The history of hawkweed

August 21.

Bigelow, speaking of the spikes of the blue vervain (Verbena hastata), says, “The flowering commences at their base and is long in reaching their summit.” I perceive that only one circle of buds, about half a dozen, blossoms at a time, -- and there are about thirty circles in the space of three inches -- while the next circle of buds above at the same time shows the blue. Thus this triumphant blossoming circle travels upward, driving the remaining buds off into space. I think it was the 16th of July when I first noticed them (on another plant), and now they are all within about half an inch of the top of the spikes. Yet the blossoms have got no nearer the top on long spikes, which had many buds, than on short ones only an inch long. Perhaps the blossoming commenced enough earlier on the long ones to make up for the difference in length. 

It is very pleasant to measure the progress of the season by this and similar clocks. So you get, not the absolute time, but the true time of the season.


The prevailing conspicuous flowers at present are:

•  The early goldenrods,
•  tansy,
•  the life-everlastings,
•  flea bane (though not for its flower),
•  yarrow (rather dry),
•  hardhack and meadow-sweet (both getting dry, also mayweed),
•  Eupatorium purpureum,
•  scabish,
•  clethra (really a fine, sweet-scented, and this year particularly fair and fresh, flower, some unexpanded buds at top tinged with red),
•  Rhexia Virginica,
•  thoroughwort,
•  Polygala sanguinea,
•  prunella, and dog’s-bane (getting stale), etc., etc.

Touch-me-not (less observed), Canada snap dragon by roadside (not conspicuous).

The purple gerardia now, horsemint, or Mentha borealis, Veronica scutellata (marsh speedwell), Ranunculus acris (tall crow foot) still.

Mowing to some extent improves the landscape to the eye of the walker. The aftermath, so fresh and green, begins now to recall the spring to my mind. In some fields fresh clover heads appear.

There is some advantage, intellectually and spiritually, in taking wide views with the bodily eye and not pursuing an occupation which holds the body prone. There is some advantage, perhaps, in attending to the general features of the landscape over studying the particular plants and animals which inhabit it. 

A man may walk abroad and no more see the sky than if he walked under a shed. The poet is more in the air than the naturalist, though they may walk side by side. Granted that you are out-of-doors; but what if the outer door is open, if the inner door is shut! 

You must walk sometimes perfectly free, not prying nor inquisitive, not bent upon seeing things. Throw away a whole day for a single expansion, a single inspiration of air.

It is remarkable that animals are often obviously, manifestly, related to the plants which they feed upon or live among, - as caterpillars, butterflies, tree-toads, partridges, chewinks, - and this afternoon I noticed a yellow spider on a goldenrod; as if every condition might have its expression in some form of animated being.

Spear-leaved goldenrod in path to northeast of Flint's Pond.

Hieracium paniculatum, a very delicate and slender hawkweed. 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.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 21, 1851

There is some advantage, perhaps, in attending to the general features of the landscape over studying the particular plants and animals which inhabit it. See March 5, 1852 ("The habit of looking at things microscopically, as the lichens on the trees and rocks, really prevents my seeing aught else in a walk")

A man may walk abroad and no more see the sky than if he walked under a shed. See September 13, 1859 ("There are various degrees of living out-of-doors. You must be outdoors long, early and late, and travel far and earnestly, in order to perceive the phenomena of the day. Even then much will escape you. Few live so far outdoors as to hear the first geese go over.")

You must walk sometimes perfectly free, not prying nor inquisitive, not bent upon seeing things. See August 5, 1851 ("The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”); November 18 1851 ("The chopper who works in the woods all day is more open in some respects to the impressions they are fitted to make than the naturalist who goes to see them. He really forgets himself, forgets to observe, and at night he dreams of the swamp, its phenomena and events. Not so the naturalist; enough of his unconscious life does not pass there. A man can hardly be said to be there if he knows that he is there, or to go there if he knows where he is going. The man who is bent upon his work is frequently in the best attitude to observe what is irrelevant to his work."); March 23, 1853 ("Man cannot afford to be a naturalist, to look at Nature directly, but only with the side of his eye"); June 14, 1853 (" that favorable frame of mind described by De Quincey, open to great impressions, and you see those rare sights with the unconscious side of the eye, which you could not see by a direct gaze before.”); September 13, 1852 ("I must walk more with free senses. I must let my senses wander as my thoughts, my eyes see without looking. Carlyle said that how to observe was to look, but I say that it is rather to see, and the more you look the less you will observe. Be not preoccupied with looking. Go not to the object; let it come to you. What I need is not to look at all, but a true sauntering of the eye.")

It is remarkable that animals are often obviously, manifestly, related to the plants which they feed upon or live among. . . See August 22, 1852 ("Perhaps fruits are colored like the trillium berry and the scarlet thorn to attract birds to them.")

The aftermath, so fresh and green, begins now to recall the spring to my mind. See  July 24, 1852 ("There is a short, fresh green on the shorn fields, the aftermath. When the first crop of grass is off, and the aftermath springs, the year has passed its culmination."); July 24, 1860 ("Many a field where the grass has been cut shows now a fresh and very lit-up light green as you look toward the sun."); July 28, 1852 ("There is a yellowish light now from a low, tufted, yellowish, broad-leaved grass, in fields that have been mown."); August 4, 1853 ("The low fields which have been mown now look very green again in consequence of the rain, as if it were a second spring.) August 7, 1852 ("At this season we have gentle rain-storms, making the aftermath green . . . as if it were a second spring ."); August 10, 1854 ("As I go along the railroad, I observe the darker green of early-mown fields. "); August 17, 1858 ("The aftermath on early mown fields is a very beautiful green. ")