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
It is a bright, clear,
warm November day.
I feel blessed.
I love my life.
I warm toward
all nature.
November 1, 1851
November 1, 2016
In November, a man will eat his heart, if in any month. November 1, 1852
As I go up the back road, I am struck with the general stillness as far as birds are concerned. November 1, 1853
It is a little cooler. November 1, 1854
The road and ruts are all frosted and stiff, and the grass and clover leaves. November 1, 1853
The road and ruts are all frosted and stiff, and the grass and clover leaves. November 1, 1853
A warm, mizzling kind of rain for two days past and still. November 1, 1852
After a rain-threatening morning it is a beautiful Indian-summer day, the most remarkable hitherto and equal to any of the kind. November 1, 1855
A perfect Indian-summer day, and wonderfully warm. 72+ at 1 P. M. and probably warmer at two. November 1, 1860
The air is still and warm. The river is perfectly smooth. November 1, 1855
The butterflies are out again . . . and yellow-winged grasshoppers with blackish edges. November 1, 1860
The butterflies are out again . . . and yellow-winged grasshoppers with blackish edges. November 1, 1860
The crickets now sound faintly and from very deep in the sod. November 1, 1851
A striped snake basks in the sun amid dry leaves. November 1, 1860
A striped snake basks in the sun amid dry leaves. November 1, 1860
Now that the sun is fairly risen, I see and hear a flock of larks in Wheeler's meadow. November 1, 1853.
I now hear a robin, and see and hear some noisy and restless jays, and a song sparrow chips faintly. November 1, 1853
I now hear a robin, and see and hear some noisy and restless jays, and a song sparrow chips faintly. November 1, 1853
At this season there are stranger sparrows or finches about. November 1, 1851
Counted one hundred and twenty five crows in one straggling flock moving westward. November 1, 1851
As I return, I notice crows flying southwesterly in a very long straggling flock, of which I see probably neither end. November 1, 1853
Gossamer on the withered grass is shimmering in the fields, and flocks of it are sailing in the air. November 1, 1860
It is a remarkable day for fine gossamer cobwebs. November 1, 1851
If at a distance you see the birch near its top forking into two or more white limbs, you may know it for a canoe birch. November 1, 1851
The white birch seeds begin to fall and leave the core bare. November 1, 1853
The ground wears its red carpet under the pines. November 1, 1851
The grass has got a new greenness in spots. November 1, 1851
The skunk-cabbage is already pushing up again. November 1, 1851
The skunk-cabbage is already pushing up again. November 1, 1851
Fall dandelions look bright still. November 1, 1851
The cinquefoil on Conantum. November 1, 1851
The witch-hazels have mostly lost their blossoms, perhaps on account of the snow. November 1, 1851
The witch-hazels have mostly lost their blossoms, perhaps on account of the snow. November 1, 1851
I see much witch-hazel in the swamp by the south end of the Abiel Wheeler grape meadow. Some of it is quite fresh and bright. . . .What a lively spray it has, both in form and color! . . .They impart to the whole hillside a speckled, parti-colored look. November 1, 1857
Another cloudy afternoon after a clear morning. November 1, 1857
When I enter the woods I notice the drier crispier rustle of withered leaves on the oak trees, – a sharper susurrus. November 1, 1857
The red shrub oak leaves abide on the hills. November 1, 1851
Going over the high field west of the cut, my foot strikes a rattle-pod in the stubble, and it is betrayed. From that faint sound I knew it must be there, and went back and found it. I could have told it as well in the dark. How often I have found pennyroyal by the fragrance it emitted when bruised by my feet! November 1, 1857
Going over the high field west of the cut, my foot strikes a rattle-pod in the stubble, and it is betrayed. From that faint sound I knew it must be there, and went back and found it. I could have told it as well in the dark. How often I have found pennyroyal by the fragrance it emitted when bruised by my feet! November 1, 1857
The maples and swamp oaks and willows are for the most part bare, but some of the oaks are partly clothed yet with withered leaves. November 1, 1855
The larches are at the height of their change. November 1, 1857
The larches are at the height of their change. November 1, 1857
The hawthorn is but three-quarters fallen and is a greenish yellow or yellowish green. November 1, 1858
The alders have lost their leaves, and the willows except a few shrivelled ones. November 1, 1851
Now you easily detect where larches grow, viz. in the swamp north of Sleepy Hollow. They are far more distinct than at any other season. November 1, 1858
The pitch pines show new buds at the end of their plumes. November 1, 1851
While getting the azaleas, I notice the shad-bush conspicuously leafing out. Those long, narrow, pointed buds, prepared for next spring, have anticipated their time. November 1, 1853
While getting the azaleas, I notice the shad-bush conspicuously leafing out. Those long, narrow, pointed buds, prepared for next spring, have anticipated their time. November 1, 1853
I see the common prinos berries partly eaten about the hole of a mouse under a stump. November 1, 1857
As I approached their edge, I saw the woods beneath, Fair Haven Pond, and the hills across the river, . . .between the converging boughs of two white pines a rod or two from me on the edge of the rock; and I thought that there was no frame to a landscape equal to this, — to see, between two near pine boughs, whose lichens are distinct, a distant forest and lake, the one frame, the other picture. November 1, 1852
As I return by the Well Meadow Field and then Wheeler’s large wood, the sun shines from over Fair Haven Hill into the wood, and I see that the sun, when low, will shine into a thick wood, which you had supposed always dark, as much as twenty rods, lighting it all up, making the gray, lichen-clad stems of the trees all warm and bright with light, and a distinct black shadow behind each. As if every grove, however dense, had its turn. November 1, 1857
As I return by the Well Meadow Field and then Wheeler’s large wood, the sun shines from over Fair Haven Hill into the wood, and I see that the sun, when low, will shine into a thick wood, which you had supposed always dark, as much as twenty rods, lighting it all up, making the gray, lichen-clad stems of the trees all warm and bright with light, and a distinct black shadow behind each. As if every grove, however dense, had its turn. November 1, 1857
The woods are now much more open than when I last observed them; the leaves have fallen, and they let in light, and I see the sky through them as through a crow's wing in every direction. November 1, 1851
For the most part only the pines and oaks (white?) retain their leaves. At a distance, accordingly, the forest is green and reddish. November 1, 1851
For the most part only the pines and oaks (white?) retain their leaves. At a distance, accordingly, the forest is green and reddish. November 1, 1851
The lowest and most succulent oak sprouts in exposed places are red or green longest. Large trees quite protected from sun and wind will be greener still. November 1, 1857
Many black oaks are bare in Sleepy Hollow. November 1, 1858
If you wish to count the scarlet oaks. do it now. Stand on a hilltop in the woods, when the sun is an hour high and the sky is clear, and every one within range of your vision will be revealed November 1, 1858
As I paddle under the Leaning Hemlocks, the breeze rustles the boughs, and showers of their fresh winged seeds come wafted down to the water and are carried round and onward in the great eddy there. November 1, 1853
I see so far and distinctly, my eyes seem to slide in this clear air. The river is peculiarly sky-blue to-day, not dark as usual. It is all in the air. November 1, 1851
As I stood on the south bank of the river a hundred rods southwest of John Flint’s, the sun being just about to enter a long and broad dark-blue or slate-colored cloud in the horizon, a cold, dark bank, I saw that the reflection of Flint’s white house in the river, prolonged by a slight ripple so as to reach the reflected cloud, was a very distinct and luminous light blue. November 1, 1858
It is a bright, clear, warm November day. I feel blessed. I love my life. I warm toward all nature. November 1, 1851
A man dwells in his native valley like a corolla in its calyx, like an acorn in its cup. Here, of course, is all that you love, all that you expect, all that you are. November 1, 1858
There is no more tempting novelty than this new November. November 1, 1858
This is the aspect under which the Musketaquid might be represented at this season: a long, smooth lake, reflecting the bare willows and button-bushes, the stubble, and the wool-grass on its tussock, a muskrat-cabin or two conspicuous on its margin amid the unsightly tops of pontederia, and a bittem disappearing on undulating wing around a bend. November 1, 1855
This is the November shore. November 1, 1855
This, too, is the recovery of the year, — as if the year, having nearly or quite accomplished its work, and abandoned all design, were in a more favorable and poetic mood, and thought rushed in to fill the vacuum. November 1, 1855
This, too, is the recovery of the year, — as if the year, having nearly or quite accomplished its work, and abandoned all design, were in a more favorable and poetic mood, and thought rushed in to fill the vacuum. November 1, 1855
I hear in the fields just before sundown a shriller chirping of a few crickets, reminding me that their song is getting thin and will soon be quenched. November 1, 1858
I leaned over a rail in the twilight on the Walden road, waiting for the evening mail to be distributed, when . . . I seemed to recognize the November evening as a familiar thing come round again, and yet I could hardly tell whether I had ever known it or only divined it. The November twilights just begun! November 1, 1858
Returning in the twilight, I see a bat over the river. November 1, 1855
As the afternoons grow shorter, and the early evening drives us home to complete our chores, we are reminded of the shortness of life, and become more pensive, at least in this twilight of the year. We are prompted to make haste and finish our work before the night comes. November 1, 1858
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| November 1, 2 016 |
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Birches in Season
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the American Crow
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Blue Jay
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Witch-Hazel
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Scarlet Oak
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Birches in Season
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Pine Fall
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Shrub Oak
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Gossamer Days
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Indian Summer
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, November Sunsets
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, November Moods
November 1, 2019
July 16, 1851 ("I love and worship myself with a love which absorbs my love for the world.")
August 15, 1851 ("May I love and revere myself above all the gods that men have ever invented.")
October 22, 1858 ("I see, from the Cliffs, that color has run through the shrub oak plain like a fire or a wave, not omitting a single tree.")
October 28, 1857("The white pine needles on the ground are already turned considerably redder.")
.October 29, 1858 ("The birch has now generally dropped its golden spangles")
October 31, 1858("As I sit on the Cliff there, the sun is now getting low, and the woods in Lincoln south and east of me are lit up by its more level rays, and there is brought out a more brilliant redness in the scarlet oaks, scattered so equally over the forest, than you would have believed was in them. Every tree of this species which is visible in these directions, even to the horizon, now stands out distinctly red.")
November 2, 1853 ("The witch-hazel appears to be nearly out of bloom, most of the flowers withering or frost-bitten ")
November 2, 1858 ("In sprout-lands some young birches are still rather leafy and bright-colored.")
November 2, 1858 ("Going over the newly cleared pasture on the northeast of Fair Haven Hill, I see that the scarlet oaks are more generally bright than on the 22d . . . they interest me more than the maples, they are so widely and equally dispersed throughout the forest; they are so hardy, a nobler tree on the whole, lasting into November; our chief November flower, abiding the approach of winter with us, imparting warmth to November prospects.")
November 3, 1857 ("It is a phenomenon peculiar to this season, when the twigs are bare and the air is clear. I cannot easily tell what is cobweb and what twig,")
November 4, 1854 ("The shad-bush buds have expanded into small leaflets already.")
November 6, 1853 ("The witch-hazel spray is peculiar and interesting, with little knubs at short intervals, zig zag, crinkle-crankle. How happens it? Did the leaves grow so close? The bud is long against the stem, with a neck to it. ")November 4, 1852 ("Saw witch-hazels out of bloom, some still fresh.")
November 7, 1855 ("Looking west over Wheeler’s meadow, I see that there has been much gossamer on the grass, and it is now revealed by the dewy mist which has collected on it.”)
November 9, 1851 ("Facts should only be as the frame to my pictures; they should be material to the mythology which I am writing;. . .facts to tell who I am, and where I have been or what I have thought:. . . I would so state facts that they shall be significant, shall be myths or mythologic. Facts which the mind perceived, thoughts which the body thought -- with these I deal.")
November 15, 1858 ("Gossamer, methinks, belongs to the latter part of October and first part of November")
November 21, 1850 ("Seeing the sun falling . . .in an angle where this forest meets a hill covered with shrub oaks, affects me singularly, reinspiring me with all the dreams of my youth . . . It is one of the avenues to my future.")
February 18, 1852 ("I see that if my facts were sufficiently vital and significant, ... I should need but one book of poetry to contain them all.")
November 1, 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.
October 31 <<<<<<<<< November 1 >>>>>>>> November 2
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, November 1
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
https://tinyurl.com/HDT01Nov
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