Monday, February 12, 2024

A Book of the Seasons, Signs of the Spring: Walking without Gloves


No mortal is alert enough to be present at the first dawn of the spring. 
Henry Thoreau, March 17, 1857

I am on the alert for the first signs of spring, 
to hear the chance note of some arriving bird, 
or the striped squirrel’s chirp, 
for his stores must be now nearly exhausted, 
or see the woodchuck venture out of his winter quarters.
 ~ Walden

Dreaming of summer
this warm and pleasant day – I
take off my mittens.
February 12, 1854


January 23. A fine afternoon. There has been but little use for gloves this winter, though I have been surveying a great deal for three months. The sun, and cockcrowing, bare ground, etc., etc., remind me of March. Standing on the bridge over the Mill Brook on the Turnpike, there being but little ice on the south side, I see several small water-bugs (Gyrinus) swimming about, as in the spring. January 23, 1858

January 25. A very cold day. Saw a man in Worcester this morning who took a pride in never wearing gloves or mittens. But this morning he had to give up. The 22d, 23d, 24th, and 25th of this month have been the coldest spell of weather this winter. January 25, 1854

January 25. It is a rare day for winter, clear and bright, yet warm. The warmth and stillness in the hollows about the Andromeda Ponds are charming. You dispense with gloves. January 25, 1855

February 12. I am not aware till I come out how pleasant a day it is. It was very cold this morning, and I have been putting on wood in vain to warm my chamber, and lo! I come forth, and am surprised to find it warm and pleasant. There is very little wind, here under Fair Haven especially. I begin to dream of summer even. I take off my mittens. February 12, 1854

February 23. I have seen signs of the spring. February 23, 1857

March 7. At 9 o'clock P.M to the woods by the full moon. It is rather mild to-night. I can walk without gloves. There is no snow on the trees. The ground is thinly covered with a crusted snow, through which the dead grass and weeds appear, telling the nearness of spring. March 7, 1852

The first pleasant days
of spring come out like a squirrel
and go in again.
March 7, 1855

March 19. 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. March 19, 1855

March 20. It is remarkable by what a gradation of days which we call pleasant and warm, beginning in the last of February, we come at last to real summer warmth. At first a sunny, calm, serene winter day is pronounced spring, or reminds us of it; and then the first pleasant spring day perhaps we walk with our greatcoat buttoned up and gloves on. March 20, 1855

April 3. About 8.30 P. M. I walked to the Clamshell Hill. It is very cold and windy, and I miss my gloves, left at home.  Colder than the last moon. April 3, 1852

April 3. It is somewhat warmer, but still windy, and I go to sail down to the Island and up to Hubbard’s Causeway.  Most would call it cold to-day. I paddle without gloves. April 3, 1855

April 9. 5.15 A. M. —To Red Bridge just before sunrise. Fine clear morning, but still cold enough for gloves. A slight frost, and mist as yesterday curling over the smooth water. April 9, 1855

April 10. The morning of the 6th, when I found the skunk cabbage out, it was so cold I suffered from numbed fingers, having left my gloves behind. Since April came in, however, you have needed gloves only in the morning. April 10, 1855

April 22. Though my hands are cold this morning I have not worn gloves for a few mornings past, — a week or ten days. April 22, 1855

May 6. To-day it has spit a little snow and is very windy (northwest) and cold enough for gloves. Is not that the true spring when the F. hyemalis and tree sparrows are with us singing in the cold mornings with the song sparrows, and ducks and gulls are about? May 6, 1854

See also Signs of the Spring:
<<<<< Signs of Spring     Early Spring >>>>>

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

http://tinyurl.com/hdtgloves

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