A twilight sound in the night of the year.

December 19

In all woods is heard now far and near the sound of the woodchopper's axe, a twilight sound, now in the night of the year, men having come out for fuel to the forests, as if men had stolen forth in the arctic night to get fuel to keep their fires a-going.

Men go to the woods now for fuel who never go other time.

Why should it be so pleasing to look into a thick pine wood where the sunlight streams in and gilds it?

The sound of the axes far in the horizon sounds like the dropping of the eaves. 

Now the sun sets suddenly without a cloud – & with scarcely any redness following so pure is the atmosphere – only a faint rosy blush along the horizon.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 19, 1851

In all woods is heard now far and near the sound of the woodchopper's axe. See  December 9, 1856 ("I hear only the strokes of a lingering woodchopper at a distance, and the melodious hooting of an owl."); December 15, 1856 (“The last strokes of the woodchopper, who presently bends his steps homeward”);  December 20, 1854 ("The woodchoppers are making haste to their work far off, walking fast to keep warm, before the sun has risen, their ears and hands well covered, the dry, cold snow squeaking under their feet."); January 8, 1852 ("Even as early as 3 o'clock these winter afternoons the axes in the woods sound like nightfall, like the sound of a twilight labor."); January 9, 1855 ("This winter I hear the axe in almost every wood of any consequence left standing in the township."); January 21, 1852 ("This winter they are cutting down our woods more seriously than ever. . . Thank God, they cannot cut down the clouds!"); February 17, 1852 ("The shortness of the days, when we naturally look to the heavens and make the most of the little light, when we live an arctic life, when the woodchopper's axe reminds us of twilight at 3 o'clock p. m., when the morning and the evening literally make the whole day"); March 11, 1852 (The woods I walked in in my youth are cut off. Is it not time that I ceased to sing?").

Why should it be so pleasing to look into a thick pine wood where the sunlight streams in and gilds it? See December 3, 1856   ("The pine forest's edge seen against the winter horizon . . .The silvery needles of the pine straining the light.");  December 21, 1851 ("Sunlight on pine-needles is the phenomenon of a winter day.")

So pure is the atmosphere, only a faint rosy blush along the horizon. See December 21, 1851 ("Long after the sun has set . . . some rosy clouds will be seen in the upper sky over the portals of the darkening west."); December 24, 1851 (“When I had got home and chanced to look out the window from supper, I perceived that all the west horizon was glowing with a rosy border.”); December 25, 1851 (“I go forth to see the sun set. Who knows how it will set, even half an hour beforehand?”); January 5, 1853 ("A fine rosy sky in the west after sunset; and later an amber-colored horizon.")

December 19. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  December 19

Suddenly sunset,

horizon without a cloud –

a faint rosy blush.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, A twilight sound in the night of the year.

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

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