A Book of the Seasons: February 4. (tracks: mink, otter, partridge; the play of light in the pines, discovery, a glorious night)

 

The year is but 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

February 4

The tracks of a mink

in the shallow snow along

the edge of the river.

February 4, 1854

Distinct otter-track

by the rock at the junction

of the two rivers.

February 4, 1855

Partridges feed on

the sumach berries making

fresh tracks every snow.

February 4, 1856

I went over to the Hemlocks on the Assabet this morning. Saw the tracks, I think of a mink, in the shallow snow along the edge of the river, looking for a hole in the ice. February 4, 1854

A clear, cold morning. The smokes from the village chimneys are quickly purified and dissipated, like vapor, in the air. February 4, 1854

Clear and cold and windy; much colder than for some time. February 4, 1855

It is better skating to-day than yesterday. This is the sixth day of some kind of skating. February 4, 1855

See this afternoon a very distinct otter-track by the Rock, at the junction of the two rivers.  February 4, 1855

The separate foot-tracks are quite round, more than two inches in diameter, showing the five toes distinctly in the snow, which is about half an inch deep. February 4, 1855

Close by the Great Aspen I see where it had entered or come out of the water under a shelf of ice left adhering to a maple. February 4, 1855

There it apparently played and slid on the level ice, making a broad trail as if a shovel had been shoved along, just eight inches wide, without a foot-track in it for four feet or more. February 4, 1855

It had left much dung on the ice, soft, yellow, bowel-like, like a gum that has been chewed in consistency. February 4, 1855

About the edge of the hole, where the snow was all rubbed off, was something white which looks and smells exactly like bits of the skin of pouts or eels. February 4, 1855

Minott tells of one shot once while eating an eel. Vance saw one this winter in this town by a brook eating a fish. February 4, 1855

I go to walk at 3 P. M., thermometer 18°. It has been about this (and 22°) at this hour for a week or two. February 4, 1856

All the light snow, some five inches above the crust, is adrift these days and driving over the fields like steam, or like the foam-streaks on a flooded meadow, from northwest to southeast. February 4, 1856

The surface of the fields is rough, like a lake agitated by the wind. February 4, 1856

I see that the Partridges feed quite extensively on the sumach berries. February 4, 1856

They come to them after every snow, making fresh tracks, and have now stripped many bushes quite bare. February 4, 1856

At Tanager Glade I see where the rabbits have gnawed the bark of the shrub oaks extensively, and the twigs, down to the size of a goose-quill, cutting them off as smoothly as a knife. February 4, 1856

They have also gnawed some young white oaks, black cherry, and apple. The shrub oaks look like hedges which have been trimmed or clipped. February 4, 1856

I have often wondered how red cedars could have sprung up in some pastures which I knew to be miles distant from the nearest fruit-bearing cedar, but it now occurs to me that these and barberries, etc., may be planted by the crows, and probably other birds. February 4, 1856

The oak leaves which have blown over the snow are collected in dense heaps on the still side of the bays at Walden, where I suspect they make warm beds for the rabbits to squat on. February 4, 1856

The sun loves to nestle in the boughs of the pine and pass rays through them. February 4, 1852

The needles of the pine are the touchstone for the air; any change is revealed by their livelier green or increased motion. February 4, 1852

Now the white pine are a misty blue; anon a lively, silvery light plays on them,. . . while the pitch pines are a brighter yellowish-green than usual. February 4, 1852

They are the telltales. February 4, 1852

Discover the Ledum latifolium, quite abundant over a space about six rods in diameter just east of the small pond-hole, growing with the Andromeda calyculata, Polifolia, Kalmia glauca, etc. This plant might easily be confounded with the water andromeda by a careless observer. When I showed it to a teamster, he was sure that he had seen it often in the woods, but the sight of the woolly under side staggered him. As usual with the finding of new plants, I had a presentiment that I should find the ledum in Concord. It is a remarkable fact that, in the case of the most interesting plants which I have discovered in this vicinity, I have anticipated finding them perhaps a year before the discovery. February 4, 1858

11 P. M. — Coming home through the village by this full moonlight, it seems one of the most glorious nights I ever beheld. February 4, 1852

Though the pure snow is so deep around, the air, by contrast perhaps with the recent days, is mild and even balmy to my senses, and the snow is still sticky to my feet and hands . February 4, 1852

And the sky is the most glorious blue I ever beheld, even a light blue on some sides, as if I actually saw into day, while small white, fleecy clouds, at long intervals, are drifting from west-north west to south-southeast. February 4, 1852

Has not this blueness of the sky the same cause with the blueness in the holes in the snow, and in some distant shadows on the snow? — if, indeed, it is true that the sky is bluer in winter when the ground is covered with snow. February 4, 1852

If you would know the direction of the wind, look not at the clouds, which are such large bodies and confuse you, but consider in what direction the moon appears to be wading through them. February 4, 1852

The outlines of the elms were never more distinctly seen than now. February 4, 1852

It seems a slighting of the gifts of God to go to sleep now; as if we could better afford to close our eyes to daylight, of which we see so much. February 4, 1852

*****

 Natural History of Massachusetts (1842) ("The otter is rarely if ever seen here at present; and the mink is less common than formerly.")

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

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

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Partridge

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, at the Leaning Hemlocks

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, at Ledum Swamp 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February is Mid-Winter

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Winter of Skating

*****

October 25, 1858 ("Now, especially, we notice . . .the silvery sheen of pine-needles; i. e., when its old leaves have fallen and trees generally are mostly bare . . .I do not know why we perceive this more at this season, unless because the air is so clear and all surfaces reflect more light; and, besides, all the needles now left are fresh ones, or the growth of this year. Also I notice. . another Novemberish phenomenon. Call these November Lights. Hers is a cool, silvery light.")

November 11, 1851("There is a cold, silvery light on the white pines )
December 14, 1854 ("I have rarely seen any reflections -- of weeds, willows, and elms. . . -- so distinct, the stems so black and distinct")

November 16, 1852 ("The pines on shore look very cold, reflecting a silvery light.")
November 26, 1858 ("If the pond continues to fall, undoubtedly all the fishes thus landlocked will die.. . .No doubt several creatures, like otter and mink and foxes, know where to resort for their food at this season. This is now a perfect otter’s or mink’s preserve.")

November 30, 1851 ("My eye rested with pleasure on the white pines, now reflecting a silvery light.")

December 2, 1852 ("We see a mink, slender, black, very like a weasel in form. He alternately runs along on the ice and swims in the water, now and then holding up his head and long neck looking at us. Not so shy as a muskrat.")

December 3, 1856 ("The pine forest's edge seen against the winter horizon. . . .The silvery needles of the pine straining the light.")

At the forest’s edge

silvery needles of the pine

straining the light.

December 3, 1856

December 6. 1856 ("I see here and there very faint tracks of musk-rats or minks, made when it was soft and sloshy.")

December 6, 1856 (“Just this side of Bittern Cliff, I see a very remarkable track of an otter . . .The river was all tracked up with otters, from Bittern Cliff upward. Sometimes one had trailed his tail, apparently edge wise, making a mark like the tail of a deer mouse; sometimes they were moving fast, and there was an interval of five feet between the tracks.”);

December 8, 1855(The sun is reflected from far through the aisles with a silvery light from the needles of the pine.")

Sun is reflected

from the needles of the pine

with a silvery light.

Dec. 8, 1855

December 9, 1856 ("Coming through the Walden woods, I see already great heaps of oak leaves collected in certain places on the snow-crust by the roadside, where an eddy deposited them.. . .They are beds which invite the traveller to repose on them, even in this wintry weather.")

December 9, 1856 ("The reflected white in the winter horizon of this perfectly cloudless sky is being condensed at the horizon's edge . . . against which the tops of the trees — pines and elms — are seen with beautiful distinctness.")

December 11, 1858 ("Already, in hollows in the woods and on the sheltered sides of hills, the fallen leaves are collected in small heaps on the snow-crust, simulating bare ground and helping to conceal the rabbit and partridge.")

December 17, 1859 ("And on the ridge north is the track of a partridge amid the shrubs. It has hopped up to the low clusters of smooth sumach berries, sprinkled the snow with them, and eaten all but a few. ")

December 19, 1851 ("Why should it be so pleasing to look into a thick pine wood where the sunlight streams in and gilds it?")
December 21. 1851(“Sunlight on pine-needles is the phenomenon of a winter day.”)

December 31, 1854 (“ On the edge of A. Wheeler’s cranberry meadow I see the track of an otter made since yesterday morning.”)

January 21, 1853 (“I think it was January 20th that I saw that which I think an otter track in path under the Cliffs, — a deep trail in the snow, six or seven inches wide and two or three deep in the middle, as if a log had been drawn along, similar to a muskrat's only much larger, and the legs evidently short and the steps short, sinking three or four inches deeper still, as if it had waddled along.”);

January 21, 1853 ("The blueness of the sky at night — the color it wears by day — is an everlasting surprise to me, suggesting the constant presence and prevalence of light in the firmament, that we see through the veil of night to the constant blue, as by day.")

January 21, 1853 ("Otter are very rare here now.”);
January 22, 1856 (“After long study with a microscope, I discover that they [crow droppings] consist of the seeds and skins and other indigestible parts of red cedar berries and some barberries . . . from the cedar woods and barberry bushes by Flint’s Pond. “)

January 22, 1856 ("The tracks of the partridges by the sumachs, made before the 11th, are perhaps more prominent now than ever, for they have consolidated the snow under them so that as it settled it has left them alto-relievo. They look like broad chains extending straight far over the snow")

January 30, 1854 ("How retired an otter manages to live! He grows to be four feet long without any mortal getting a glimpse of him,")

February 2, 1855 ("At ten o’clock, the moon still obscured, I skate on the river and meadows . . .  We seem thus to go faster than by day")

February 3, 1855 ("This will deserve to be called the winter of skating.")
February 3, 1856 ("A strong northwest wind (and thermometer 11°), driving the surface snow like steam.")

February 3. 1852 ("Is not the sky unusually blue to-night? dark blue?")

February 5, 1852 ("The sky last night was a deeper, more cerulean blue than the far lighter and whiter sky of to-day.")

February, 5, 1852 ("The boughs, feathery boughs, of the white pines, tier above tier, reflect a silvery light against the darkness of the grove, as if both the silvery-lighted and greenish bough and the shadowy intervals of the shade behind belong to one tree.”)

February 6, 1856 ( [Goodwin] thinks that what I call muskrat-tracks are mink-tracks by the Rock, and that muskrat do not come out at all this weather.")

February 8, 1857 (“The otter must roam about a great deal, for I rarely see fresh tracks in the same neighborhood a second time the same winter, though the old tracks may be apparent all the winter through.”)

February 10, 1860 ("I see that Wheildon's pines are rocking and showing their silvery under sides as last spring, — their first awakening, as it were. ")
February 11, 1859 (" The south side of Ball’s Hill, which is warm and half bare, is tracked up with partridges, and I start several there. So is it next Sunday with the Hill shore, east of Fair Haven Pond. These birds are sure to be found now on such slopes, where only the ground and dry leaves are exposed.")

February 13, 1855 ("The tracks of partridges are more remarkable in this snow than usual, it is so light, being at the same time a foot deep. In one place, when alighting, the primary quills, five of them, have marked the snow for a foot. I see where many have dived into the snow.")

February 20, 1855 (Among the quadrupeds of Concord, the otter is "very rare.")
February 20, 1856 (“See a broad and distinct otter-trail, made last night or yesterday. It came out to the river through the low declivities, making a uniform broad hollow trail there without any mark of its feet. . . .Commonly seven to nine or ten inches wide, and tracks of feet twenty to twenty-four apart; but sometimes there was no track of the feet for twenty-five feet, frequently for six; in the last case swelled in the outline.”)

February 22, 1856 (“Just below this bridge begins an otter track, several days old yet very distinct, which I trace half a mile down the river. In the snow less than an inch deep, on the ice, each foot makes a track three inches wide, apparently enlarged in melting. The clear interval, sixteen inches; the length occupied by the four feet, fourteen inches. It looks as if some one had dragged a round timber down the middle of the river a day or two since, which bounced as it went.”)

February 25, 1860 ("I noticed yesterday the first conspicuous silvery sheen from the needles of the white pine waving in the wind.")

February 28, 1857 (“I see the track, apparently of a muskrat (?). . . with very sharp and distinct trail of tail, — on the snow and thin ice over the little rill in the Miles meadow. . . . (Does the mink ever leave a track of its tail?”)
March 6, 1856 ("On the rock this side the Leaning Hemlocks, is the track of an otter.")
March 8, 1853 ("Saw a mink run across the road in Sudbury, a large black weasel, to appearance, worming its supple way over the snow. Where it ran, its tracks were thus: the intervals between the fore and hind feet sixteen or eighteen inches by two and a half.")

March 21, 1859 (“That fine silvery light reflected from its needles (perhaps their undersides) incessantly in motion.”)

March 31, 1857 ("The existence of the otter, our largest wild animal, is not betrayed to any of our senses (or at least not to more than one in a thousand)! )

April 2 1853 (“I can see far into the pine woods to tree behind tree, and one tower behind another of silvery needles, stage above stage, relieved with shade.”)

April 6, 1855 ("It reminds me of an otter, which however I have never seen.")

May 1, 1855 ("Why have the white pines at a distance that silvery look around their edges or thin parts? Is it owing to the wind showing the under sides of the needles? Methinks you do not see it in the winter.")

May 11, 1853 ("The sky is blue by night as well as by day, because it knows no night.")

May 18, 1852 ("The forest, the dark-green pines, wonderfully distinct, near and erect, with their distinct dark stems, spiring tops, regularly disposed branches, and silvery light on their needles.")
July 2, 1854 ("From the Hill, the sun rising, I see a fine river fog . . . I mark the outlines of the elms . . . now so still and distinct, looking east")

February 4, 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 

February 3  <<<<<<<<   February 4 >>>>>>>>  February 5

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February 4

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

https://tinyurl.com/HDT04Feb