come to spend the winter with us, and are at ease with regard to their food. These shrubs ripen an abundant crop of seeds to supply the wants of these immigrants from the far north which annually come to spend the winter with us. How neatly and simply it feeds!

This shrub grows unobserved by most, only known to botanists, and at length matures its hard, dry seed-vessels, which, if noticed, are hardly supposed to contain seed. But there is no shrub nor weed which is not known to some bird. Though you may have never noticed it, the tree sparrow comes from the north in the winter straight to this shrub, and confidently shakes its panicle, and then feasts on the fine shower of seeds that falls from it.

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

January 16  See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  January 16

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

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