A Book of the Seasons; January 11 (western sky, cold, snow, rain, ice, winter sunsets)

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

January 11

Pale greenish-yellow

ineffably clear blue sky

just before sunset.

January 11, 1852

Close objects stand out

against a near horizon –

air thick with snowflakes.

January 11, 1855

Sunsets now contrast

with the simple snow-clad earth 

and the clear cold sky. 

January 11, 1856

 

January 11, 2016

The glory of these afternoons, though the sky may be mostly overcast, is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset. January 11, 1852

The whole cope of heaven seen at once is never so elysian. Windows to heaven, the heavenward windows of the earth. January 11, 1852

Let me not live as if time was short. January 11, 1852

Surveying for John L  . . . He says that the most snow we have had this winter (it has not been more than one inch deep) has been only a "robin snow," as it is called, i. e. a snow which does not drive off the robins.  January 11 & 12, 1853

Now is the time to go out and see the ice organ-pipes. January 11, 1854

A fine snow has just begun to fall, so we make haste to improve the skating before it is too late.   January 11, 1855

It is a pleasant time to skate, so still, and the air so thick with snowflakes that the outline of near hills is seen against it and not against the more distant and higher hills. January 11, 1855

Single pines stand out distinctly against it in the near horizon.   January 11, 1855

 

This air, thick with snowflakes, making a background, enables me to detect a very picturesque clump of trees on an islet at Pole Brook,—a red oak in midst, with birches on each side.  January 11, 1855

The sunsets, I think, are now particularly interesting.   January 11, 1856

The colors of the west seem more than usually warm, perhaps by contrast with this simple snow-clad earth over which we look and the clear cold sky,— a sober but extensive redness, almost every night passing into a dun. There is nothing to distract our attention from it.  January 11, 1856

Began snowing yesterday afternoon, and it is still snowing this forenoon.  January 11, 1857

Rain, rain — washes off almost every vestige of snow.  January 11, 1858

At 6 A. M. -22° and how much more I know not, ours having gone into the bulb; but that is said to be the lowest. January 11, 1859

There are so many of these [huckle]berries in their season that most do not perceive that birds and quadrupeds make any use of them, since they are not felt to rob us; yet they are more important to them than to us. January 11, 1861 

We do not notice the robin when it plucks a berry, as when it visits our favorite cherry tree, and the fox pays his visits to the field when we are not there.  January 11, 1861 

*****

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Western Sky

 A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Winter Sunsets

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

*****

August 4, 1854 ("Rain and mist contract our horizon and we notice near and small objects")

September 23, 1860 ("It is evident, then, that the fox eats huckleberries and so contributes very much to the dispersion of this shrub, for there were a number of entire berries in its dung in both the last two I chanced to notice.")  

September 20, 1857 ("The outlines of trees are more conspicuous and interesting such a day as this, being seen distinctly against the near misty background, – distinct and dark.");  

 November 29, 1850 ("The trees and shrubs look larger than usual when seen through the mist..."

December 11, 1854 ("It is but mid-afternoon when I see the sun setting far through the woods, and there is that peculiar clear vitreous greenish sky in the west, as it were a molten gem.")

December 12, 1851 ("I wish for leisure and quiet to let my life flow in its proper channels, with its proper currents; when I might not waste the days.")

December 14, 1851("There is a beautifully pure greenish-blue sky under the clouds now in the southwest just before sunset.")

December 25, 1851 (“I go forth to see the sun set. Who knows how it will set, even half an hour beforehand ?”)

December 27, 1853 ("It is a true winter sunset, almost cloudless, clear, cold indigo-y along the horizon.") 

December 28, 1852 ("We live too fast and coarsely, just as we eat too fast, and do not know the true savor of our food. ")

December 30, 1860 ("The Whortleberry Family"); January 3, 1861 ("The berries which I celebrate")

January 8, 1861 ("The Indians used their dried berries commonly in the form of huckleberry cake, and also of huckleberry porridge or pudding.") 

January 17, 1852 (“”Those western vistas through clouds to the sky show the clearest heavens, clearer and more elysian than if the whole sky is comparatively free from clouds.")

January 23, 1857 ("The coldest day that I remember recording")

February 7, 1855 ("Thermometer at about 7.30 A. M. gone into the bulb, -19° at least. The cold has stopped the clock.")

February 7, 1855 ("The old folks still refer to the Cold Friday, when they sat before great fires of wood four feet long, with a fence of blankets behind them, and water froze on the mantelpiece.")  

February 14, 1852 ("At the Cliffs, the rocks are in some places covered with ice; icicles at once hang perpendicularly, like organ pipes, in front of the rock.  . . . The shadow of the water flowing and pulsating behind . . .these stalactites in the sun imparts a semblance of life to the whole.”)

March 3, 1857 ("[W]hen the rill reaches the perpendicular face of the cliff, its constant drip at night builds great organ-pipes of a ringed structure, which run together, buttressing the rock.") 

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 

January 10  <<<<<<<<  January 11  >>>>>>>> January 12

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, January 11

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/HDT11Jan