Saturday.
Very high wind in the night, shaking the house. I feel it taking hold under the eaves, which project at the end of the house, each time with a jerk. Some rain also, and these two bring down the leaves. A great many more ash trees, elms, etc., are bare now.
October 17, 2021
The trainers are out with their band of music, and I find my account in it, though I have not subscribed for it. I am walking with a hill between me and the soldiers. I think, perhaps, it will be worth the while to keep within hearing of these strains this afternoon. Yet I hesitate. I am wont to find music unprofitable; it is a luxury. It is surprising, however, that so few habitually intoxicate themselves with music, so many with alcohol. I think, perchance, I may risk it, it will whet my senses so; it will reveal a glory where none was seen before.
It is remarkable that men too must dress in bright colors and march to music once in the year. Nature, too, assumes her bright hues now, and think you a subtile music may not be heard amid the hills? No doubt these strains do sometimes suggest to Abner, walking behind in his red-streaked pants, an ideal which he had lost sight of, or never perceived. It is remarkable that our institutions can stand before music, it is so revolutionary.
P. M. — To Clintonia Swamp.
Glossy-brown white oak acorns strew the ground thickly, many of them sprouted. How soon they have sprouted! I find some quite edible, but they too, like wild apples, require an outdoor appetite. I do not admit their palatableness when I try them in the house. Is not the outdoor appetite the one to be prayed for?
The cinnamon ferns surrounding the swamp have just lost their leafets, except the terminal ones. They have acquired their November aspect, and the wool now adheres to my clothes as I go through them. The protected ones are not yet bare.
The dicksonia ferns are killed sere and brown where exposed, but in woods are still pretty green even, only some faded white. They grow in patches.
The swamp floor is covered with red maple leaves, many yellow with bright-scarlet spots or streaks. Small brooks are almost concealed by them.
The Lycopodium lucidulum looks suddenly greener amid the withered leaves.
It is cooler to-day, and a fire is necessary, which I have not had for about a week.
October 17, 2014
The mountains are more distinct in the horizon, and as I come home the sunset sky is white and cold; recently it was a warm orange (?) tint.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 17, 1857
It will reveal a glory where none was seen before. See note to January 15, 1857 ("What is there in music that it should so stir our deeps? ")
They too, like wild apples, require an outdoor appetite. See October 27, 1855 ("It is remarkable that the wild apples which I praise as so spirited and racy when eaten in the fields and woods, when brought into the house have a harsh and crabbed taste. To appreciate their wild and sharp flavors, it seems necessary that you be breathing the sharp October or November air. "); November 4, 1855 (“It takes a savage or wild taste to appreciate a wild apple.”)
The dicksonia ferns are killed sere and brown where exposed, but in woods are still pretty green even, only some faded white. See October 6, 1856 ("A great deal, a great part, of the dicksonia fern at Saw Mill is now whitened or whitening."); October 6, 1858 ("Several species of ferns are faded quite white in the swamp, — dicksonia and another, and some brakes, — for in moist woods and swamps they are preserved longer than in dry places."); October 16, 1857 ("You notice now many faded, almost white dicksonia ferns, and some brakes about as white.")
Small brooks are almost concealed by them. See note to October 17, 1856 ("Countless leafy skiffs are floating on pools and lakes and rivers and in the swamps and meadows, often concealing the water quite from foot and eye.")
The mountains are more distinct in the horizon . . .the sunset sky is white and cold. See October 13, 1852 ("The air is singularly fine-grained; the mountains are more distinct from the rest of the earth and slightly purple."); December 18, 1853 ("The western hills, these bordering it, seen through the clear, cold air, have a hard, distinct edge against the sunset sky.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Mountains in the Horizon
October 17. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, October 17
Now as I come home
the sunset sky white and cold –
the mountains distinct.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, And as I come home the sunset sky is white and cold
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
https://tinyurl.com/HDT-57oct17
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