When I awake this morning I hear the almost forgotten sound of rain on the roof.
Looking out, I see the air full of fog, and that the snow has gone off wonderfully during the night. The drifts have settled and the patches of bare ground extended themselves, and the river is fast spreading over the meadows.
The pattering of the rain is a soothing, slumberous sound, which tempts me to lie late, yet there is more fog than rain.
Here, then, at last, is the end of the sleighing, which began the 25th of December. Not including that date and to-day it has lasted ninety-nine days. I hear that young Demond of the Factory will have come into town one hundred times in his sleigh the past winter, if he comes to-day, having come probably only once in a day.
P. M. — To Hunt’s Bridge.
It is surprising how the earth on bare south banks begins to show some greenness in its russet cheeks in this rain and fog, -- a precious emerald-green tinge, almost like a green mildew, the growth of the night, -- a green blush suffusing her cheek, heralded by twittering birds.
How encouraging to perceive again that faint tinge of green, spreading amid the russet on earth’s cheeks! I revive with Nature; her victory is mine. This is my jewelry.
It rains very little, but a dense fog, fifteen or twenty feet high, rests on the earth all day, spiriting away the snow, —behind which the cockerels crow and a few birds sing or twitter.
The osiers look bright and fresh in the rain and fog, like the grass. Close at hand they are seen to be beaded with drops from the fog. There seems to be a little life in the bark now, and it strips somewhat more freely than in winter. What a lusty growth have these yellow osiers! Six feet is common the last year, chiefly from the summit of the pollards, —but also from the sides of the trunk,—filling a quadrant densely with their yellow rays.
The white maple buds on the south side of some trees have slightly opened, so that I can peep into their cavities and detect the stamens. They will probably come next to the skunk-cabbage this year, if the cowslip does not.
April 3, 2015
Yet the trees stand in the midst of the old snow.
I see small flocks of robins running on the bared portions of the meadow. Hear the sprayey tinkle of the song sparrow along the hedges.
Hear also squeaking notes of an advancing flock of redwings [or grackles, am uncertain which makes that squeak] somewhere high in the sky. At length detect them high overhead, advancing northeast in loose array, with a broad extended front, competing with each other, winging their way to some northern meadow which they remember.
Coming home along the causeway, a robin sings (though faintly) as in May.
The road is a path, here and there shovelled through drifts which are considerably higher than a man’s head on each side.
The river is now generally and rapidly breaking up. It is surprising what progress has been made since yesterday. It is now generally open about the town.
It has gradually worn and melted away at the bends, where it is shallow and swift, and now small pieces are breaking off around the edges and floating down these reaches.
It is not generally floated off, but dissolved and melted where it is, for the open reaches gradually extend themselves till they meet, and there is no space or escape for floating ice in any quantity, until the ice is all gone from the channel.
I think that what I have seen floating in former years is commonly such as had risen up afterward from the bottom of flooded meadows. Sometimes, however, you observe great masses of floating ice, consisting of that which is later to break up, the thicker and more lasting ice from broad bays or between bridges.
There is now an open water passage on each side of the broad field of ice in the bay above the railroad.
The water, which is rapidly rising, has overflowed the icy snow on the meadows, which is seen a couple of feet beneath it, for there is no true ice there. It is this rising of the water that breaks up the ice more than anything.
The Mill Brook has risen much higher comparatively than the river.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 3, 1856
When I awake this morning I hear the almost forgotten sound of rain on the roof. See April 1, 1855 ("The month comes in true to its reputation. We wake, though late, to hear the sound of a strong, steady, and rather warm rain on the roof, and see the puddles shining in the road.")
The osiers look bright and fresh in the rain and fog . . . What a lusty growth have these yellow osiers! See March 2, 1860 ("Notice the brightness of a row of osiers this morning. This phenomenon, whether referable to a change in the condition of the twig or to the spring air and light, or even to our imaginations, is not the less a real phenomenon, affecting us annually at this season."); March 16, 1856 ("There is, at any rate, such a phenomenon as the willows shining in the spring sun, however it is to be accounted for.");April 4, 1859 ("The osier bark now, as usual, looks very yellow when wet"); April 27, 1854 (" I am at length convinced of the increased freshness (green or yellow) of the willow bark in the spring. Some a clear yellow, others a delightful liquid green. "); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Osier in Winter and early Spring
I revive with Nature; her victory is mine. See January 9, 1853 ("May I lead my life the following year as innocently! May it be as fair and smell as sweet! I anticipate nature. It will go forth in April, this vestal now cherishing her fire, to be married to the sun. How innocent are Nature's purposes!")
Hear also squeaking notes of an advancing flock of redwings [or grackles, am uncertain which makes that squeak] See April 2, 1856 ("I hear now, as I stand over the first skunk-cabbage, the notes of the first red-wings, like the squeaking of a sign, over amid the maples yonder."); April 27, 1856 ("From close by I hear a red-wing’s clear, loud whistle, — not squeak (which I think may be confined to the grackle)."); March 29, 1857 ("I hear that sign-squeaking blackbird, and, looking up, see half a dozen on the top of the elm at the foot of Whiting’s lot . . . on the whole I think them grackles (?) . . . Does the red-wing ever make a noise like a rusty sign?"); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Red-wing in Spring
The white maple buds . . . will probably come next to the skunk-cabbage this year, if the cowslip does not. See April 2, 1856 ("It will take you half a lifetime to find out where to look for the earliest flower"); April 2, 1856 ("The cowslip appears to be coming next to [the skunk cabbage]. Its buds are quite yellowish and half an inch, almost, in diameter. "); April 4, 1856 ("I find many sound cabbages shedding their pollen under Clamshell Hill . . . This is simply the earliest flower such a season as this, i. e. when the ground continues covered with snow till very late in the spring."); April 8, 1856 ("I find two cowslips in full bloom, shedding pollen; and they may have opened two or three days ago; for I saw many conspicuous buds here on the 2d which now I do not see . . . What an arctic voyage was this in which I find cowslips, the pond and river still frozen over for the most part "); April 9, 1856 ("White maples also, the sunny sides of clusters and sunny sides of trees in favorable localities, shed pollen to-day.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, White Maple Buds and Flowers; A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Cowslip in Early Spring; and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of Spring: the Skunk Cabbage
Coming home along the causeway, a robin sings (though faintly) as in May. See April 1, 1854 ("The robin now begins to sing sweet powerfully.") April 2, 1856 ("Robins are peeping and flitting about. Am surprised to hear one sing regularly their morning strain"); April 1, 1857("A true April evening, feeling and looking as if it would rain, and already I hear a robin or two singing their evening song."); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Robins in Spring
April 3. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, April 3
White maple trees stand
in the midst of the old snow,
buds slightly opened.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, White maple buds slightly opened
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 © 2009-2026
https://tinyurl.com/hdt-560403
* * *
Relaxing on a rock in the upper moss trial, looking at the horizon and the trees, i do not see the Red pine in front of me. I notice and am puzzled for a moment then take it to be a deformed White pine -- but do not see it as a Red pine until Jane remarks and i go down to look at the bark. Obvious red pine.
And then suddenly all around are previously unseen signs: needles, cones seedlings that i have walked right by. I remember distinctly seeing White pine when looking at the seedlings in the trail while Jane was inspecting the wintergreen .
Going back up to the original view of the tree’s crown, it is now obviously and forever a Red pine.
I did not apprehend what I did not expect. I did not have the idea of the red pine, because it did not connect to my experience of these woods.
As HDT says, one never learns something one does not already half-know. One can never know or see — even the obvious--- what one does not somehow expect. January 5, 1860 ("A man receives only what he is ready to receive. His observations make a chain. He does not observe the phenomenon that cannot be linked with the rest which he has observed, however novel and remarkable it may be. A man tracks himself through life, apprehending only what he already half knows.”); November 4, 1858 ("We cannot see any thing until we are possessed with the idea of it, and then we can hardly see anything else. In my botanical rambles I find that first the idea, or image, of a plant occupies my thoughts, though it may at first seem very foreign to this locality, and for some weeks or months I go thinking of it and expecting it unconsciously, and at length I surely see it, and it is henceforth an actual neighbor of mine. This is the history of my finding a score or more of rare plants which I could name.”; August 22, 1860 ("I never find a remarkable Indian relic but I have first divined its existence, and planned the discovery of it. Frequently I have told myself distinctly what it was to be before I found it. “)
So the question is, how did Jane see the red pine?
I did not apprehend what I did not expect. I did not have the idea of the red pine, because it did not connect to my experience of these woods.
As HDT says, one never learns something one does not already half-know. One can never know or see — even the obvious--- what one does not somehow expect. January 5, 1860 ("A man receives only what he is ready to receive. His observations make a chain. He does not observe the phenomenon that cannot be linked with the rest which he has observed, however novel and remarkable it may be. A man tracks himself through life, apprehending only what he already half knows.”); November 4, 1858 ("We cannot see any thing until we are possessed with the idea of it, and then we can hardly see anything else. In my botanical rambles I find that first the idea, or image, of a plant occupies my thoughts, though it may at first seem very foreign to this locality, and for some weeks or months I go thinking of it and expecting it unconsciously, and at length I surely see it, and it is henceforth an actual neighbor of mine. This is the history of my finding a score or more of rare plants which I could name.”; August 22, 1860 ("I never find a remarkable Indian relic but I have first divined its existence, and planned the discovery of it. Frequently I have told myself distinctly what it was to be before I found it. “)
So the question is, how did Jane see the red pine?
April 3, 2016
Postscript. Later we go back up the moss trial and find this is not a lone Red pine, but there are several others nearby on this south facing ridge.
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