The year is but a succession of days,
and I see that I could assign some office to each day
which, summed up, would be the history of the year.
Henry Thoreau, August 24, 1852
Cold evergreens now
wear a summer aspect and
shelter winter birds.
In the afternoon
in the midst of the new snow –
snowbirds in garden.
Chickadees flit close
and peck naively at the
nearest twig to you.
Winter horizon –
Silvery needles of pines
straining the light.
December 3, 2016
The common running evergreen
(Lycopodium, I think it is called)
December 3, 1853
The first snow of consequence fell in the evening, very damp (wind northeast); five or six inches deep in morning, after very high wind in the night. December 3, 1854
A pleasant day. No snow yet (since that first whitening which lasted so long), nor do I see any ice to speak of. December 3, 1855
A deliciously mild afternoon, though the ground is covered with snow. The cocks crowed this morning as of yore. December 3, 1858
Suddenly quite cold, and freezes in the house. December 3, 1859
Saw two tree sparrows on Monroe's larch by the waterside . . . busily and very adroitly picking the seeds out of the larch cones . . . uttering from time to time a faint, tinkling chip. December 3, 1853
Snowbirds in garden in the midst of the snow in the afternoon. December 3, 1854
Hear and see, of birds, only a tree sparrow in the willows on the Turnpike. December 3, 1855
The fields and woods seem now particularly empty and bare. No cattle in pasture; only here and there a man carting or spreading manure. December 3, 1855
Hear and see, of birds, only a tree sparrow in the willows on the Turnpike. December 3, 1855
The fields and woods seem now particularly empty and bare. No cattle in pasture; only here and there a man carting or spreading manure. December 3, 1855
Fewer weeds now rise above the snow. Pinweed (or sarothra) is quite concealed. December 3, 1856
The ranunculus is still a fresh bright green at the bottom of the river. December 3, 1853
I see along the sides of the river, two to four inches above the surface but all at one level, clear, drop shaped crystals of ice, . . . the remains of a thin sheet of ice, which melted as the river went down. December 3, 1853
I see along the sides of the river, two to four inches above the surface but all at one level, clear, drop shaped crystals of ice, . . . the remains of a thin sheet of ice, which melted as the river went down. December 3, 1853
In a ditch near by, under ice half an inch thick, I saw a painted tortoise moving about. December 3, 1853
At J. Hosmer's tub spring, I dug out a small bull frog (?) in the sandy mud at the bottom of the tub — it was lively enough to hop — and brought it home. December 3, 1853
At J. Hosmer's tub spring, I dug out a small bull frog (?) in the sandy mud at the bottom of the tub — it was lively enough to hop — and brought it home. December 3, 1853
Probably they lie universally buried in the mud now, below the reach of frost. December 3, 1853
The frogs then are especially to be looked for in the mud about springs. December 3, 1853
The frogs then are especially to be looked for in the mud about springs. December 3, 1853
I see that muskrats have not only erected cabins, but, since the river rose, have in some places dug galleries a rod into the bank. December 3, 1853
The muskrats' cabins are an ornament to the river. December 3, 1852
Six weeks ago I noticed the advent of chickadees and their winter habits. As you walk along a wood-side, a restless little flock of them, whose notes you hear at a distance, will seem to say, "Oh, there he goes! Let's pay our respects to him." And they will flit after and close to you, and naively peck at the nearest twig to you, as if they were minding their own business all the while without any reference to you. December 3, 1856
Only the cold evergreens wear the aspect of summer now and shelter the winter birds. December 3, 1853
Look at the trees, bare or rustling with sere brown leaves, except the evergreens, their buds dormant at the foot of the leaf-stalks. December 3, 1853
Look at the fields, russet and withered, and the various sedges and weeds with dry bleached culms. December 3, 1853
Such is our relation to nature at present; such plants are we. We have no more sap nor verdure nor color now. December 3, 1853
I walk with unbuttoned coat, taking in the influences of the hour. December 3, 1858
Now there is a genial, soft air, and in the west many clouds of purplish dove color. . . . Coming through the pitch pines east of the Shanty Field, I see the sun through the pines very yellow and warm-looking, and every twig of the pines and every weed is lit with yellow light (not silvery) . . . Now (when I get to the causeway) all the west is suffused with an extremely rich, warm purple or rose-color, while the edges of what were dove-colored clouds have a warm saffron glow, finally deepening to rose or damask when the sun has set. . . . December 3, 1858
The other night the few cloudy islets about [the] setting sun (where it had set) were glitteringly bright afar through the cold air. . . . There was no reddening of the clouds after sunset, no afterglow, but the glittering clouds were almost immediately snapped up in the crisped air. December 3, 1858
The pine forest's edge seen against the winter horizon. . . .Where was the sap, the fruit, the value of the forest for me, but in that line where it was relieved against the sky? That was my wood-lot; that was my lot in the woods. The silvery needles of the pine straining the light. December 3, 1856
I remember how cheerful it has been formerly to sit around a fire outdoors amid the snow, and, while I felt some cold, to feel some warmth also, and see the fire gradually increasing and prevailing over damp, steaming and dripping logs and making a warm hearth for me. December 3, 1853
Even in winter we maintain a temperate cheer and a serene inward life, not destitute of warmth and melody. December 3, 1853
December 3,2020
*****
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The White Pines
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, St. Johns-wort (Hypericum)
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Painted Turtle (Emys picta)
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Musquash
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 Chickadee in Winter
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, First Snow
*****
December 3, 2016
If you make the least correctobservation of nature this year,you will have occasion to repeat itwith illustrations the next,and the season and life itself is prolonged.A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, December 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 © 2009-2023
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