A Book of the Seasons: November 29 (first snow, Withered oak leaves, yellow light, november sunsets)

 

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

November 29. 

Yellow sunlight falls

 on all the eastern landscape –

light all from one side.

November 29, 1853

November 29, 2021  

suddenly a glorious yellow sunlight falls on leafless trees

It has been a remarkably pleasant November, warmer and pleasanter than last year. November 29, 1856

These have been the mildest and pleasantest days since November came in. November 29, 1853

It is a clear and pleasant winter day. November 29, 1858

It would be worth the while to watch some water while freezing. November 29, 1853

The snow which fell the 23d whitened the ground but a day or two. November 29, 1853

Begins to snow this morning and snows slowly and interruptedly with a little fine hail all day till it is several inches deep. November 29, 1856

This the first snow I have seen, but they say the ground was whitened for a short time some weeks ago. November 29, 1856

About three inches of snow fell last evening November 29, 1858

How bright and light the day now! Methinks it is as good as half an hour added to the day. November 29, 1858

White houses no longer stand out and stare in the landscape. November 29, 1858

The pine woods snowed up look more like the bare oak woods with their gray boughs. November 29, 1858

The river meadows show now far off a dull straw-color or pale brown amid the general white, where the coarse sedge rises above the snow; and distant oak woods are now more distinctly reddish. November 29, 1858

The snow has taken all the November out of the sky. November 29, 1858

Now blue shadows, green rivers, — both which I see, — and still winter life. November 29, 1858

I see partridge and mice tracks and fox tracks, and crows sit silent on a bare oak-top. November 29, 1858

I see a living shrike caught to-day in the barn of the Middlesex House. November 29, 1858

Again I am struck by the singularly wholesome colors of the withered oak leaves, especially the shrub oak, so thick and firm and unworn, without speck or fret, clear reddish-brown (sometimes paler or yellowish brown), its whitish under sides contrasting with it in a very cheerful manner. November 29, 1857

So strong and cheerful, as if it rejoiced at the advent of winter, and exclaimed, “Winter, come on!” 

It exhibits the fashionable colors of the winter on the two sides of its leaves. November 29, 1857

It sets the fashions, colors good for bare ground or for snow, grateful to the eyes of rabbits and partridges. November 29, 1857

This is the extent of its gaudiness, red brown and misty white, and yet it is gay. November 29, 1857

Again I am struck

by the wholesome colors of

the withered oak leaves.

Contrasting red-brown

misty-white on the two sides

of the shrub oak leaves.

So strong and cheerful

as if it rejoiced at the

advent of winter.

November 29, 1857

The colors of the brightest flowers are not more agreeable to my eye. November 29, 1857

Then there is the now rich, dark brown of the black oak’s large and somewhat curled leaf on sprouts, with its lighter, almost yellowish, brown under side. November 29, 1857

Then the salmonish hue of white oak leaves, with the under sides less distinctly lighter. November 29, 1857

The trees and shrubs look larger than usual when seen through the mist, perhaps because, though near, yet being in the visible horizon and there being nothing beyond to compare them with, we naturally magnify them, supposing them further off. November 29, 1850

The pines standing in the ocean of mist, seen from the Cliffs, are trees in every stage of transition from the actual to the imaginary. November 29, 1850

The near are more distinct, the distant more faint, till at last they are a mere shadowy cone in the distance. November 29, 1850

As you advance, the trees gradually come out of the mist and take form before your eyes. November 29, 1850

You are reminded of your dreams. Life looks like a dream. You are prepared to see visions. November 29, 1850

Saw quite a flock of snow buntings not yet very white. November 29, 1859

They rose from the midst of a stubble-field unexpectedly. November 29, 1859

The moment they settled after wheeling around, they were perfectly concealed, though quite near, and I could only hear their rippling note from the earth from time to time. November 29, 1859 

Snow buntings rise from

the midst of a stubble-field

unexpectedly.

November 29, 1859 

And now, just before sundown, the night wind blows up more mist through the valley, thickening the veil which already hangs over the trees, and the gloom of night gathers early and rapidly around. November 29, 1850

Birds lose their way. November 29, 1850

About 4 o'clock, the sun sank below some clouds, or they rose above it, and it shone out with that bright, calm, memorable light which I have elsewhere described. November 29, 1852

It has been cloudy and milder this afternoon, but now I begin to see, under the clouds in the west horizon, a clear crescent of yellowish sky, and suddenly a glorious yellow sunlight falls on all the eastern landscape - - russet fields and hillsides, evergreens and rustling oaks and single leafless trees. November 29, 1853

The softness of the sunlight on the russet landscape, the smooth russet grassy fields and meadows, was very soothing, the sun now getting low in a November day. November 29, 1852

In addition to the clearness of the air at this season, the light is all from one side, and, none being absorbed or dissipated in the heavens, but it being reflected both from the russet earth and the clouds, it is intensely bright. November 29, 1853

And all the limbs of a maple seen far eastward rising over a hill are wonderfully distinct and lit. November 29, 1853

The stems and twigs of the maples, etc., looking down the river, were beautifully distinct November 29, 1852

I think that we have some such sunsets as this, and peculiar to the season, every year. November 29, 1853

I should call it the russet afterglow of the year. November 29, 1853

*****

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Fox

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the American Crow

 A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Snow Bunting

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, November Sunsets

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Shrub Oak

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The White Pines 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, November days 

*****

April 22, 1852 ("The mist to-day makes those near distances which Gilpin tells of.")

June 12, 1852 ("Nature has put no large object on the face of New England so glaringly white as a white house.") 

June 24, 1852 ("I have not heard that white clouds, like white houses, made any one's eyes ache.")

August 4, 1854 ("Rain and mist contract our horizon and we notice near and small objects."

September 20, 1857 ("The outlines of trees are more conspicuous and interesting such a day as this, being seen distinctly against the near misty background, – distinct and dark.")

October 25, 1858  ("How should we do without this variety of oak leaves, — the forms and colors?")
November 7, 1858 ("Their soft rippling notes as they went off reminded me [of] the northeast snow-storms to which ere long they are to be an accompaniment.")

November 7, 1855 ("The view is contracted by the misty rain . . . I am compelled to look at near objects.")

November 8, 1853 (“Our first snow,. . . The children greet it with a shout when they come out at recess”)

November 9, 1858 (“ We had a true November sunset after a dark, cloudy afternoon. The sun reached a clear stratum just before setting, beneath the dark cloud, though ready to enter another on the horizon’s edge, and a cold, yellow sunlight suddenly illumined the withered grass of the fields around, near and far, eastward. Such a phenomenon as, when it occurs later, I call the afterglow of the year.")

November 10, 1858 ("Dark-blue or slate-colored clouds in the west, and the sun going down in them. All the light of November may be called an afterglow.")

November 11, 1858 (“Here, in the sun in the shelter of the wood, the smooth shallow water, with the stubble standing in it, is waiting for ice. . . . The sight of such water now reminds me of ice as much as water.”)

November 12, 1859 ("The first sprinkling of snow, which for a short time whitens the ground in spots.”)
November 13, 1851 ("The cattle-train came down last night from Vermont with snow nearly a foot thick upon it. . . .So it snows. Such, some years, may be our first snow.”)
November 13, 1858 (“We looked out the window at 9 P. M. and saw the ground for the most part white with the first sugaring, which at first we could hardly tell from a mild moonlight, — only there was no moon. Thus it comes stealthily in the night and changes the whole aspect of the ea

November 13, 1858 (“Thus it comes stealthily in the night and changes the whole aspect of the earth.”)

November 14, 1853 ("The clear, white, leafless twilight of November, and whatever more glowing sunset or Indian summer we have then is the afterglow of the year.”);

November 15, 1854 ("The first snow, a mere sugaring which went off the next morning.")
November 17, 1855 ("Just after dark the first snow is falling, after a chilly afternoon with cold gray clouds, when my hands were uncomfortably cold.”)
November 18, 1855 ("About an inch of snow fell last night, but the ground was not at all frozen or prepared for it. A little greener grass and stubble here and there seems to burn its way through it this forenoon.")

November 22, 1851 ("The light of the setting sun, just emerged from a cloud and suddenly falling on and lighting up the needles of the white pine. . . .After a cold gray day this cheering light almost warms us by its resemblance to fire."); 

November 23, 1851 ("Another such a sunset to-night as the last.")

November 23, 1852 ("There is something genial even in the first snow, and Nature seems to relent a little of her November harshness.”)
November 24, 1860 ("Though a slight touch, this was the first wintry scene of the season. The rabbits in the swamps enjoy it, as well as you.”)

November 25, 1853 ("The white houses of the village, also, are remarkably distinct and bare and brought very near.")

November 25, 1851 ("That kind of sunset which I witnessed on Saturday and Sunday is perhaps peculiar to the late autumn. The sun is unseen behind a hill. Only this bright white light like a fire falls on the trembling needles of the pine.")

November 26, 1850 ("An inch of snow on ground this morning, our first.")

November 28, 1858 ("In half an hour the russet earth is painted white even to the horizon. Do we know of any other so silent and sudden a change?")

November 28, 1859 ("We make a good deal of the early twilights of these November days, they make so large a part of the afternoon.”)

November 30, 1852 ("I think that this peculiar sparkle without redness, a cold glitter, is peculiar to this season.")

November 30, 1853 ("Though there were some clouds in the west, there was a bright silver twilight before we reached our boat. . . The river was perfectly smooth . . . and as we paddled home westward, the dusky yellowing sky was all reflected in it, together with the dun-colored clouds and the trees, and there was more light in the water than in the sky")

November 30, 1856 ("Sophia, describing the first slight whitening of snow a few weeks ago, said that when she awoke she noticed a certain bluish-white reflection on the wall and, looking out, saw the ground whitened with snow.")

December 1. 1856 ("The shrub oak, lowly, loving the earth and spreading over it, tough, thick-leaved; leaves firm and sound in winter and rustling like leather shields; leaves fair and wholesome to the eye, clean and smooth to the touch. Tough to support the snow, not broken down by it.")

December 3, 1854 ("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 4, 1859 ("Awake to winter, and snow two or three inches deep, the first of any consequence.")
December 4, 1860 ("The first snow, four or five inches, this evening."); This evening and night,

December 8, 1850 (“The ground is now covered, - our first snow, two inches deep. . . . I am struck by this sudden solitude and remoteness that these places have acquired. The dear privacy and retirement and solitude which winter makes possible! This evening for the first time the new moon is reflected from the frozen snow-crust.”)

December 16, 1855 ("The mist makes the near trees dark and noticeable")

December 22, 1860 ("the second important snow, there having been sleighing since the 4th, and now ")

December 23, 1851 (“Now the sun has quite disappeared, but the afterglow, as I may call it, apparently the reflection from the cloud beyond which the sun went down on the thick atmosphere of the horizon, is unusually bright and lasting. Long, broken clouds in the horizon, in the dun atmosphere, — as if the fires of day were still smoking there, — hang with red and golden edging like the saddle cloths of the steeds of the sun. ”)
December 26,1853 (“This forenoon it snows pretty hard for some hours, the first snow of any consequence thus far. It is about three inches deep.”)
December 26, 1857 ("Snows all day, — first snow of any consequence, three or four inches in all.”)

January 2, 1854 ("A flock of snow buntings flew over the fields with a rippling whistle, accompanied sometimes by a tender peep and a ricochet motion.")

January 6, 1856 ("While I am making a path to the pump, I hear hurried rippling notes of birds, look up, and see quite a flock of snow buntings coming to alight amid the currant-tops in the yard. It is a sound almost as if made with their wings.”);
January 6, 1859 (“They made notes when they went,—sharp, rippling, like a vibrating spring.”)

January 11, 1855 ("the air so thick with snowflakes . . .Single pines stand out distinctly against it in the near horizon")

January 13, 1853 ("A drifting snow-storm last night and to day, the first of consequence; and the first sleighing this winter.")
January 21, 1857 (“Beside their rippling note, they have a vibratory twitter”). 

January 26, 1855 ("What changes in the aspect of the earth!")
February 6, 1852 ("Mistiness makes the woods look denser, darker, and more imposing." )

February 7, 1856 ("During the rain the air is thick, the distant woods bluish, and the single trees on the hill, under the dull mist-covered sky, remarkably distinct and black.")

March 3, 1859 ("I heard a faint rippling note and, looking up, saw about fifteen snow buntings sitting in the top of the oak.”)

November 29, 2021

If you make the least correct

observation of nature this year,

 you will have occasion to repeat it

 with illustrations the next, 

and the season and life itself is prolonged.

  April 7, 1853 

 November 28 <<<<<<<<  November 29 >>>>>>>> November 30

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, November 29

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 ©  2009-2022