The eddy and wearing away of the bank at the stone bridge.

July 20. 

The little Holbrook boy showed me an egg which I unhesitatingly pronounced a peetweet's, given him by Joe Smith. The latter, to my surprise, declares it a meadow-hen's; saw the bird and young, and says the latter were quite black and had hen bills. Can it be so? 

Humphrey Buttrick says he finds snipes' nests in our meadows oftener than woodcocks'. 

P. M. — To Eddy Bridge. 

Abel Hosmer says that the Turnpike Company did not fulfill their engagement to build a new bridge over the Assabet in 1807; that the present stone bridge was not built till about the time the Orthodox meeting-house was built. (That was in 1826.) Benjamin says it was built soon after the meeting-house, or perhaps 1827, and was placed some fifty feet higher up-stream than the old wooden one. 

Hosmer says that the eddy and wearing away of the bank has been occasioned wholly by the bridge; that there was only the regular bend there before. He had thought that it was in consequence of the bridge being set askew or diagonally with the stream, so that the abutments turned the water and gave it a slant into the banks. I think that this did not create, only increased, the evil. 

The bank which it has worn away rises some sixteen feet above low water, and, considering the depth of the water, you may say that it has removed the sand to a depth of twenty-five feet over an area of a quarter of an acre, or say to the depth of three feet or a yard over two acres, or 9680 cubic yards or cartloads, which, at twenty-five cents per load, it would have cost $2420 to move in the ordinary manner, or enough to fill the present river for a quarter of a mile, calling it six rods wide and twelve feet deep. 

Beside creating some small islands and bars close by, this sand and gravel has, of course, been distributed along in the river and on the adjacent meadows below. 

Hosmer complains that his interval has accordingly been very much injured by the sand washed on to it below, — "hundreds of dollars" damage done to him. All this within some thirty-five years. 

It may well be asked what has become of all this sand? Of course it has contributed to form sand-bars below, possibly a great way below. 

Jacob Farmer tells me that he remembers that when about twenty-one years old he and Hildreth were bathing in the Assabet at the mouth of the brook above Winn's, and Hildreth swam or waded across to a sand bar (now the island there), but the water was so deep on that bar that he became frightened, and would have been drowned if he had not been dragged out and resuscitated by others. This was directly over where that island is now, and was then only a bar beginning under water. That island, as he said, had been formed within thirty-five years, or since the Eddy Bridge was built; and I suggest that it may have been built mainly of the ruins of that bank. 

It is the only island in the Assabet for two and a half miles. 

There is a perfect standstill in the eddy at Eddy Bridge now, and there is a large raft of grass, weeds, and lumber perfectly at rest there, against Hosmer's bank. The coarser materials — stones as big as a hen's egg — are dropped close by, but the sand must have been carried far down-stream. 

Hosmer says that when he digs down in his millet- field, twenty rods or more from the river, in his interval, at three or four feet depth he comes to coarse stones which look like an old bed of the river. I see them at each of the small wooden bridges, and very likely they underlie the whole of that interval, covered with sand. 

Such is the character of a river-bottom, — the stones from a hen's egg to the size of your head dropped down to one level, the sand being washed away, and now found in one stratum. 

So completely emasculated and demoralized is our river that it is even made to observe the Christian Sabbath, and Hosmer tells me that at this season on a Sunday morning (for then the river runs lowest, owing to the factory and mill gates being shut above) little gravelly islands begin to peep out in the channel below. Not only the operatives make the Sunday a day of rest, but the river too, to some extent, so that the very fishes feel the influence (or want of influence) of man's religion. 

The very rivers run with fuller streams on Monday morning. All nature begins to work with new impetuosity on Monday. 

I see where turtles' eggs are still being dug up!

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 20, 1859

The coarser materials — stones as big as a hen's egg — are dropped close by, but the sand must have been carried far down-stream. See July 16, 1859 ("It is remarkable how the stones are separated from the sand at the Eddy Bridge and deposited in a bar or islands by themselves a few rods lower down.")

How perfectly at home the musquash is on our river.

December 23

P. M. — To Eddy Bridge. 

December 23, 2018

Colder last night. Walden undoubtedly frozen at last, — What was left to freeze.[No.]

See a shrike on the top of an oak. It sits still, pluming itself. At first, when it was flying, I thought it a hairy woodpecker. 

How perfectly at home the musquash is on our river. And then there is an abundance of clams, a wholesome diet for him, to be had for the diving for them. I do not know that he has any competition in this chase, unless it is an occasional otter. The clams are a sizable fish and in time of scarcity would not be contemptible food for man.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 23, 1858

Walden undoubtedly frozen at last, — [No.] See December 24, 1858 ("Those two places in middle of Walden not frozen over yet, though it was quite cold last night! “).

How perfectly at home the musquash is on our river. See November 11, 1855 ("The building of these cabins appears to be coincident with the commencement of their clam diet, for now their vegetable food, excepting roots, is cut off. "); November 16, 1852 ("Muskrat-houses completed. Interesting objects looking down a river-reach at this season, and our river should not be represented without one or two of these cones. They are . . .of too much importance to be omitted in the river landscape."); November 17, 1858 ("The musquash are more active since the cold weather. I see more of them about the river now, swimming back and forth across the river, and diving in the middle, where I lose them. They dive off the round-backed, black mossy stones, which, when small and slightly exposed, look much like themselves. In swimming show commonly three parts with water between. One sitting in the sun, as if for warmth, on the opposite shore to me looks quite reddish brown. They avail themselves of the edge of the ice now found along the sides of the river to feed on”); December 3, 1853 ("I see that muskrats have not only erected cabins, but, since the river rose, have in some places dug galleries a rod into the bank, pushing the sand behind them into the water. So they dig these now as places of retreat merely, or for the same purpose as the cabins, apparently."); December 26, 1859 ("Twice this winter I have noticed a musquash floating in a placid open place in the river when it was frozen for a mile each side, looking at first like a bit of stump or frozen meadow, but showing its whole upper outline from nose to end of tail; perfectly still till he observed me, then suddenly diving and steering under the ice toward some cabin's entrance or other retreat half a dozen or more rods off. ")  See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Musquash

The humblest fungus betrays a life akin to my own

October 10. 

October 10, 2018

Sunday. P. M. ——-To Annursnack. 

November has already come to the river with the fall of the black willow and the button-bush, and the fall and blackening of the pontederia. The leaves of the two former are the greater part fallen, letting in the autumn light to the water, and the ducks have less shelter and concealment. 

As I go along the Groton road, I see afar, in the middle of E. Wood’s field, what looks like a stone jug or post, but my glass reveals it a woodchuck, a great, plump gray fellow, and when I am nearly half a mile off, I can still see him nibbling the grass there, and from time to time, when he hears, perchance, a wagon on the road, sitting erect and looking warily around for approaching foes. I am glad to see the woodchuck so fat in the orchard. It proves that is the same nature that was of yore. 

The autumnal brightness of the foliage generally is less, or faded, since the fading of the maples and hickories, which began about the 5th. Oak leaves generally (perhaps except scarlet?) begin to wither soon after they begin to turn, and large trees (except the scarlet) do not generally attain to brilliancy.[?] 

Apparently Fringilla pusilla yet.

The Salix humilis leaves are falling fast in Wood Turtle Path (A. Hosmer’s), a dry Wood-path, looking curled and slaty-colored about the half-bare stems.

Thus each humble shrub is contributing its mite to the fertility of the globe. 

I find the under sides of the election-cake fungi there covered with pink-colored fleas, apparently poduras, skipping about when it is turned up to the light. 

The simplest and most lumpish fungus has a peculiar interest to us, compared with a mere mass of earth, because it is so obviously organic and related to ourselves, however mute. It is the expression of an idea; growth according to a law; matter not dormant, not raw, but inspired, appropriated by spirit. If I take up a handful of earth, however separately interesting the particles may be, their relation to one another appears to be that of mere juxtaposition generally. I might have thrown them together thus. But the humblest fungus betrays a life akin to my own. It is a successful poem in its kind. There is suggested something superior to any particle of matter, in the idea or mind which uses and arranges the particles. 

Genius is inspired by its own works; it is hermaphroditic. 

I find the fringed gentian abundantly open at 3 and at 4 P. M., — in fact, it must be all the afternoon, — open to catch the cool October sun and air in its low position. Such a dark blue! surpassing that of the male bluebird’s back, who must be encouraged by its presence. [Inclosing it in a mass of the sphagnum near or in which it often grows, I carry it home, and it opens for several days in succession.]

The indigo-weed, now partly turned black and broken off, blows about the pastures like the fiyaway grass.

I find some of those little rooty tubers (?), now woody, in the turtle field of A. Hosmer’s by Eddy Bridge.

Pulling up some Diplopappus linariifolius, now done, I find many bright-purple shoots, a half to three quarters of an inch long, freshly put forth underground and ready to turn upward and form new plants in the spring.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 10, 1858

November has already come to the river with the fall of the black willow and the button-bush. See note to  October 8, 1858 ("The button-bushes and black willows are rapidly losing leaves, and the shore begins to look Novemberish.")

The simplest and most lumpish fungus . . .betrays a life akin to my own. It is a successful poem in its kind. See  February 19, 1854 ("The mind of the universe rather, which we share, has been intended upon each particular object. . .kindred mind with mine that admires and approves decided it so.") See also August 7, 1853 ("The past has been a remarkably wet week, and now the earth is strewn with fungi."); October 22, 1851 ("The rain and dampness have given birth to a new crop of mushrooms.")

Such a dark blue! surpassing that of the male bluebird’s back, who must be encouraged by its presence. See October 19, 1852 ("It is too remarkable a flower not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare. It is one of the errands of the walker, as well as of the bees, for it yields him a more celestial nectar still. It is a very singular and agreeable surprise to come upon this conspicuous and handsome and withal blue flower at this season, when flowers have passed out of our minds and memories")

Thus each humble shrub is contributing its mite to the fertility of the globe. See September 12, 1858 ("Thus gradually and successively each plant lends its richest color to the general effect, and in the fittest place, and passes away. "); October 14, 1860 (" Consider how many leaves there are to fall each year and how much they must add to the soil. We have had a remarkably fertile year."); October 16, 1857 ("How beautifully they die, making cheerfully their annual contribution to the soil! They fall to rise again; as if they knew that it was not one annual deposit alone that made this rich mould in which pine trees grow. They live in the soil whose fertility and bulk they increase, and in the forests that spring from it. "); October 20, 1853 ("Merrily they go scampering over the earth, selecting their graves, whispering all through the woods about it. They that waved so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high! So they troop to their graves, light and frisky. They are about to add a leaf's breadth to the depth of the soil. We are all the richer for their decay."); October 29, 1855 ("When the leaves fall, the whole earth is a cemetery pleasant to walk in. I love to wander and muse over them in their graves, returning to dust again. Here are no lying nor vain epitaphs. The scent of their decay is pleasant to me.")

The indigo-weed, now partly turned black and broken off, blows about the pastures like the fiyaway grass. See June 3, 1851 ("I noticed the indigo-weed a week or two ago pushing up like asparagus."); July 10, 1855 ("Indigo out."); July 17, 1852 ("Some fields are covered now with tufts or clumps of indigo- weed, yellow with blossoms, with a few dead leaves turned black here and there."); July 25, 1853 ("Bunches of indigo, still in bloom, more numerously than anywhere that I remember");  August 6, 1858 ("indigo, ' ' 'is still abundantly in bloom. "); August 17, 1851 ("Indigo-weed still in bloom by the dry wood-path-side,");  October 22, 1859 ("In my blustering walk over the Mason and Hunt pastures yesterday, I saw much of the withered indigo-weed which was broken off and blowing about, and the seeds in its numerous black pods rattling like the rattlepod though not nearly so loud"); February 28, 1860 ("As I stood by Eagle Field wall, I heard a fine rattling sound, produced by the wind on some dry weeds at my elbow. It was occasioned by the wind rattling the fine seeds in those pods of the indigo-weed which were still closed, — a distinct rattling din which drew my attention to it, — like a small Indian's calabash. Not a mere rustling of dry weeds, but the shaking of a rattle, or a hundred rattles, beside.")

Pulling up some Diplopappus linariifolius, now done. See August 22, 1859 ("The savory-leaved aster (Diplopappus linariifolius) out; how long?"); September 18, 1856 ("Diplopappus linariifolius in prime.")

October 10. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  October 10

The humblest fungus 

a life akin to my own –

poem in its kind. 

https://tinyurl.com/HDT581010

Stream dynamics and ecology of the Assabet

July 16 and 18. 

Afternoons, I sounded the Assabet as far up as the stone bridge. 

This bridge, as I see by the town records, was talked about (i. e. the building) in 1807, and was probably built that year or the next (though E. Wood says that the Turnpike Company, who then proposed to build it, did not fulfill their contract). Shattuck's date, 1802, is wrong. 

Accordingly, by building this narrow bridge here, twenty-five feet in width, or contracting the stream to about one fourth its average width, the current has been so increased as to wash away about a quarter of an acre of land which rises a dozen or fourteen feet above water (or at least an acre four feet in depth) and dig a hole six times the average depth of the stream, twenty-two and a half feet deep, or considerable, i. e. three feet, deeper than any place in the main stream from Sudbury Causeway to Atkins's boat-house bend, and all this in fifty years.

Yet the depth under the bridge is only two and a half feet plus. It falls in four rods from two and a half to twenty-two and a half. A considerable island has been formed there, at least three feet and a half above low water, composed of sand, and, two or three rods lower, are deposited the stones, generally larger than a hen's egg, without sand, forming bars and islands quite distinct from the former. 

This is much the swiftest place on the stream thus far and deeper than any for twenty-five miles of [the] other stream, and consequently there is a great eddy, where I see cakes of ice go round and round in the spring, and, as usual, the shoal water and islands formed by the ruins of the bank and of the bottom are close by. As usual, the shoal water is produced by the rapidity of the current close by.

The sand and gravel are deposited chiefly in the immediate neighborhood of the swiftest water, the swift water producing an eddy. Hence, apparently, the sandy islands at the junction of the rivers, the sand-bar at the swift place on the Assabet, etc.

Contract the stream and make it swift, and you will wear a deep hole and make sand-bars and islands below. 

The stream is remarkably different from the other. It is not half so deep. It is considerably more rapid. The bottom is not muddy but sandy and occasionally stony. Though far shallower, it is less weedy than the other. In the above distance weeds do not anywhere grow quite across it. A shallowness of two and a half feet does not necessarily bring in weeds, and for long distances three feet is clear of weeds. This is owing, perhaps, not only to the greater swiftness of the current, but to the want of mud under the sand. 

The banks and bars are peculiar. They are commonly composed of a fine sand mixed with sawdust, shavings, etc., in which the black willow loves to grow. I know of no such banks on the main stream. 

Again there are comparatively few of the large floating potamogetons here. (I do not remember any of the very largest species.) The weeds are chiefly bur-reeds and a slenderer potamogeton and an immersed species (I speak of weeds in the middle). 

You wonder what makes the difference between this stream and the other. It seems impossible that it should be a geological difference in the beds of the streams so near together. Is it not owing simply to the greater swiftness of this stream? 

Does not this produce a sandy and gravelly and stony bottom, and so invite a different fauna and flora? I suspect that a fall of two or three inches more in a mile will produce a different fauna and flora to some extent, — the fresh-water sponge, the wood tortoise, the sucker, the kingfisher, the stone-heaps. 

It is remarkable how the stones are separated from the sand at the Eddy Bridge and deposited in a bar or islands by themselves a few rods lower down. The sand bar there, partly under water, looks exactly like a snow drift. It is a narrow, sharp ridge, extending southwest from the island, with deep water on each side. The sand carried round by the eddy falls there where the ice is observed to loiter most. The large stones are perhaps swept away by a stronger current beneath.

The bars and banks of this stream are peculiar, i. e. of fine sand without mud. This indicates a fall and swifter water, and consequently it is on such a stream the mills are built and sawdust and shavings are mixed with such sand to form the bank. 

One such bank at the swift place has been recently raised four or five feet above the present level by freshets. It is apparently advancing down-stream.  What is deposited by the eddy occasioned by the narrows is building it up, and so the stream is being narrowed further down. 

Eddies are the great builders of sand-bars and islands and banks. Any agent that stops the progress of the water downward builds up the bottom in some place. At the bottom of the deep hole at Eddy Bridge, I felt several water-logged trunks of trees and saw some, which probably were carried round and round by the eddy until they became water-logged and sank.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 16, 1859