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
Winter was made to
concentrate and harden the
kernel of man's brain.
January 30, 2019
The snow collects upon the plumes of the pitch pine in the form of a pineapple. January 30, 1841
8 A. M. -- It has just begun to snow, — those little round dry pellets like shot. Stops snowing before noon, not having amounted to anything. January 30, 1856
Another cold morning. Mercury down to 13° below zero. January 30, 1854
This morning, though not so cold by a degree or two as yesterday morning, the cold has got more into the house, and the frost visits nooks never known to be visited before. January 30, 1854
The sheets are frozen about the sleeper's face; the teamster's beard is white with ice. The windows are all closed up with frost, as if they were ground glass. January 30, 1854
Clear and not cold, and now fine skating, the river rising again to the height it had attained the 24th, which (with this) I think remarkable for this season. January 30, 1855
It is unusual for the river to be so much swollen in midwinter, because it is unusual to have so much rain at this season. January 30, 1855
It is up to the hubs on the causeways, and foot—travellers have to cross on the river and meadows. January 30, 1855
As I walked above the old stone bridge on the 27th, I saw where the river had recently been open under the wooded bank on the west side; and recent sawdust and shavings from the pail-factory, and also the ends of saplings and limbs of trees which had been bent down by the ice, were frozen in. January 30, 1856
In some places some water stood above the ice, and as I stood there, I saw and heard it gurgle up through a crevice and spread over the ice. This was the influence of Loring’s Brook, far above. January 30, 1856
This morning, though not so cold by a degree or two as yesterday morning, the cold has got more into the house, and the frost visits nooks never known to be visited before. January 30, 1854
The sheets are frozen about the sleeper's face; the teamster's beard is white with ice. The windows are all closed up with frost, as if they were ground glass. January 30, 1854
Clear and not cold, and now fine skating, the river rising again to the height it had attained the 24th, which (with this) I think remarkable for this season. January 30, 1855
It is unusual for the river to be so much swollen in midwinter, because it is unusual to have so much rain at this season. January 30, 1855
It is up to the hubs on the causeways, and foot—travellers have to cross on the river and meadows. January 30, 1855
As I walked above the old stone bridge on the 27th, I saw where the river had recently been open under the wooded bank on the west side; and recent sawdust and shavings from the pail-factory, and also the ends of saplings and limbs of trees which had been bent down by the ice, were frozen in. January 30, 1856
In some places some water stood above the ice, and as I stood there, I saw and heard it gurgle up through a crevice and spread over the ice. This was the influence of Loring’s Brook, far above. January 30, 1856
P. M. -- Measure to see what difference there is in the depth of the snow. January 30, 1856
In an ordinary storm the depth of the snow will be affected by a wood twenty or more rods distant, or as far as the wood is a fence. January 30, 1856
The Andromeda calyculata is now quite covered, and I walk on the crust over an almost uninterrupted plain there; only a few blueberries and last, I break through. January 30, 1856
It is so light beneath that the crust breaks there in great cakes under my feet, and immediately falls about a foot, making a great hole. January 30, 1856
I suspect that on meadows the snow is not so deep and has a firmer crust. January 30, 1856
There is a strong wind this afternoon from northwest, and the snow of the 28th is driving like steam over the fields, drifting into the roads. January 30, 1856
On the railroad causeway it lies in perfectly straight and regular ridges a few feet apart, northwest and southeast. It is dry and scaly, like coarse bran. January 30, 1856
Now that there is so much snow, it slopes up to the tops of the walls on both sides. January 30, 1856
Walden Pond [is] a spotless field of snow surrounded by woods, whose intensely blue shadows and your own are the only objects. January 30, 1856
What a solemn silence reigns here! January 30, 1856
The snow is dry and squeaks under the feet, and the teams creak as if they needed greasing, — sounds associated with extremely cold weather. January 30, 1854
Up river on ice and snow to Fair Haven Pond. January 30, 1854
It is much easier and pleasanter to walk thus on the river, the snow being shallow and level, and there is no such loud squeaking or cronching of the snow as in the road, and this road is so wide that you do not feel confined in it, and you never meet travellers with whom you have no sympathy. January 30, 1854
It is much easier and pleasanter to walk thus on the river, the snow being shallow and level, and there is no such loud squeaking or cronching of the snow as in the road, and this road is so wide that you do not feel confined in it, and you never meet travellers with whom you have no sympathy. January 30, 1854
By the railroad against Walden I hear the lisping of a chickadee, and see it on a sumach. January 30, 1856
It repeatedly hops to a bunch of berries, takes one, and, hopping to a more horizontal twig, places it under one foot and hammers at it with its bill. January 30, 1856
The snow is strewn with the berries under its foot, but I can see no shells of the fruit. January 30, 1856
As we walk up the river, a little flock of chickadees flies to us from a wood-side fifteen rods off, and utters their lively day day day, and follows us along a considerable distance, flitting by our side on the button-bushes and willows. January 30, 1854
It is the most, if not the only, sociable bird we have. January 30, 1854
There is a few inches of snow, perfectly level, which now for nearly a week has covered the ice. January 30, 1854
It repeatedly hops to a bunch of berries, takes one, and, hopping to a more horizontal twig, places it under one foot and hammers at it with its bill. January 30, 1856
The snow is strewn with the berries under its foot, but I can see no shells of the fruit. January 30, 1856
As we walk up the river, a little flock of chickadees flies to us from a wood-side fifteen rods off, and utters their lively day day day, and follows us along a considerable distance, flitting by our side on the button-bushes and willows. January 30, 1854
It is the most, if not the only, sociable bird we have. January 30, 1854
There is a few inches of snow, perfectly level, which now for nearly a week has covered the ice. January 30, 1854
We look at every track in the snow. January 30, 1854
Every little while there is the track of a fox — maybe the same one — across the river, turning aside some times to a muskrat's cabin or a point of ice, where he has left some traces, and frequently the larger track of a hound, which has followed his trail. January 30, 1854
Minott to-day enumerates the red, gray, black, and what he calls the Sampson fox. January 30, 1855
Every little while there is the track of a fox — maybe the same one — across the river, turning aside some times to a muskrat's cabin or a point of ice, where he has left some traces, and frequently the larger track of a hound, which has followed his trail. January 30, 1854
Minott to-day enumerates the red, gray, black, and what he calls the Sampson fox. January 30, 1855
He never saw one, but the hunters have told him of them. He never saw a gray nor a black one. January 30, 1855
Told how Jake Lakin lost a dog, a very valuable one, by a fox leading him on to the ice on the Great Meadows and drowning him.
January 30, 1855
Said the raccoon made a track very much like a young child’s foot. He had often seen it in the mud of a ditch. January 30, 1855
Told how Jake Lakin lost a dog, a very valuable one, by a fox leading him on to the ice on the Great Meadows and drowning him.
January 30, 1855
Said the raccoon made a track very much like a young child’s foot. He had often seen it in the mud of a ditch. January 30, 1855
How retired an otter manages to live! He grows to be four feet long without any mortal getting a glimpse of him. January 30, 1854
There are certain sounds invariably heard in warm and thawing days in winter, such as the crowing of cocks, the cawing of crows, and sometimes the gobbling of turkeys. January 30, 1860
Crows have singular wild and suspicious ways. January 30, 1860
You will [see] a couple flying high, as if about their business, but lo, they turn and circle and caw over your head again and again for a mile; and this is their business, — as if a mile and an afternoon were nothing for them to throw away. January 30, 1860
The crow, flying high, touches the tympanum of the sky for us, and reveals the tone of it. January 30, 1860
He informs me that Nature is in the tenderest mood possible, and I hear the very flutterings of her heart. January 30, 1860
How peculiar the hooting of an owl! . . . full, round, and sonorous, waking the echoes of the wood. January 30, 1859He informs me that Nature is in the tenderest mood possible, and I hear the very flutterings of her heart. January 30, 1860
Yesterday's slight snow is all gone, leaving the ice, old snow, and bare ground; and as I walk up the river side, there is a brilliant sheen from the wet ice toward the sun, instead of the crystalline rainbow of yesterday. January 30, 1860
Think of that (of yesterday), — to have constantly before you, receding as fast as you advance, a bow formed of a myriad crystalline mirrors on the surface of the snow! ! January 30, 1860
Then, another day, to do all your walking knee-deep in perfect six-rayed crystals of surpassing beauty but of ephemeral duration, which have fallen from the sky. January 30, 1860
What miracles, what beauty surrounds us! January 30, 1860
Six-rayed crystals of
ephemeral duration
fallen from the sky.
The snow-flea seems to be a creature whose summer and prime of life is a thaw in the winter. It seems not merely to enjoy this interval like other animals, but then chiefly to exist. It is the creature of the thaw. Moist snow is its element. January 30, 1860
The small water-bugs are gyrating abundantly in Nut Meadow Brook. January 30, 1860
The seasons were not made in vain. It is for man the seasons and all their fruits exist. The winter was not given to us for no purpose. January 30, 1854
The winter, cold and bound out as it is, is thrown to us like a bone to a famishing dog, and we are expected to get the marrow out of it. January 30, 1854
While the milkmen in the outskirts are milking so many scores of cows before sunrise these winter mornings, it is our task to milk the winter itself. January 30, 1854
We are tasked to find out and appropriate all the nutriment it yields. January 30, 1854
The winter, cold and bound out as it is, is thrown to us like a bone to a famishing dog, and we are expected to get the marrow out of it. January 30, 1854
While the milkmen in the outskirts are milking so many scores of cows before sunrise these winter mornings, it is our task to milk the winter itself. January 30, 1854
We are tasked to find out and appropriate all the nutriment it yields. January 30, 1854
The winter was made to concentrate and harden and mature the kernel of man's brain, to give tone and firmness and consistency to his thought. January 30, 1854
This harvest of thought the great harvest of the year. January 30, 1854
I knew a crazy man who walked into an empty pulpit one Sunday and, taking up a hymn-book, remarked:
"We have had a good fall for getting in corn and potatoes. Let us sing Winter."So I say,
"Let us sing winter."
January 30, 1854
What else can we sing, and our voices be in harmony with the season? January 30, 1854
Discipline yourself only to yield to love; suffer yourself to be attracted. It is in vain to write on chosen themes. We must wait till they have kindled a flame in our minds. January 30, 1852
The human brain is the kernel which the winter itself matures. January 30, 1854
Now we burn with a purer flame like the stars. January 30, 1854
*****
A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Pitch Pine
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Fox
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Otter
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Chickadee in Winter
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Water-bug (Gyrinus) and Skaters (Hydrometridae)
A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Voice of the Barred Owl.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Otter
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The snow-flea
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Snow-storms might be classified
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Nature is genial to man
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The world can never be more beautiful than now
January 30, 2019
August 2, 1854 ("As I go up the hill, surrounded by its shadow, while the sun is setting, I am soothed by the delicious stillness of the evening, . . . .It is the first silence I have heard for a month")
August 7, 1854 ("Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? ...A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio. “)
August 11, 1853 ("What shall we name this season? — this very late afternoon, or very early evening, this season of the day most favorable for reflection, . . ..The few sounds now heard, far or near, are delicious. Each sound has a broad and deep relief of silence.")
September 10, 1860 ("My host, yesterday, told me that he was accustomed once to chase a black fox from Lowell over this way and lost him at Chelmsford. . . .A Carlisle man also tells me since that this fox used to turn off and run northwest from Chelmsford, but that he would soon after return.")
August 7, 1854 ("Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? ...A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio. “)
August 11, 1853 ("What shall we name this season? — this very late afternoon, or very early evening, this season of the day most favorable for reflection, . . ..The few sounds now heard, far or near, are delicious. Each sound has a broad and deep relief of silence.")
September 10, 1860 ("My host, yesterday, told me that he was accustomed once to chase a black fox from Lowell over this way and lost him at Chelmsford. . . .A Carlisle man also tells me since that this fox used to turn off and run northwest from Chelmsford, but that he would soon after return.")
September 18, 1852 ("The crows congregate and pursue me through the half-covered woodland path, cawing loud and angrily above me, and when they cease, I hear the winnowing sound of their wings.") October 9, 1858 ("Crows fly over and caw at you now.");
The chickadee
Hops near to me.
November 8, 1857
November 18, 1857 (" Crows will often come flying much out of their way to caw at me.")
December 14, 1859 ("Also there is the pellet or shot snow, which consists of little dry spherical pellets the size of robin-shot. This, I think, belongs to cold weather. Probably never have much of it.")
December 19, 1856 (“From out the depths of the wood, it sounds peculiarly hollow and drum-like, as if it struck on a tense skin drawn around, the tympanum of the wood, . . .more than the voice of the owl, the voice of the wood as well.”)
January 12, 1855 ("Perhaps what most moves us in winter is some reminiscence of far-off summer. . . .It is in the cawing of the crow, the crowing of the cock, the warmth of the sun on our backs.")December 25, 1858 (“How glad I am to hear him rather than the most eloquent man of the age!”)
December 29, 1851 (" What a fine and measureless joy the gods grant us thus, letting us know nothing about the day that is to dawn! This day, yesterday, was as incredible as any other miracle.")January 2, 1859 ("Minott says that a fox will lead a dog on to thin ice in order that he may get in. Tells of Jake Lakin losing a hound so, which went under the ice and was drowned below the Holt; was found afterward by Sted Buttrick, his collar taken off and given to Lakin")
January 7, 1854 (“I went to these woods partly to hear an owl, but did not; but, now that I have left them nearly a mile behind, I hear one distinctly, hoorer hoo.. . .t is a sound which the wood or horizon makes.")
January 17, 1860 ("See In the spring-hole ditches of the Close I see many little water-bugs (Gyrinus) gyrating, and some under water. It must be a common phenomenon there in mild weather in the winter.")
January 18, 1860 ("Several chickadees, uttering their faint notes, come flitting near to me as usual")
January 21, 1853 ("The silence rings; it is musical and thrills me. A night in which the silence was audible.")
January 22, 1860 ("This must be as peculiarly a winter animal as any. It may truly be said to live in snow.")January 24, 1858 (" At Nut Meadow Brook the small-sized water-bugs are as abundant and active as in summer.")
January 29, 1852 ("The forcible writer does not go far for his themes")
January 29, 1860 ("That conical rainbow, or parabola of rainbow-colored reflections, from the myriad reflecting crystals of the snow, . . . as I walk toward the sun, — always a little in advance of me")January 31, 1855 ("A clear, cold, beautiful day.")
January 31, 1854 ("We too have our thaws. They come to our January moods, when our ice cracks, and our sluices break loose. Thought that was frozen up under stern experience gushes forth in feeling and expression.")
February 5, 1854 (“It turned aside to every muskrat-house or the like prominence near its route and left its mark there.”)
March 16, 1858 ("The crowing of cocks and the cawing of crows tell the same story. The ice is soggy and dangerous to be walked on.")
 |
| January 30, 2019 |
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.
https://tinyurl.com/HDTJan30
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