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
Sandy-bottomed brook
flowing cold from ice and snow —
fins poised over sand!
March 19, 2018
See in Mill Brook behind Shannon's three or four shiners (the first), poised over the sand with a distinct longitudinal light-colored line midway along their sides and a darker line below it. This is a noteworthy and characteristic lineament, or cipher, or hieroglyphic, or type, of spring. You look into some clear, sandy-bottomed brook, where it spreads into a deeper bay, yet flowing cold from ice and snow not far off, and see, indistinctly poised over the sand on invisible fins, the outlines of a shiner, scarcely to be distinguished from the sands behind it as if it were transparent, as if the material of which it was builded had all been picked up from them. March 19, 1854
A fine clear and warm day for the season. Launch my boat. P. M. — Paddled to Fair Haven Pond. Very pleasant and warm, when the wind lulls and the water is perfectly smooth. I make the voyage without gloves . . .
I am surprised to find that the river has not yet worn through Fair Haven Pond . . .
The wind has got round more to the east now, at 5 P.M., and is raw and disagreeable, and produces a bluish haze or mist at once in the air. It is early for such a phenomenon. Smell muskrats in two places, and see two. I hear at last the tchuck tchuck of a blackbird and, looking up, see him flying high over the river southwesterly in great haste to reach somewhere. And when I reach my landing I hear my first bluebird, somewhere about Cheney’s trees by the river. I hear him out of the blue deeps, but do not yet see his blue body. He comes with a warble. March 19, 1855
Though it is quite warm, the air is filled with large, moist snowflakes, of the star form, which are rapidly concealing the very few bare spots on the railroad embankment. It is, indeed, a new snow-storm. Another old red maple bleeds now, on the warm south edge of Trillium Wood. . .
Though it is quite warm, the air is filled with large, moist snowflakes, of the star form, which are rapidly concealing the very few bare spots on the railroad embankment. It is, indeed, a new snow-storm. Another old red maple bleeds now, on the warm south edge of Trillium Wood. . .
No sooner is some opening made in the river, a square rod in area, where some brook or rill empties in, than the fishes apparently begin to seek it for light and warmth, and thus early, perchance, may become the prey of the fish hawk. They are seen to ripple the water, darting out as you approach . . .
In the smooth open water there, small water-bugs were gyrating singly, not enough to play the game. March 19, 1856
Heavy rain in the night and to-day . . . It is April weather. I observed yesterday a dead shiner by the riverside, and to-day the first sucker. March 19, 1857
March 19, 2019
Heavy rain in the night and to-day . . . It is April weather. I observed yesterday a dead shiner by the riverside, and to-day the first sucker. March 19, 1857
Another pleasant and warm day. Painted my boat afternoon. These spring impressions (as of the apparent waking up of the meadow described day before yesterday) are not repeated the same year . . . the next day the same phenomenon does not surprise us. Our appetite has lost its edge . . .
I have taken a step forward to a new position and must see something else. You perceive, and are affected by, changes too subtle to be described. I see little swarms of those fine fuzzy gnats . . . suggesting how genial and habitable the air is become. I hear turkeys gobble. This too, I suppose, is a spring sound. I hear a steady sigh of the wind, rising and swelling into a roar, in the pines, which seems to tell of a long, warm rain to come. I see a white pine which has borne fruit in its ninth year . . .
Hear the phebe note of a chickadee . . .
It is a fine evening, as I stand on the bridge. The waters are quite smooth; very little ice to be seen. The red-wing and song sparrow are singing, and a flock of tree sparrows is pleasantly warbling. A new era has come. The red-wing's gurgle-ee is heard when smooth waters begin; they come together. March 19, 1858
The wind blows very strongly from the southwest . . .
The wind blows very strongly from the southwest . . .
On the northeast sides of the broadest expanses the waves run very high, quite sea-like, and their tumult is exciting both to see and to hear. . . .
It blows so hard that you walk aslant against the wind . . . The meadows are all in commotion. The ducks are now concealed by the waves, if there are any floating there. While the sun is behind a cloud, the surface of the flood is almost uniformly yellowish or blue, but when the sun comes out from behind the cloud, a myriad dazzling white crests to the waves are seen. The wind makes such a din about your ears that conversation is difficult; your words are blown away and do not strike the ear they were aimed at. If you walk by the water, the tumult of the waves confuses you. If you go by a tree or enter the woods, the din is yet greater. Nevertheless this universal commotion is very interesting and exciting . . .
We are interested in the phenomena of Nature mainly as children are, or as we are in games of chance. They are more or less exciting. Our appetite for novelty is insatiable. We do not attend to ordinary things, though they are most important, but to extraordinary ones. While it is only moderately hot or cold, or wet or dry, nobody attends to it, but when Nature goes to an extreme in any of these directions we are all on the alert with excitement . . .
I felt as if I could eat the very crust of the earth; I never felt so terrene, never sympathized so with the surface of the earth. From whatever source the light and heat come, thither we look with love. March 19, 1859
2 P. M.—Thermometer 51; wind easterly, blowing slightly . . . I look over to the pitch pines on Moore's hillside . . . and it strikes me that this pine, take the year round, is the most cheerful tree and most living to look at and have about your house, it is so sunny and full of light, in harmony with the yellow sand there and the spring sun . . . I see in the ditch by the Turnpike bridge a painted tortoise, and, I think, a small shiner or two, also several suckers which swiftly dart out of sight, rippling the water. We rejoice to see the waters inhabited again, for a fish has become almost incredible. Myriads of water-bugs of various sizes are now gyrating, and they reflect the sun like silver. Why do they cast a double orbicular shadow on the bottom? March 19, 1860
2 P. M.—Thermometer 51; wind easterly, blowing slightly . . . I look over to the pitch pines on Moore's hillside . . . and it strikes me that this pine, take the year round, is the most cheerful tree and most living to look at and have about your house, it is so sunny and full of light, in harmony with the yellow sand there and the spring sun . . . I see in the ditch by the Turnpike bridge a painted tortoise, and, I think, a small shiner or two, also several suckers which swiftly dart out of sight, rippling the water. We rejoice to see the waters inhabited again, for a fish has become almost incredible. Myriads of water-bugs of various sizes are now gyrating, and they reflect the sun like silver. Why do they cast a double orbicular shadow on the bottom? March 19, 1860
March 19, 2020
*****
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring:
- Ripples made by Fishes
- the water-bug (Gyrinus)
- turkey-gobbling
- listening for the bluebird
- Bright blue water
- the Striped Squirrel Comes Out
- the Hawks of March
- the spring note of the chickadee
- the spring note of the nuthatch
- Red Maple Sap Flows
- The Song Sparrow Sings
- The Red-wing Arrives
- Frogs, and Turtles Stirring
- March is famous for its winds
 |
| March 19, 2015 |
March 19, 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.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, March 19
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
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