December 19, 2021
Yesterday I tracked a partridge in the new- fallen snow, till I came to where she took to flight, and I could track her no further.
I see where the snowbirds have picked the seeds of the Roman wormwood and other weeds and have covered the snow with the shells and husks.
The smilax berries are as plump as ever.
The catkins of the alders are as tender and fresh-looking as ripe mulberries.
The dried choke-cherries so abundant in the swamp are now quite sweet.
The witch-hazel is covered with fruit and drops over gracefully like a willow, the yellow foundation of its flowers still remaining.
I find the sweet-gale (Myrica) by the river also.
The wild apples are frozen as hard as stones, and rattle in my pockets, but I find that they soon thaw when I get to my chamber and yield a sweet cider. I am astonished that the animals make no more use of them.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 19, 1850
I find the sweet-gale (Myrica) by the river also. See December 14, 1850 ("I find a low, branching shrub frozen into the edge of the ice, with a fine spicy scent . . .. When I rub the dry-looking fruit in my hands, it feels greasy and stains them a permanent yellow, which I cannot wash out. It lasts several days, and my fingers smell medicinal. I conclude that it is sweetgale, and we name the island Myrica Island.")
The dried choke-cherries so abundant in the swamp are now quite sweet. Compare August 5, 1856 ("Choke-cherries near House-leek Rock begin to be ripe, though still red. They are scarcely edible, but their beauty atones for it. See those handsome racemes of ten or twelve cherries each, dark glossy red, semi- transparent. You love them not the less because they are not quite palatable.")
The wild apples are frozen as hard as stones, and rattle in my pockets. See November 11, 1853 ("Apples are frozen on the trees and rattle like stones in my pocket."); December 18, 1859 ("Apples are thawed now and are very good. Their juice is the best kind of bottled cider that I know. They are all good in this state, and your jaws are the cider-press.")
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