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 the bare branches
of the oak woods await the
onset of the wind.
My boat's motion sends
an undulation ashore,
rustling the dry sedge.
November 14, 1855
In this cutting wind
the dry rustle of oak leaves
sets your heart on edge.
November 14, 2020
Now for the bare branches of the oak woods, where hawks have nested and owls perched, the sinews of the trees, and the brattling of the wind in their midst. For, now their leaves are off, they've bared their arms, thrown off their coats, and, in the attitude of fencers, await the onset of the wind. November 14, 1853
This morning it was considerably colder than for a long time, and by noon very much colder than heretofore, with a pretty strong northerly wind. November 14, 1857
Unexpectedly find Heywood's Pond frozen over thinly, it being shallow and coldly placed. November 14, 1851
Minott hears geese to-day. November 14, 1855
The principal flight of geese was November 8th, so that the bulk of them preceded this cold turn five days. November 14, 1858
Now all that moves migrates, or has migrated. Ducks are gone by. The citizen has sought the town. November 14, 1858
This cold weather makes us step more briskly. November 14, 1857
I feel the crunching sound of frost-crystals in the heaving mud under my feet, November 14, 1857
Such are the first advances of winter. Ice-crystals shoot in the mud, the sphagnum becomes a stiffened mass, and dropping water in these cold places, a rigid icicle. November 14, 1857
It is all at once perfect winter. I walk on frozen ground two thirds covered with a sugaring of dry snow. November 14, 1858
This strong and cutting northwest wind makes the oak leaves rustle dryly enough to set your heart on edge. November 14, 1858
The rustling leaves sound like the fierce breathing of wolves, — an endless pack, half famished, from the north, impelled by hunger to seize him. November 14, 1858
If he looks into the water, he gets no comfort there, for that is cold and empty, expecting ice. November 14, 1858
All winter is their fall. November 14, 1853.
A distinction is to be made between those trees whose leaves fall as soon as the bright autumnal tints are gone and they are withered and those whose leaves are rustling and falling all winter even into spring. November 14, 1853
The willow twigs on the right of the Red Bridge causeway are bright greenish-yellow and reddish as in the spring. Also on the right railroad sand-bank at Heywood's meadow. Is it because they are preparing their catkins now against another spring? November 14, 1854
A clear, bright, warm afternoon. November 14, 1855
All waters — the rivers and ponds and swollen brooks — and many new ones are now seen through the leafless trees — are blue reservoirs of dark indigo amid the general russet and reddish-brown and gray. November 14, 1853
Now I begin to notice the silver downy twigs of the sweet-fern in the sun (lately bare), the red or crimson twigs and buds of the high blueberry. The different colors of the water andromeda in different lights. November 14, 1858
The river is slightly over the meadows. November 14, 1854
The rain has raised the river an additional foot or more, and it is creeping over the meadows. November 14, 1855
The motion of my boat sends an undulation to the shore, which rustles the dry sedge half immersed there. November 14, 1855
Still yarrow, tall buttercup, and tansy. November 14, 1852
A painted tortoise swimming under water and a wood tortoise out on the bank. November 14, 1855
Two red-wing blackbirds alight on a black willow. November 14, 1855
The thermometer is 27° at 6 P. M. The mud in the street is stiffened under my feet this evening. November 14, 1857
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