To Pine Hill

November 30.

To Pine Hill. 

The buds of the Populus tremuloides show their down as in early spring, and the early willows. Wood- choppers have commenced some time since. This is another pleasant day.

Overlooking Walden Pond toward
Waschusett, from Pine Hill
April 28, 1906

From Pine Hill, Wachusett is seen over Walden. The country seems to slope up from the west end of Walden to the mountain. 

Already, a little after 4 o'clock, the sparkling windows and vanes of the village, seen under and against the faintly purple-tinged, slate-colored mountains, remind me of  a village in  a mountainous country at twilight, where early lights appear. I think that this peculiar sparkle without redness, a cold glitter, is peculiar to this season.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 30, 1852

From Pine Hill, Wachusett is seen over Walden. See November 30, 1858 ("Coming over the side of Fair Haven Hill at sunset, we saw a large, long, dusky cloud in the northwest horizon, apparently just this side of Wachusett, or at least twenty miles off, which was snowing,")

Wachusett from Fair Haven Hill, August 2, 1852

August 25, 1853 ("Looking up the valley of the Mill Brook. . I was surprised to see the whole outline and greater part of the base of Wachusett, though you stand in a low meadow."); December 27, 1853 ("Wachusett looks like a right whale over our bow, plowing the continent, with his flukes well down");  October 19, 1856 ("I return by the west side of Lee's Cliff hill, and sit on a rounded rock there, covered with fresh-fallen pine-needles, amid the woods, whence I see Wachusett."); See also September 12, 1851("It is worth the while to see the mountains in the horizon once a day."); March 31, 1853 ("It is affecting to see a distant mountain-top,. . . still as blue and ethereal to your eyes as is your memory of it.'); August 14, 1854(“I have come forth to this hill at sunset to see the forms of the mountains in the horizon.");October 22, 1857 (“But what a perfect crescent of mountains we have in our northwest horizon! Do we ever give thanks for it? ”); November 4, 1857 (Those grand and glorious mountains, how impossible to remember daily that they are there, and to live accordingly! They are meant to be a perpetual reminder to us, pointing out the way."); May 17, 1858 ("I doubt if in the landscape there can be anything finer than a distant mountain-range. They are a constant elevating influence.")

The sparkling windows and vanes of the village. See November 4, 1857 (“I climb Pine Hill just as the sun is setting, this cool evening. . . .I see one glistening reflection on the dusky and leafy northwestern earth, seven or eight miles off, betraying a window there, though no house can be seen. It twinkles incessantly, as from a waving surface.”);  

I find acorns which have sent a shoot down into the earth this fall.

November 27. 

Almost an Indian-summer day. 

The shrub oaks and the sprouts make woods you can look down on. They are now our rustling gardens.  

I find acorns which have sent a shoot down into the earth this fall.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 27, 1852

The shrub oaks . . . are now our rustling gardens. See December 1, 1856 (“I love and could embrace the shrub oak with its scanty garment of leaves rising above the snow, lowly whispering to me, akin to winter thoughts, and sunsets, and to all virtue. ”)

I find acorns which have sent a shoot down into the earth this fall. See   October 7, 1860 ("I see one small but spreading white oak full of acorns just falling and ready to fall. . . . Some that have fallen have already split and sprouted.”);  October 17,1857 (“Glossy-brown white oak acorns strew the ground thickly, many of them sprouted. How soon they have sprouted!”); and note to  November 24, 1860 ("Under the two white oaks by the second wall south east of my house, on the east side the wall, I am surprised to find a great many sound acorns still, though everyone is sprouted, . . . each with its radicle two inches long penetrated into the earth"); See also April 19, 1856 (“I notice acorns sprouted.”); April 29, 1852 ("The acorns among the leaves are sprouted, the shells open and the blushing (red) meat exposed at the sprout end, where the sprout is already turning toward the earth.”); May 12, 1859 ("My red oak acorns have sent down long radicles underground.”) May 29, 1859 ("Coming out of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery today, where I had just been to deposit the corpse of a man, I pick up an oak tree three inches high with the acorn attached.");

 

First Snow

November 23. 

This morning the ground is white with snow, and it still snows. The beauty and purity of new-fallen snow, lying just as it fell, on the twigs and leaves all the country over. 

You must go forth early to see the snow on the twigs. Now, a few hours later, the twigs and leaves are all bare, and the snow half melted on the ground.   Sportsmen have already been out with their dogs, improving this first snow to track their game. 

Having descended the Cliff, I go along to the Andromeda Ponds. 

The air is full of low, heavy mist, almost rain. The pines, in this atmosphere and contrasted with the snow, are suddenly many degrees darker, and the oaks redder. 

The andromeda a warm reddish brown with an edging of yellowish sedge or coarse grass about the swamp, and red rustling shrub oak hills with a white ground rising around.

The mist so low is clouds close to the ground, and the steam of the engine hugs the earth in the Cut, concealing all objects for a great distance.

I am surprised to see Fair Haven entirely skimmed over.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 23, 1852

There is something genial even in the first snow, and Nature seems to relent a little of her November harshness. November 24, 1860 ("Though a slight touch, this was the first wintry scene of the season. The rabbits in the swamps enjoy it, as well as you.”)

The pines, in this atmosphere and contrasted with the snow, are suddenly many degrees darker . . . See November 29, 1850 (" The pines standing in the ocean of mist, seen from the Cliffs, are trees in every stage of transition from the actual to the imaginary. As you advance, the trees gradually come out of the mist and take form before your eyes")

Fair Haven entirely skimmed over. See November 18, 1858 (“Am surprised to see Fair Haven Pond completely frozen over during the last four days. It will probably open again. Thus, while all the channel elsewhere is open and a mere edging of ice amid the weeds is seen, this great expansion is completely bridged over, thus early.”); November 21, 1852 ("I am surprised this afternoon to find . . . Fair Haven Pond one-third frozen or skimmed over, though commonly there is scarcely any ice to be observed along the shores."); December 5, 1853 (" Fair Haven Pond is skimmed completely over."); December 7, 1856 (" Take my first skate to Fair Haven Pond”

Nov. 23. This morning the ground is white with snow, and it still snows. This is the first time it has been fairly white this season, though once before, many weeks ago, it was slightly whitened for ten or fifteen minutes. It was so warm and still last night at sundown that I remarked to a neighbor that it was moderating to snow. It is, in some degree, also, warmer after the first snow has come and banked up the houses and filled the crevices in the roof. Already the landscape impresses me with a greater sense of fertility. I have not worn gloves yet, though it has been finger-cold. 

There is something genial even in the first snow, and Nature seems to relent a little of her November harshness. Men, too, are disposed to give thanks for the bounties of the year all over the land, and the sound of the mortar is heard in all houses, and the odor of summer savory reaches even to poets' garrets. 

This, then, may be considered the end of the flower season for this year, though this snow will probably soon melt again. Among the flowers which may be put down as lasting thus far, as I remember, in the order of their hardiness: yarrow, tansy (these very fresh and common),  cerastium, autumnal dandelion, dandelion, and perhaps tall buttercup, etc., the last four scarce. The following seen within a fortnight: a late three-ribbed goldenrod of some kind, blue-stemmed goldenrod (these two perhaps within a week), Potentilla argentea, Aster undulatus, Ranunculus repens, Bidens connata, shepherd's-purse, etc., etc. N. B.: I have not looked for witch-hazel nor Stellaria media lately. 

I had a thought in a dream 'last night which surprised me by its strangeness, as if it were based on an experience in a previous state of existence, and could not be entertained by my waking self. Both the thought and the language were equally novel to me, but I at once perceived it to be true and to coincide with my experience in this state. 

3 p. m. — To Cliffs and Walden. You must go forth early to see the snow on the twigs. The twigs and leaves are all bare now, and the snow half melted on the ground; where the trees are thick it has not reached the ground at all, except in the shape of water in the course of the day. But early this morning the woods presented a very different scene. The beauty and purity of new-fallen snow, lying just as it fell, on the twigs and leaves all the country over, afforded endless delight to the walker. It was a delicate and fairylike scene. But a few hours later the woods were comparatively lumpish and dirty. So, too, you must go forth very early to see a hoar frost, which is rare here; these crisped curls adorn only the forehead of the snow, are suddenly many degrees darker, and the oaks redder. But still the tops of the dead grass rise above the snow in the fields, and give the country a yellow or russet look. The wetter meadows are quite russet. 

I am surprised to see Fair Haven entirely skimmed over. 

Having descended the Cliff, I go along to the Andromeda Ponds. Sportsmen have already been out with their dogs, improving this first snow to track their game. The andromeda looks somewhat redder than before, a warm reddish brown, with an edging of yellowish sedge or coarse grass about the swamp, and red rustling shrub oak hills with a white ground rising around. These swamps, resorted to by the muskrat and ducks, most remind me of the Indian. 

The mist so low is clouds close to the ground, and the steam of the engine also hugs the earth in the Cut, concealing all objects for a great distance. 

Though the parents cannot determine whether the child shall be male or female, yet, methinks, it depends on them whether he shall be a worthy addition to the human family.

Signs of Winter

November 21.

I am surprised this afternoon to find the river skimmed over in some places, and Fair Haven Pond one-third frozen or skimmed over, though commonly there is scarcely any ice to be observed along the shores.

The commonest bird I see and hear nowadays is that little red crowned or fronted bird I described the 13th. I hear now more music from them. They have a mewing note which reminds me of a canary-bird. They make very good forerunners of winter. Is it not the ruby crowned wren?*

*Lesser Redpoll

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 21, 1852


I am surprised this afternoon to find the river skimmed over. . . .See November 23, 1850 ("If I am surprised to find ice on the sides of the brooks, I am much more surprised to find a pond in the woods, containing an acre or more, quite frozen over so that I walk across it. It is in a cold corner, where a pine wood excludes the sun."); November 23, 1852 ("I am surprised to see Fair Haven entirely skimmed over."); November 30. 1855 ("River skimmed over behind Dodd’s and elsewhere. Got in my boat. River remained iced over all day.")


That little red crowned or fronted bird . . . forerunners of winter. See December 11, 1855 ("Standing there, though in this bare November landscape, I am reminded of the incredible phenomenon of small birds in winter. ... The age of miracles is each moment thus returned. Now it is wild apples, now river reflections, now a flock of lesser redpolls.")

Vermont white pine

November 18.

Measured a stick of round timber, probably white pine, on the cars this afternoon, -- ninety-five feet long, nine and ten-twelfths in circumference at butt, and six and two-twelfths in circumference at small end, quite straight. From Vermont. 

Yarrow and tansy still. These are cold, gray days.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 18, 1852

white pine, on the cars. . , From Vermont. .See September 10, 1856 ("those masts I had seen go through Concord from Canada West . . .were rafted along Lake Erie . . . with steamers . . . and in small rafts by canal to Albany, and thence by railroad via Rutland to Portland, for the navy”).  See also May 8, 1852 ("Saw a load of rock maples on a car from the country. . . They must have been brought from the northern part of Vermont, where is winter still.”)  

Yarrow and tansy still. See November 18, 1855 ("Tansy still shows its yellow disks, but yarrow is particularly fresh and perfect, cold and chaste, with its pretty little dry-looking rounded white petals and green leaves.")

To Andromeda Ponds.

November 13.

Andromeda is a dull reddish brown, like oak leaves. 

Yellow redpoll warbler

Saw a flock of little passenger birds by Walden, busily pecking at the white birch catkins; about the size of a chickadee; distinct white bar on wings, most with dark pencilled breast, some with whitish; forked tail; bright chestnut or crimson (?) frontlet; yellowish shoulders or sack. When startled, they went off with a jingling sound somewhat like emptying a bag of coin. Is it the yellow redpoll?

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 13, 1852

A jingling sound somewhat like emptying a bag of coin. Is it the yellow redpoll? See April 15, 1856 ("From amid the willows and alders along the wall there, I hear a bird sing, a-chitter chitter chitter chitter chitter chitter, che che che che, with increasing intensity and rapidity, and the yellow redpoll hops in sight."); April 23, 1856 ("Hear the yellow redpoll sing on the maples below Dove Rock, —a peculiar though not very interesting strain, or jingle.”); September 19, 1854 ("Did I see a returned yellow redpoll fly by?”).

A narrow white cloud resting on every mountain

November 12.

It clears up. A very bright rainbow. Three reds and greens, in the southeast, heightening the green of the pines. 

From Fair Haven Hill, I see a very distant, long, low dark-blue cloud in the northwest horizon beyond the mountains, and against this I see, apparently, a narrow white cloud resting on every mountain and conforming exactly to its outline — as if the white frilled edge of the main cloud were turned up over them. In fact, the massive dark-blue cloud beyond revealed these distinct white caps resting on the mountains this side, for twenty miles along the horizon. 

The sun having set, my long dark cloud has assumed the form of an alligator, and where the sun has just disappeared it is split into two tremendous jaws, between which glows the eternal city, its crenate lips all coppery golden, its serrate fiery teeth. Its body lies a slumbering mass along the horizon.

H. D, Thoreau, Journal, November 12, 1852

A narrow white cloud resting on every mountain and conforming exactly to its outline.  See August 9, 1860 ("A beautiful and serene object, a sort of fortunate isle in the sunset sky, the local cloud of the mountain.”) See also November 11, 1851 ("The horizon has one kind of beauty and attraction to him who has never explored the hills and mountains in it, and another . . . to him who has."); November 22, 1860 ("Simply to see to a distant horizon through a clear air, - the fine outline of a distant hill or a blue mountaintop through some new vista, - this is wealth enough for one afternoon.") and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Mountains in the Horizon

November 12. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, November 12

A narrow white cloud 

resting on every mountain

in the horizon.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, A narrow white cloud resting on every mountain

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-521112

.

This life in the present.

November 4.

Must be out-of-doors enough to get experience of wholesome reality, as a ballast to thought and sentiment. Health requires this relaxation, this aimless life.  This life in the present. 

Let a man have thought what he will of Nature in the house, she will still be novel outdoors.  I keep out-of-doors for the sake of the mineral, vegetable, and animal in me.

My thought is a part of the meaning of the world, and hence I use a part of the world as a symbol to express my thought.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 4, 1852

I keep out-of-doors for the sake of the mineral, vegetable, and animal in me. See September 13, 1859 ("You must be outdoors long, early and late, and travel far and earnestly, in order to perceive the phenomena of the day."); December 29, 1856 (“We must go out and re-ally ourselves to Nature every day. We must make root, send out some little fibre at least, even every winter day. I am sensible that I am imbibing health when I open my mouth to the wind. Staying in the house breeds a sort of insanity always.”); July 14, 1854 ("Health is a sound relation to nature.”); 

Bare gray limbs and twigs.--the month of withered oak leaves.

November 3. 

Shepherd's-purse abundant still in gardens. 

3 p.m. — To Cliffs and Andromeda Ponds. 

In the Heywood Brooks, many young pollywogs two inches long and more; also snails on the bottom. 

I find these water-bugs, large and small, not on the surface, but apparently sheltered amid the weeds, going into winter quarters. 

While collecting caddis-worms, of which there are many, whose cases are made of little pieces of weeds piled about them like well-stones, I disturbed a good-sized fish, either a pout or a sucker, near the path. It swam rapidly down this shallow stream, creating a wave which reached from side to side and betrayed it. I followed it down till it concealed itself under some frog-spittle, and when I had dislodged it thence, it went down further, till, coming to where the stream was dammed, it buried itself in the mud above the dam in an instant, and I could not dig it out. 

The landscape from Fair Haven Hill looks Novembery, bare gray limbs and twigs in the swamps; and where many young (or shrub) oaks have lost their leaves, you hear the rustling of oak and walnut leaves in the air. There is a ripple on the river from the cool northerly wind. The plants are sere. It is the month of withered oak leaves.

The shrub oak plain is all withered. 

Only one or two butter-and-eggs left. 

At Andromeda Pond, started nine black (?) ducks just at sunset, as usual they circling far round to look at me. 

The andromeda is a dull brown like the shrub oak leaves now. 

Or I was startled by the cracking of the ground in the coldest nights, which sounded as if it were my house that cracked, and in the morning I would find a crack in the earth a quarter of an inch wide and a quarter of a mile long.

The sunsets begin to be interestingly warm.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 3, 1852

The landscape from Fair Haven Hill looks Novembery . . . the month of withered oak leaves.  See October 28, 1852 ("November the month of withered leaves and bare twigs and limbs.");  November 13, 1855 ("From Fair Haven Hill the air is clear and fine-grained, and now it is a perfect russet November landscape, . . .”); November 25, 1853 ("There is first the clean light-reflecting russet earth, the dark-blue water, the dark or dingy green evergreens, the dull reddish-brown of young oaks and shrub oaks, the gray of maples and other leafless trees, and the white of birch stems. . . .”). Also It is glorious November weather.

cool northerly wind

a ripple on the river

rustle of oak leaves

Glorious November November The month of withered leaves and bare twigs and limbs. November The landscape without snow prepared for winter. November The clear, white, leafless twilight, the bright November stars. November Still we beholds the inaccessible beauty around us.