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
I wish to get on
to a hill to look down on
the winter landscape.
January 2, 1854
January 2, 2019
January 2, 2019
How glorious the
perfect stillness and peace of
the winter landscape!
December 31, 1854
perfect stillness and peace of
the winter landscape!
December 31, 1854
Probably the coldest morning yet, our thermometer 6° below zero at 8 A.M.; yet there is quite a mist in the air. The neighbors say it was 10° below zero at 7 A.M. January 2, 1856
8 a.m. -15° below . . . the coldest thus far. January 2, 1860
The past December has been remarkable for steady cold, or coldness, and sleighing. January 2, 1860
The ringing of the church bell is a much more melodious sound than any that is heard within the church .January 2, 1842
The bells are particularly sweet this morning. January 2, 1853
Men obey their call and go to the stove-warmed church, though God exhibits himself to the walker in a frosted bush to-day, as much as in a burning one to Moses of old. January 2, 1853
I wish to get on to a hill to look down on the winter landscape. January 2, 1854
The color of young oaks of different species is still distinct, but more faded and blended, becoming a more uniform brown. January 2, 1859
I listen to the sharp, dry rustle of the withered oak leaves. This is the voice of the wood now. January 2, 1859
It sounds like the roar of the sea, and is enlivening and inspiriting like that, suggesting how all the land is seacoast to the aerial ocean. January 2, 1859
It is the sound of the surf, the rut of an unseen ocean, billows of air breaking on the forest like water on itself or on sand and rocks. January 2, 1859
It rises and falls, wells and dies away, with agreeable alternation as the sea surf does. January 2, 1859
It is remarkable how universal these grand murmurs are, these backgrounds of sound . . . are essentially one voice, the earth-voice, the breathing or snoring of the creature. January 2, 1859
The earth is our ship, and this is the sound of the wind in her rigging as we sail. January 2, 1859
Walden begins to freeze in the coves or shallower water on the north side, where it was slightly skimmed over several weeks ago. January 2, 1853
There is the wild-looking remnant of a white pine, quite dead, rising fifteen or twenty feet, which the woodpeckers have bored; and it is still clad with sulphur lichens and many dark-colored tufts of cetraria in the forks of its branches. January 2, 1856
I listen to the sharp, dry rustle of the withered oak leaves. This is the voice of the wood now. January 2, 1859
It sounds like the roar of the sea, and is enlivening and inspiriting like that, suggesting how all the land is seacoast to the aerial ocean. January 2, 1859
It is the sound of the surf, the rut of an unseen ocean, billows of air breaking on the forest like water on itself or on sand and rocks. January 2, 1859
It rises and falls, wells and dies away, with agreeable alternation as the sea surf does. January 2, 1859
It is remarkable how universal these grand murmurs are, these backgrounds of sound . . . are essentially one voice, the earth-voice, the breathing or snoring of the creature. January 2, 1859
The earth is our ship, and this is the sound of the wind in her rigging as we sail. January 2, 1859
Walden begins to freeze in the coves or shallower water on the north side, where it was slightly skimmed over several weeks ago. January 2, 1853
There is the wild-looking remnant of a white pine, quite dead, rising fifteen or twenty feet, which the woodpeckers have bored; and it is still clad with sulphur lichens and many dark-colored tufts of cetraria in the forks of its branches. January 2, 1856
I notice on the top of the Cliffs that the extremities of the smooth sumach are generally dead and withered, while those of the staghorn, which art so downy, are alive. January 2, 1859
In the path near Goose Pond I see where the rabbits have eaten the bark of smooth sumachs and young locusts rising above the snow. January 2, 1855
There are the tracks of many rabbits, both gray and white, which have run about the edges of these swamps since this snow came, amid the alders and shrub oaks, and one white one has crossed it. January 2, 1856
A flock of snow buntings flew over the fields with a rippling whistle, accompanied sometimes by a tender peep and a ricochet motion. January 2, 1854
Crossing the railroad at the Heywood meadow, I see some snow buntings rise from the side of the embankment, and with surging, rolling flight wing their way up through the cut. January 2, 1856
Returning, I see, near the back road and railroad, a small flock of eight snow buntings feeding on the the seeds of the pigweed, picking them from the snow,-- apparently flat on the snow, their legs so short, -- and, when I approach, alighting on the rail fence. January 2, 1856
They are pretty black, with white wings and a brown crescent on their breasts. They have come with this deeper snow and colder weather. January 2, 1856
It is singular that the nuthatch and the creeper should be so rare, they are so regular. January 2, 1857
The tints of the sunset sky are never purer and ethereal than in the coldest winter days. January 2, 1854
This evening, though the colors are not brilliant, the sky is crystalline and the pale fawn-tinged clouds are very beautiful. January 2, 1854
It is singular that the nuthatch and the creeper should be so rare, they are so regular. January 2, 1857
The tints of the sunset sky are never purer and ethereal than in the coldest winter days. January 2, 1854
This evening, though the colors are not brilliant, the sky is crystalline and the pale fawn-tinged clouds are very beautiful. January 2, 1854
January 2, 2018
*****
A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Snow Bunting
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Brown Creeper
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Nuthatch
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, First Ice
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Winter Sunsets
*****
January 2, 2021
May 3, 1852 (“How cheering and glorious any landscape viewed from an eminence!”)
May 3, 1857 ("I, a descendant of Northmen who worshipped Thor, spend my time worshipping neither Thor nor Christ . . . I sympathize not to-day with those who go to church in newest clothes and sit quietly in straight-backed pews.")
August 19, 1853 ("It is such a day as mankind might spend in praising and glorifying nature. It might be spent as a natural sabbath, if only all men would accept the hint.")
September 7, 1851 ("My profession is to be always on the alert to find God in nature, to know his lurking-places, to attend all the oratorios, the operas, in nature.")
September 26, 1858 ("The seeds of pigweed are somewhat peculiar for hanging on all winter")
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, 1857 ("Again I am struck by the singularly wholesome colors of the withered oak leaves, especially the shrub oak")
December 1, 1856 (“The dear wholesome color of shrub oak leaves, so clean and firm,. . .Well-tanned leather on the one side, sun-tanned, color of colors, color of the cow and the deer, silver-downy beneath.”)
December 8, 1854 (“There is a glorious clear sunset sky, soft and delicate and warm”);
December 9, 1856 ("The worker who would accomplish much these short days must shear a dusky slice off both ends of the night”)
December 9, 1856 ("The worker who would accomplish much these short days must shear a dusky slice off both ends of the night”)
December 9, 1856 ("A bewitching stillness reigns through all the woodland and over the snow-clad landscape.”)
December 9, 1859 (" I observe at mid-afternoon, the air being very quiet and serene, that peculiarly softened western sky, which perhaps is seen commonly after the first snow has covered the earth. . . .[T]here is just enough invisible vapor, perhaps from the snow, to soften the blue, giving it a slight greenish tinge. Thus, methinks, it often happens that as the weather is harder the sky seems softer")
December 9, 1859 (" I observe at mid-afternoon, the air being very quiet and serene, that peculiarly softened western sky, which perhaps is seen commonly after the first snow has covered the earth. . . .[T]here is just enough invisible vapor, perhaps from the snow, to soften the blue, giving it a slight greenish tinge. Thus, methinks, it often happens that as the weather is harder the sky seems softer")
December 11, 1858 ("While the oak leaves look redder and warmer, the pines look much darker since the snow has fallen (the hemlocks darker still)")
December 12, 1859 ("The night comes on early these days, and I soon see the pine tree tops distinctly outlined against the dun (or amber) but cold western sky. . . .I see the sun set from the side of Nawshawtuct, and make haste to the post-office with the red sky over my shoulder. . . .on my return, the apparently full moon has fairly commenced her reign, and I go home by her light.");
December 13, 1856 (“A fine healthy and handsome scarlet oak . . .The leaves have a little redness in them.”)
December 13, 1856 (“A fine healthy and handsome scarlet oak . . .The leaves have a little redness in them.”)
December 13, 1858 ("A damp day brings out the color of oak leaves, somewhat as of lichens. They are of a brighter and deeper leather-color, richer and more wholesome")
December 18, 1853 ("The western hills, these bordering it, seen through the clear, cold air, have a hard, distinct edge against the sunset sky. ")
December 18, 1859 (“The withered oak leaves, being thoroughly saturated with moisture, are of a livelier color.”)
December 18, 1856 ("Lectured in basement (vestry) of the orthodox church, and I trust helped to undermine it")
December 20, 1854 ("The sky in the eastern horizon has that same greenish-vitreous, gem-like appearance which it has at sundown, as if it were of perfectly clear glass, —with the green tint of a large mass of glass.")
December 20, 1851 ("Red, white, green, and, in the distance, dark brown are the colors of the winter landscape. . . . The red shrub oaks on the white ground of the plain beneath make a pretty scene. . . .The red oak leaves are even more fresh and glossy than the white.");
December 20, 1851 ("Red, white, green, and, in the distance, dark brown are the colors of the winter landscape. . . . The red shrub oaks on the white ground of the plain beneath make a pretty scene. . . .The red oak leaves are even more fresh and glossy than the white.");
December 20, 1851 ("Red, white, green, and, in the distance, dark brown are the colors of the winter landscape.")
Long after the sun has set,
and downy clouds have turned dark,
and the shades of night
have taken possession of the east,
some rosy clouds will be seen
in the upper sky
over the portals
of the darkening west.
December 21, 1851
December 21, 1851 ("How swiftly the earth appears to revolve at sunset, which at midday appears to rest on its axle!")December 21, 1854 ("Fair Haven Pond, for instance, a perfectly level plain of white snow, untrodden as yet by any fisherman, surrounded by snow-clad hills, dark evergreen woods, and reddish oak leaves, so pure and still. The last rays of the sun falling on the Baker Farm reflect a clear pink color.")
December 21, 1855 ("Scare a downy woodpecker and a brown creeper in company, from near the base of a small elm within three feet of me. The . . . creeper flits across the street to the base of another small elm , whither I follow. At first he hides behind the base, but ere long works his way upward and comes in sight. He is a gray-brown, a low curve from point of beak to end of tail resting flat against the tree.")
December 21, 1855 ("A few simple colors now prevail.")
December 21, 1856 (“The red oak leaves are a little lighter brown than the black oak, less yellowish beneath.”)
December 22, 1860 ("This evening and night, the second important snow, there having been sleighing since the 4th, and now")
December 23, 1851 ("I see that there is to be a fine, clear sunset, and make myself a seat in the snow on the Cliff to witness it.");
December 24, 1851 ("I see them so commonly when it is beginning to snow that I am inclined to regard them as a sign of a snow-storm.”)
December 25, 1851 (“I go forth to see the sun set. Who knows how it will set, even half an hour beforehand ?”)
December 25, 1858 ("How full of soft, pure light the western sky now, after sunset! . . . In a pensive mood I enjoy the complexion of the winter sky at this hour.")
December 27, 1853 ("It is a true winter sunset, almost cloudless, clear, cold indigo-y along the horizon.")
December 27, 1852 ("Not a particle of ice in Walden to-day. Paddled across it.")
December 29, 1859 ("A very cold morning, — about -15° at 8 a. m. at our door.")
December 31, 1851 ("The round greenish-yellow lichens on the white pines loom through the mist. The trees appear all at once covered with their crop of lichens and mosses of all kinds, the livid green of some, the fruit of others. They eclipse the trees they cover. “)\
December 31, 1853 (“Sugar is not so sweet to the palate, as sound to the healthy ear.”)\
December 31, 1853 ("Heard and saw together white-bellied nuthatches and chickadees, the former uttering a faint quank quank and making a loud tapping, and the latter its usual lisping note.")
December 31, 1854 ("How glorious the perfect stillness and peace of the winter landscape!")
January 3, 1853 ("Walden not yet frozen")
January 3, 1860 ("Saw four snow buntings by the railroad causeway, just this side the cut, quite tame. They arose and alighted on the rail fence as we went by. . . .They were busily eating the seed of the piper grass on the embankment there, and it was strewn over the snow by them like oats in a stable.")
January 5, 1859 ("I hear a fine busy twitter, and, looking up, see a nuthatch hopping along and about a swamp white oak branch, inspecting every side of it, as readily hanging head-downwards as standing upright, and then it utters a distinct gnah, as if to attract a companion. . . . it was like a very busy man talking to himself. ")
January 5, 1853 ("A fine rosy sky in the west after sunset; and later an amber-colored horizon.")
January 6, 1856 ("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, 1853 ("Walden apparently froze over last night")
January 6, 1859 (“They made notes when they went,—sharp, rippling, like a vibrating spring.”)
January 9, 1859 ("It is worth the while to stand here at this hour and look into the soft western sky, over the pines whose outlines are so rich and distinct against the clear sky")
January 10, 1859 ("This is one of the phenomena of the winter sunset, this distinct pink light reflected from the brows of snow-clad hills on one side of you as you are facing the sun.")
January 11, 1852 ("The glory of these afternoons, though the sky may be mostly overcast, is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset.")
January 10, 1859 ("This is one of the phenomena of the winter sunset, this distinct pink light reflected from the brows of snow-clad hills on one side of you as you are facing the sun.")
January 11, 1852 ("The glory of these afternoons, though the sky may be mostly overcast, is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset.")
January 14, 1852 ("I notice to-night, about sundown, that the clouds in the eastern horizon are the deepest indigo-blue of any I ever saw. Commencing with a pale blue or slate in the west, the color deepens toward the east.")
January 17, 1852 (“In proportion as I have celestial thoughts, is the necessity for me to be out and behold the western sky sunset these winter days. That is the symbol of the unclouded mind that knows neither winter nor summer. . . .As the skies appear to a man, so is his mind.")
The unclouded mind,
serene, pure, ineffable
like the western sky.
January 17, 1860 ("When I reached the open railroad causeway returning, there was a splendid sunset.")January 21, 1857 (“Beside their rippling note, they have a vibratory twitter”)
January 22, 1860 ("Snow buntings are very wandering. They were quite numerous a month ago, and now seem to have quit the town. They seem to ramble about the country at will.")
January 22, 1857 ("A brown creeper inspecting the branches of the oaks. It has white and black bars on the head, uttering from time to time a fine, wiry, screeping tse, tse, or tse, tse, tse")
January 24, 1852 ("The oaks are made thus to retain their leaves, that they may play over the snow - crust and add variety to the winter landscape")
January 24, 1852 ("A single elm by Hayden's stands in relief against the amber and golden, deepening into dusky but soon to be red horizon.")
January 26, 1856 ("We have had good sleighing ever since the 26th of December and no thaw.")
January 26, 1852. ("Would you see your mind, look at the sky.")January 26, 1856 ("We have had good sleighing ever since the 26th of December and no thaw.")
February 1, 1857 ("Warm as it is, I see a large flock of snow buntings on the railroad causeway.")
February 4, 1857 (" I see that the infidels and skeptics have formed themselves into churches and weekly gather together at the ringing of a bell.")
February 6, 1855 ("The coldest morning this winter. Our thermometer stands at -14° at 9 A.M")
February 7, 1855 ("Thermometer at about 7.30 A. M. gone into the bulb, -19° at least. The cold has stopped the clock.")
February 10, 1855 ("t is worth the while to let some pigweed grow in your garden, if only to attract these winter visitors. ")
February 13, 1853 ("I am called to window to see a dense flock of snowbirds, on and under the pigweed in the garden. ")
February 27, 1858 (" I see a snow bunting, though it is pleasant and warm.")
March 1, 1858 ("We have just had a winter with absolutely no sleighing.")
March 3, 1859 ("I heard a faint rippling note and, looking up, saw about fifteen snow buntings sitting in the top of the oak.”)
March 5, 1852 (" . . .every kernel of truth has been carefully swept out of our churches”)
March 25, 1856 ("I have not seen a tree sparrow, nuthatch, creeper, nor more than one redpoll since Christmas.”);
April 6, 1856 ("Heard there a nuthatch's faint vibrating tut - tut, somewhat even like croaking of frogs, as it made its way up the oak bark and turned head down to peck. Anon it answered its mate with a gnah gnah.")
April 15, 1855 ("The sound of church bells . . ., sounds very sweet to us on the water this still day")
March 3, 1859 ("I heard a faint rippling note and, looking up, saw about fifteen snow buntings sitting in the top of the oak.”)
March 5, 1852 (" . . .every kernel of truth has been carefully swept out of our churches”)
March 25, 1856 ("I have not seen a tree sparrow, nuthatch, creeper, nor more than one redpoll since Christmas.”);
April 6, 1856 ("Heard there a nuthatch's faint vibrating tut - tut, somewhat even like croaking of frogs, as it made its way up the oak bark and turned head down to peck. Anon it answered its mate with a gnah gnah.")
April 15, 1855 ("The sound of church bells . . ., sounds very sweet to us on the water this still day")
April 26, 1856 ("This reminds me of my bringing home an apple tree on my shoulder one Sunday and meeting the stream of meeting-goers, who seemed greatly outraged; but they did not know whether I set it out or not that day, or but that I sacrificed a puppy if I did.")
January 2, 2017
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.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, January 2.
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 © 2009-2023
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