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
Now I take that walk
along the river highway
level wide and smooth.
A cold and strong wind
yet very warm in the sun
sheltered on these rocks.
March 4, 2018
P. M. — To Bee Tree Hill over Fair Haven Pond. March 4, 1855
P. M. — To E. Hosmer Spring. March 4, 1859
Down Turnpike and back by E. Hubbard's Close. March 4, 1859
P. M. – To Conantum via Clamshell. March 4, 1860
We have this morning the clear, cold, continent sky of January. March 4, 1852
Now I take that walk along the river highway and the meadow. March 4, 1852
The river is frozen solidly, and I do not have to look out for openings. A liberal walk, so level and wide and smooth, without underbrush. March 4, 1852
The ice is so much rotted and softened by the sun that it looks white like snow now as I look down on the meadows. March 4, 1855
I look between my legs up the river across Fair Haven. The landscape thus at this season is a plain white field hence to the horizon. March 4, 1852
The earth is never lighter-colored than now, — the hillsides reflecting the sun when first dried after the winter, — especially, methinks, where the sheep's fescue grows(?). March 4, 1860
It contrasts finely with the rich blue of the water. March 4, 1860
There is considerable snow on the north side of hills in the woods. March 4, 1855
Thermometer 14° this morning, and this makes decent sleighing of the otherwise soft snow. March 4, 1858
Began to snow last evening, and it is now (early in the morning) about a foot deep, and raining. March 4, 1859
Thermometer 44; very strong and gusty northwest wind, with electric-looking wind-clouds. March 4, 1860
One spits a little rain, but mostly clear. March 4, 1860
The river is frozen solidly, and I do not have to look out for openings. March 4, 1852
I can no longer get on to the river ice. March 4, 1854
River channel fairly open. March 4, 1855
There is a broad and very black space extending through Fair Haven Pond over the channel, visible half a mile off, where the ice is thinnest and saturated with water. March 4, 1860
The channel is already open a little way at the upper end of the pond. March 4, 1860
This pond at its outlet contracts gradually into the river, so that you could hardly tell where the pond left off and the river began. March 4, 1860
I see that the ice at present extends that way only so far as I last year assumed that the pond did. March 4, 1860
In this sense the river hence to the Hubbard Bridge is pond-like compared with the portion below. March 4, 1860
The snow has melted very rapidly the past week. There is much bare ground. March 4, 1854
I begin to sniff the air and smell the ground. March 4, 1854
For some time, or since the ground has been bare, I have noticed the spider-holes in the plowed land. March 4, 1855
The frost is all out of the upper part of the garden. March 4, 1860
I notice, where (ice or) snow has recently melted, a very thin dirty-white web like a dense cobweb, left flat on the grass, such as I saw some years ago. March 4, 1860
The checkerberries are revealed, — somewhat shrivelled many of them. March 4, 1854
In Hubbard's maple swamp I see the evergreen leaves of the gold-thread as well as the mitchella and large pyrola. March 4, 1854
In the meadow beyond I see everywhere the green and reddish radical leaves of the golden senecio, whose fragrance when bruised carries me back or forward to an incredible season. March 4, 1854
Who would believe that under the snow and ice lie still — or in midwinter — some green leaves which, bruised, yield the same odor that they do when their yellow blossoms spot the meadows in June? Nothing so realizes the summer to me now. March 4, 1854
In the dry pasture under the Cliff Hill, the radical leaves of the johnswort are now revealed everywhere in pretty radiating wreaths flat on the ground, with leaves recurved, reddish above, green beneath, and covered with dewy drops. March 4, 1854
The myosotis and bitter cress are hardly clean and fresh enough for a new growth. March 4, 1859
I see some curled dock, just started. March 4, 1860
Probably there is more of the chrysosplenium thus advanced in Concord than of the caltha. I see none of the last here. March 4, 1859
The radical leaves of the Ranunculus repens are conspicuous, but the worse for the wear . March 4, 1859
The handsome and neat brown (pale-brown yet distinct on the lighter withered sod) of the lechea is now conspicuous as a shading in the drying fields. March 4, 1860
At the Bee Hill-side, a striped squirrel quickly dives into his hole at our approach. March 4, 1855
I cut my initials on the bee tree. March 4, 1852
At the Bee Hill-side, a striped squirrel quickly dives into his hole at our approach. March 4, 1855
I cut my initials on the bee tree. March 4, 1852
May not this season of springlike weather between the first decidedly springlike day and the first blue bird, already fourteen days long, be called the striped squirrel spring -- In which we go listening for the blue bird, but hear him not. March 4, 1855
The ice of Walden has melted or softened so much that I sink an inch or more at every step. March 4, 1854
The upper side is white and rotten and saturated with water for four or five inches. It is now fifteen and a half inches thick, having lost about an inch and a half. March 4, 1854
Returning by the Andromeda Ponds, I am surprised to see the red ice visible still, half a dozen rods off. It is melted down to the red bubbles, and I can tinge my finger with it there by rubbing it in the rotted ice. March 4, 1855
The snow balls particularly when, as now, colder weather comes after a damp snow has fallen on muddy ground, and it is soft beneath while just freezing above. March 4, 1858
I grow so fast and am so weighed down and hindered, that I have to stop continually and look for a rock where I may kick off these newly acquired heels and soles. March 4, 1858
The surface of the snow thus rapidly melting and sinking (there are commonly some inches of water under it, the rain having soaked through), though still very fresh and pure white, is all cracked, as it were, like that of some old toadstools. March 4, 1859
It has sunk so much that every inequality in the surface of the ground beneath is more distinctly shown than when bare. March 4, 1859
The ruts of old wood-paths are represented in the surface a foot above, and the track of the man and of the dog that ran by the side of the team (in the old snow), — the thread, in short, of every valley. March 4, 1859
The surface of the snow, though so recent, is therefore, on account of the rain, very diversified. March 4, 1859
On steep slopes it is regularly furrowed, apparently by water that has flowed down it. March 4, 1859
In the brook in Hubbard's Close I see the grass pushing up from the bottom four or five inches long and waving in the current, which has not yet reached the surface. March 4, 1859
C. thinks this is called a sap snow, because it comes after the sap begins to flow. March 4, 1859
We stood still a few moments on the Turnpike below Wright's (the Turnpike, which had no wheel-track beyond Turtle's and no track at all beyond Wright's), and listened to hear a spring bird. March 4, 1859
We heard only the jay screaming in the distance and the cawing of a crow. March 4, 1859
What a perfectly New England sound is this voice of the crow! March 4, 1859
If you stand perfectly still anywhere in the outskirts of the town and listen, stilling the almost incessant hum of your own personal factory, this is perhaps the sound which you will be most sure to hear rising above all sounds of human industry and leading your thoughts to some far bay in the woods where the crow is venting his disgust. March 4, 1859
This bird sees the white man come and the Indian withdraw, but it withdraws not. March 4, 1859
Its untamed voice is still heard above the tinkling of the forge. It sees a race pass away, but it passes not away. March 4, 1859
It remains to remind us of aboriginal nature. March 4, 1859
I saw half a dozen crows on a cake of ice in the middle of the Great Meadows yesterday, evidently looking for some favorite food which is washed on to it, - snails, or cranberries perhaps. March 4, 1860
Sit under Lupine Promontory again, to see the ripples. March 4, 1860
The wind is too strong, the waves run too high and incessantly, to allow the distinct puffs or gusts that drop from over the hill to be seen distinctly enough on tumultuous surface. Yet it is interesting. March 4, 1860
It spreads and runs as a bird spreads its tail suddenly, or it is as if a gust fell on a head of dark hair and made dimples or “crowns” in it, or it is as when dust before a brisk sweeper curls along over a floor. March 4, 1860
There is much less of that yellowish anchor ice than on the 2d. March 4, 1860
Cakes of it successively rise, being separated by warmth from the bottom, and are driven off to the leeward shore. March 4, 1860
The upper side is white and rotten and saturated with water for four or five inches. It is now fifteen and a half inches thick, having lost about an inch and a half. March 4, 1854
Returning by the Andromeda Ponds, I am surprised to see the red ice visible still, half a dozen rods off. It is melted down to the red bubbles, and I can tinge my finger with it there by rubbing it in the rotted ice. March 4, 1855
The snow balls particularly when, as now, colder weather comes after a damp snow has fallen on muddy ground, and it is soft beneath while just freezing above. March 4, 1858
I grow so fast and am so weighed down and hindered, that I have to stop continually and look for a rock where I may kick off these newly acquired heels and soles. March 4, 1858
The surface of the snow thus rapidly melting and sinking (there are commonly some inches of water under it, the rain having soaked through), though still very fresh and pure white, is all cracked, as it were, like that of some old toadstools. March 4, 1859
It has sunk so much that every inequality in the surface of the ground beneath is more distinctly shown than when bare. March 4, 1859
The ruts of old wood-paths are represented in the surface a foot above, and the track of the man and of the dog that ran by the side of the team (in the old snow), — the thread, in short, of every valley. March 4, 1859
The surface of the snow, though so recent, is therefore, on account of the rain, very diversified. March 4, 1859
On steep slopes it is regularly furrowed, apparently by water that has flowed down it. March 4, 1859
In the brook in Hubbard's Close I see the grass pushing up from the bottom four or five inches long and waving in the current, which has not yet reached the surface. March 4, 1859
C. thinks this is called a sap snow, because it comes after the sap begins to flow. March 4, 1859
We stood still a few moments on the Turnpike below Wright's (the Turnpike, which had no wheel-track beyond Turtle's and no track at all beyond Wright's), and listened to hear a spring bird. March 4, 1859
We heard only the jay screaming in the distance and the cawing of a crow. March 4, 1859
What a perfectly New England sound is this voice of the crow! March 4, 1859
If you stand perfectly still anywhere in the outskirts of the town and listen, stilling the almost incessant hum of your own personal factory, this is perhaps the sound which you will be most sure to hear rising above all sounds of human industry and leading your thoughts to some far bay in the woods where the crow is venting his disgust. March 4, 1859
This bird sees the white man come and the Indian withdraw, but it withdraws not. March 4, 1859
Its untamed voice is still heard above the tinkling of the forge. It sees a race pass away, but it passes not away. March 4, 1859
It remains to remind us of aboriginal nature. March 4, 1859
I saw half a dozen crows on a cake of ice in the middle of the Great Meadows yesterday, evidently looking for some favorite food which is washed on to it, - snails, or cranberries perhaps. March 4, 1860
Sit under Lupine Promontory again, to see the ripples. March 4, 1860
The wind is too strong, the waves run too high and incessantly, to allow the distinct puffs or gusts that drop from over the hill to be seen distinctly enough on tumultuous surface. Yet it is interesting. March 4, 1860
It spreads and runs as a bird spreads its tail suddenly, or it is as if a gust fell on a head of dark hair and made dimples or “crowns” in it, or it is as when dust before a brisk sweeper curls along over a floor. March 4, 1860
There is much less of that yellowish anchor ice than on the 2d. March 4, 1860
Cakes of it successively rise, being separated by warmth from the bottom, and are driven off to the leeward shore. March 4, 1860
In some places that shore is lined with such cakes now, which have risen and been blown clear across the meadow and river, — large masses. March 4, 1860
Some portions of them are singularly saturated, of a yellowish or clay-color, and an uneven upper surface, with a finely divided perpendicular grain, looking (in form) just like some kinds of fungi (that commonly yellowish kind). March 4, 1860
There strike against one another and make a pleasant musical, or tinkling, sound. March 4, 1860
Some of the ice will occasionally be lifted up on its edge two feet high and very conspicuous afar. March 4, 1860
That reddish-purple tinge in the meadow ripples appears to be owing to a reflection in some cases from the somewhat russet bottom. March 4, 1860
The last three have been true March days for wind. March 4, 1860
Aspen down a quarter of an inch out. March 4, 1860
I see a bush of the early willow — by wall far in front of the C. Miles house — whose catkins are conspicuous thirty rods off, very decidedly green, three eighths of an inch by measure. March 4, 1860
The bush at this distance had quite a silvery look, and the catkins show some redness within. March 4, 1860
See no ducks to-day, though much water. Nights too cold? March 4, 1860
A hen-hawk rises and sails away over the Holden Wood as in summer. Saw and heard one scream the 2d. March 4, 1860
See two apparently sternothærus eggs dropped in a slight hollow in the grass, evidently imperfectly planted by the turtle; still whole. March 4, 1860
I see where a maple has been wounded the sap is flowing out. Now, then, is the time to make sugar. March 4, 1852
Now, at 11.30 perhaps, the sky begins to be slightly overcast. Thus, as the fishes look up at the waves, we look up at the clouds. March 4, 1852
A dull, cloudy day. March 4, 1854
These wind-clouds come up and disappear fast, and have a more or less perpendicular fibre. March 4, 1860
Some portions of them are singularly saturated, of a yellowish or clay-color, and an uneven upper surface, with a finely divided perpendicular grain, looking (in form) just like some kinds of fungi (that commonly yellowish kind). March 4, 1860
There strike against one another and make a pleasant musical, or tinkling, sound. March 4, 1860
Some of the ice will occasionally be lifted up on its edge two feet high and very conspicuous afar. March 4, 1860
That reddish-purple tinge in the meadow ripples appears to be owing to a reflection in some cases from the somewhat russet bottom. March 4, 1860
The last three have been true March days for wind. March 4, 1860
Aspen down a quarter of an inch out. March 4, 1860
I see a bush of the early willow — by wall far in front of the C. Miles house — whose catkins are conspicuous thirty rods off, very decidedly green, three eighths of an inch by measure. March 4, 1860
The bush at this distance had quite a silvery look, and the catkins show some redness within. March 4, 1860
See no ducks to-day, though much water. Nights too cold? March 4, 1860
A hen-hawk rises and sails away over the Holden Wood as in summer. Saw and heard one scream the 2d. March 4, 1860
See two apparently sternothærus eggs dropped in a slight hollow in the grass, evidently imperfectly planted by the turtle; still whole. March 4, 1860
I see where a maple has been wounded the sap is flowing out. Now, then, is the time to make sugar. March 4, 1852
Now, at 11.30 perhaps, the sky begins to be slightly overcast. Thus, as the fishes look up at the waves, we look up at the clouds. March 4, 1852
A dull, cloudy day. March 4, 1854
These wind-clouds come up and disappear fast, and have a more or less perpendicular fibre. March 4, 1860
I find near Hosmer Spring in the wettest ground, which has melted the snow as it fell, little flat beds of light-green moss, soft as velvet, which have recently pushed up, and lie just above the surface of the water. March 4, 1859
They are scattered about in the old decayed trough. (And there are still more and larger at Brister's Spring.) March 4, 1859
They are like little rugs or mats and are very obviously of fresh growth, such a green as has not been dulled by winter, a very fresh and living, perhaps slightly glaucous, green. March 4, 1859
Crossing the shrub oak plain to the Cliffs, I find a place on the south side of this rocky hill where the snow is melted and the bare gray rock appears, covered with mosses and lichens and beds of oak leaves in the hollows. March 4, 1852
As I sit an invisible flame and smoke seems to ascend from the leaves, and the sun shines with a genial warmth. March 4, 1852
We go over the Cliffs. Though a cold and strong wind, it is very warm in the sun, and we can sit in the sun where sheltered on these rocks with impunity. March 4, 1855
It is a genial warmth. March 4, 1855
The rustle of the dry leaves on the earth and in the crannies of the rocks, and gathered in deep windrows just under their edge, midleg deep, reminds me of fires in the woods. They are almost ready to burn. March 4, 1855
Seeking a sunny nook on the south side of a wood which keeps off the cold wind, sitting among the maples and the swamp white oaks which are frozen in, I hear the chickadees and the belching of the ice. March 4, 1852
They are scattered about in the old decayed trough. (And there are still more and larger at Brister's Spring.) March 4, 1859
They are like little rugs or mats and are very obviously of fresh growth, such a green as has not been dulled by winter, a very fresh and living, perhaps slightly glaucous, green. March 4, 1859
Crossing the shrub oak plain to the Cliffs, I find a place on the south side of this rocky hill where the snow is melted and the bare gray rock appears, covered with mosses and lichens and beds of oak leaves in the hollows. March 4, 1852
As I sit an invisible flame and smoke seems to ascend from the leaves, and the sun shines with a genial warmth. March 4, 1852
We go over the Cliffs. Though a cold and strong wind, it is very warm in the sun, and we can sit in the sun where sheltered on these rocks with impunity. March 4, 1855
It is a genial warmth. March 4, 1855
The rustle of the dry leaves on the earth and in the crannies of the rocks, and gathered in deep windrows just under their edge, midleg deep, reminds me of fires in the woods. They are almost ready to burn. March 4, 1855
Seeking a sunny nook on the south side of a wood which keeps off the cold wind, sitting among the maples and the swamp white oaks which are frozen in, I hear the chickadees and the belching of the ice. March 4, 1852
The sun has got a new power in his rays after all, cold as the weather is. He could not have warmed me so much a month ago, nor should I have heard such rumblings of the ice in December. March 4, 1852
The golden saxifrage has in one or two places decidedly and conspicuously grown, like the cowslip at Well Meadow and still more, rising in dense beds a half to three quarters of an inch above the water, the leaves, like those of the cowslip, only partly concealed and flatted out. March 4, 1859
The snow is melting on the rocks; the water trickles down in shining streams; the mosses look bright; the first awakening of vegetation at the root of the saxifrage. An oasis in the snow. March 4, 1852
I see a fly on the rock. March 4, 1855
*****
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau: Checkerberry
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Ice Out
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The American Crow
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Aspens
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, St. Johns-wort (Hypericum)
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring:
February 18, 1857 (“I was surprised to find how sweet the whole ground smelled when I lay flat and applied my nose to it”)
March 1, 1855 ("We go listening for bluebirds, but only hear crows and chickadees.”)
March 2, 1855 ("I go listening, but in vain, for the warble of a bluebird from the old orchard across the river.");
March 3, 1857 ("The red maple sap, which I first noticed the 21st of February, is now frozen up in the auger-holes .")
March 5, 1859 (" I see crows walking about on the ice half covered with snow in the middle of the meadows, where there is no grass, apparently to pick up the worms and other insects left there since the midwinter freshet.")
March 5, 1852 ("As I sit under their boughs, looking into the sky, I suddenly see the myriad black dots of the expanded buds against the sky. Their sap is flowing.”)
March 6, 1858 ("I see the first hen-hawk, or hawk of any kind, methinks, since the beginning of winter, Its scream, even, is inspiring as the voice of a spring bird")
March 6, 1853 ("Last Sunday I plucked some alder twigs, some aspen, and some swamp willow, and put them in water in a warm room. In about four days the aspens began to show their red anthers and feathery scales, being an inch in length and still extending.")
March 10, 1855 ("Those reddening leaves, as the checkerberry, lambkill, etc., etc., which at the beginning of winter were greenish, are now a deeper red, when the snow goes off.”)
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 cold and strong wind
yet very warm in the sun –
a fly on this rock.
March 4, 1855
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 © 2009-2024
tinyurl.com/HDT04March
No comments:
Post a Comment