A Book of the Seasons: February 3 (skating, midwinter moonlit landscape, a barred owl)

 

The year is but 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

February 3

The landscape covered 

with snow two feet thick seen by 

moonlight from these Cliffs.

February 3, 1852

The skater sails midst

a moving world of snow-steam

as high as his knees.

February 3, 1855

Foundering up to 

my middle through snow – my owl

sounds   hoo hoo, ho-O.  

February 3, 1852

February 3, 2014

February 3, 2015

It is a cold and windy Sunday. February 3, 1856

Saw three ducks in the river. They resort to those parts necessarily which are open. February 3, 1853

The shallow and curving part of the river behind Cheney's being open all this winter, they are confined for the most part to this, in this neighborhood. February 3, 1853

The thickest ice I have seen this winter is full nine inches. February 3, 1853

A driving snow-storm again. February 3, 1854

Looking toward the sun and wind, you see a broad river half a mile or more in width, its whole surface lit and alive with flowing streams of snow, in form like the steam which curls along a river’s surface at sunrise. February 3, 1855 

Up North Branch. A strong northwest wind (and thermometer 11°), driving the surface snow like steam. About five inches of soft snow now on ice. February 3, 1856 

River still tight at Merrick’s. February 3, 1856

We go wading through snows now up the bleak river, in the face of the cutting northwest wind and driving snow-steam, turning now this ear, then that, to the wind, and our gloved hands in our bosoms or pockets. Our tracks are obliterated before we come back. February 3, 1856

How different this from sailing or paddling up the stream here in July, or poling amid the rocks! February 3, 1856

Yet still, in one square rod, where they have got out ice and a thin transparent-ice has formed, I can see the pebbly bottom the same as in summer. February 3, 1856

The wind whistles round the northwest corner of the house and penetrates every crevice and consumes the wood in the stoves.  February 3, 1856

An armful goes but little way. Such a day makes a great hole in the wood-pile. February 3, 1856

It whisks round the corner of the house, in at a crevice, and flirts off with all the heat before we have begun to feel it. February 3, 1856

Some of the low drifts but a few inches deep, made by the surface snow blowing, over the river especially, are of a fine, pure snow, so densely packed that our feet make hardly any impression on them. February 3, 1856

This will deserve to be called the winter of skating. February 3, 1855

Skating through snow. Skate up the river with Tappan in spite of the snow and wind. February 3, 1855

It has cleared up, but the snow is on a level strong three quarters of an inch deep (seemingly an inch), but for the most part blown into drifts three to ten feet wide and much deeper (with bare intervals) under a strong northwesterly wind. February 3, 1855

It is a novel experience, this skating through snow, some times a mile without a bare spot, this blustering day. February 3, 1855

On the whole the snow is but a slight obstruction. February 3, 1855

We skate with much more facility than I had anticipated; I would not have missed the experience for a good deal. February 3, 1855

We go up the Pantry Meadow above the old William Wheeler house, and come down this meadow again with the wind and snow dust, spreading our coat-tails, like birds, though somewhat at the risk of our necks if we strike a foul place. February 3, 1855

I find that I can sail on a tack pretty well, trimming with my skirts. Sometimes we have to jump suddenly over some obstacle which the snow has concealed, to save our necks. February 3, 1855

It is worth the while for one to look back against the sun and wind and see the other sixty rods off coming, floating down like a graceful demon in the midst of the broad meadow all covered and lit with the curling snow-steam. February 3, 1855

And in midst of this moving world sails down the skater, majestically, as if on the surface of water while the steam curls as high as his knees. February 3, 1855

I still recur in my mind to that skate of the 3lst. I was thus enabled to get a bird’s-eye view of the river, -— to survey its length and breadth within a few hours, connect one part (one shore) with another in my mind, and realize what was going on upon it from end to end, —to know the whole as I ordinarily knew a few miles of it only. February 3, 1855

It is all the way of one character, — a meadow river, or dead stream,—Musketicook,—the abode of muskrats, pickerel, etc., crossed within these dozen miles each way, —or thirty in all, —by some twenty low wooden bridges, connected with the mainland by willowy causeways. February 3, 1855

Thus the long, shallow lakes divided into reaches. February 3, 1855

Only two villages lying near the river, Concord and Wayland, and one at each end of this thirty miles. February 3, 1855  

Track some mice to a black willow by riverside, just above spring, against the open swamp; and about three feet high, in apparently an old woodpecker’s hole, was probably the mouse-nest, a double handful, consisting, four ninths, of fine shreds of inner bark, perhaps willow or maple; three ninths, the greenish moss, apparently, of button-bush; two ninths, the gray-slate fur, apparently, of rabbits or mice. . . These made a very warm and soft nest. February 3, 1856

Get some kind of vireo’s nest from a maple far up the stream, a dozen feet high, pensile; within, almost wholly rather coarse grape-vine shreds; without, the same and bark, covered with the delicate white spider-nests (?), birch-bark shreds, and brown cocoon silk. February 3, 1856

Returning, see near the Island a shrike glide by, cold and blustering as it was, with a remarkably even and steady sail or gliding motion like a hawk, eight or ten feet above the ground, and alight in a tree, from which at the same instant a small bird, perhaps a. creeper or nuthatch, flitted timidly away. February 3, 1856

There comes a deep snow in midwinter, covering up the ordinary food of many birds and quadrupeds, but anon a high wind scatters the seeds of pines and hemlocks and birch and alder, etc., far and wide over the surface of the snow for them. February 3, 1856

See many seeds of the hemlock on the snow still, and cones which have freshly rolled down the bank. February 3, 1856

You may now observe plainly the habit of the rabbits to run in paths about the swamps. February 3, 1856

I think that herbaceous plants show less greenness than usual this winter, having been more exposed for want of a snowy covering. February 3, 1858

I do not see this year, and I do not know that I ever have seen, any unseasonable swelling of the buds of indigenous plants in mild winters. February 3, 1858

To Gowing's Swamp.I accurately pace the swamp in two directions and find it to be shaped thus: —

Feburry 3, 1860

About 6 P.M. walk to Cliffs via railroad. Snow quite deep. February 3, 1852

The sun has set without a cloud in the sky, - a rare occurrence. February 3, 1852

There is only a tinge of red along the horizon. February 3, 1852

I missed the clouds, which make the glory of evening. The sky must have a few clouds, as the mind a few moods. February 3, 1852 

The moon is nearly full tonight, and the moment is passed when the light in the east (i. e. of the moon) balances the light in the west. February 3, 1852

Venus is now like a little moon in the west, and the lights in the village twinkle like stars. February 3, 1852

It is perfectly still and not very cold. February 3, 1852

The shadows of the trees on the snow are more minutely distinct than at any other season. February 3, 1852

I can tell where there is wood and where open land for many miles in the horizon by the darkness of the former and whiteness of the latter February 3, 1852

The heavens appear less thickly starred than in summer, - rather a few bright stars, brought nearer by this splendid twinkling in the cold sky. February 3, 1852

The landscape covered with snow two feet thick, seen by moonlight from these Cliffs, gleaming in the moon and of spotless white. February 3, 1852

Who can believe that this is the habitable globe? The scenery is wholly arctic. February 3, 1852

It looks as if the snow and ice of the arctic world, travelling like a glacier, had crept down southward and overwhelmed and buried New England. February 3, 1852

See if a man can think his summer thoughts now. February 3, 1852

But the evening star is preparing to set, and I will return. February 3, 1852

I hear my old acquaintance, the owl, from the Causeway. February 3, 1852

Floundering through snow, sometimes up to my middle, my owl sounds hoo hoo hoo, ho-O. February 3, 1852

*****

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Winter of Skating

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

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The  Northern Shrike

A Book of Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Voice of the Barred Owl

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Sheldrake (Merganser, Goosander)

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, at the Leaning Hemlocks

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Serene as the Sky.

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

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February Moonlight

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February is Mid-Winter

*****

April 3, 1852 ("Venus is very bright now in the west, and Orion is there, too, now")
April 3, 1852 ("I came out mainly to see the light of the moon reflected from the meadowy flood. It is a pathway of light, of sheeny ripples, extending across the meadow toward the moon, consisting of a myriad little bent and broken moons.")
April 7, 1853 ("The river is but a long chain of flooded meadows..")
April 16, 1852 ("A succession of bays it is, a chain of lakes.”)
May 8, 1852 ("Venus is the evening star and the only star yet visible")
May 24, ,1860 ("How perfectly new and fresh the world is seen to be, when we behold a myriad sparkles of brilliant white sunlight on a rippled stream!")June 13, 1851 ("I see the moon's inverted pyramid of light shimmering on its surface.. . . which, in fact, is made up of a myriad little mirrors reflecting the disk of the moon with equal brightness to an eye rightly placed.")
June 15, 1852 ("The evening star, multiplied by undulating water, is like bright sparks of fire continually ascending.")
June 25, 1852 ("Moon half full. Fields dusky; the evening star and one other bright one near the moon. It is a cool but pretty still night.")
June 28, 1852 ("Now it is starlight; perhaps that dark cloud in the west has concealed the evening star before.")
July 30, 1859 (“It is a mere string of lakes which have not made up their minds to be rivers.”)
August 5, 1851 (“The light from the western sky is stronger still than that of the moon, and when I hold up my hand, the west side is lighted while the side toward the moon is comparatively dark.”)
August 23, 1854 ("I improve the dry weather to examine the middle of Gowing's Swamp. There is in the middle an open pool, twenty or thirty feet in diameter”)

December 23, 1851 ("I find that the evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red, — that dun atmosphere instead of clouds reflecting the sun, — and I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon")
December 24, 1850 (". . . like steam curling up, as from a wet roof when the sun comes out after a rain.")

December 24, 1853 ("From the hill beyond I get an arctic view northwest.")

December 25, 1856 ("Take long walks in stormy weather or through deep snows in the fields and woods, if you would keep your spirits up. Deal with brute nature. Be cold and hungry and weary")

December 27, 1852 ("Not a particle of ice in Walden to-day. . . . A black and white duck on it.")

December 27, 1853 ("The evening star is seen shining brightly, before the twilight has begun.")

December 29, 1853 ('All day a driving snow-storm, imprisoning most, stopping the cars, blocking up the roads . . . The driving snow blinds you, and where you are protected, you can see but little way, it is so thick . . . An hour after I discovered half a pint of snow in each pocket of my greatcoat.”)

January 1, 1852 ("Perhaps the only thing that spoke to me on this walk was the bare, lichen-covered gray rock at the Cliff, in the moonlight, naked and almost warm as in summer.")

January 1, 1852 ("The stars of higher magnitude are more bright and dazzling, and therefore appear more near and numerable, while those that appear indistinct and infinitely remote in the summer, imparting the impression of unfathomability to the sky, are scarcely seen at all.")
January 4, 1859 ("A north snow-storm, very hard to face. It snows very hard, driving along almost horizontally.”)

January 8, 1856 ("The fine dry snow is driving over the fields like steam, if you look toward the sun.")

January 12, 1860 ("The sun is now out very bright and going from the sun, I see a myriad sparkling points scattered over the snow surface -- little mirror-like facets -- which on examination I find each to be one of those star wheels fallen in the proper position, reflecting an intensely bright little sun.")
January 14, 1857 ("Up Assabet on ice. . . . Hemlock seeds are scattered over the snow.")

January 18, 1856 ("I clear a little space in the snow, which is nine to ten inches deep over the deepest part of the pond, and cut through the ice, which is about seven inches thick.")
January 19, 1852 ("The snow blowing far off in the sun . . .looks like the mist that rises from rivers in the morning.")

January 19, 1856 (“The only open place in the river between Hunt’s Bridge and the railroad bridge is a small space against Merrick’s pasture just below the Rock”)

January 19, 1857 ("A snow-storm with very high wind all last night and to-day. . . .A fine dry snow, intolerable to face")

January 19,1860 (“This snow looks just like vapor curling along over the surface, long waving lines producing the effect of a watered surface in motion.”)

January 20, 1860 ("The snow and ice under the hemlocks is strewn with cones and seeds and tracked with birds and squirrels.")
January 20,1860 ("What a bountiful supply of winter food is here provided for them! No sooner has fresh snow fallen and covered up the old crop than down comes a new supply all the more distinct on the spotless snow. The snowy ice and the snow on shore have been blackened with these fallen cones several times over this winter.")

 January 23, 1852 ("And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene")

January 24, 1852 (“And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night.”)

January 24, 1856 (“You may walk anywhere on the river now. Even the open space against Merrick’s, below the Rock, has been closed again.”)

January 24, 1856 ("A great many hemlock cones have fallen on the snow and rolled down the hill.")

January 26, 1853 ("There is now a fine steam-like snow blowing over the ice, which continually lodges here and there, and forthwith a little drift accumulates ")

January 26, 1856 (“ [The river is not open], excepting the small space against Merrick’s below the Rock (now closed), since January 7th, when it closed at the Hubbard Bath, or nearly three weeks, —a long time, methinks, for it to be frozen so solidly”)

January 28, 1853 ("See three ducks sailing in the river behind Prichard's this afternoon, black with white on wings, though these two or three have been the coldest days of the winter, and the river is generally closed.")

January 29, 1853 (Melvin calls the ducks which I saw yesterday "sheldrakes"")

January 29, 1853 ("I saw a little grayish mouse frozen into Walden . . . The ice is eight inches thick.")

January 30, 1858 ("The pool, where there is nothing but water and sphagnum to be seen and where you cannot go in the summer, is about two rods long and one and a half wide.")

January 31, 1855 (“An unprecedented expanse of ice. At 10 A. M., skated up the river to explore further than I had been.”)

January 31, 1856 ("More hemlock cones also have fallen and rolled down the bank. ')

February 1, 1853 ("Saw a duck in the river; different kind from the last")

February 1, 1856 ("We have completely forgotten the summer.")

February 1, 1858 ("When the surface of a swamp shakes for a rod around you, you may conclude that it is a network of roots two or three feet thick resting on water or a very thin mud. The surface of that swamp, composed in great part of sphagnum, is really floating.")

February 2, 1855 ("At ten o’clock, the moon still obscured, I skate on the river and meadows.. . .. We seem thus to go faster than by day")

February 2, 1855  ("In the meanwhile we hear the distant note of a hooting owl")

February 2, 1860 ("It was a very arctic scene this cold day, ")

 

 

February 4, 1855 ("It is better skating to-day than yesterday. This is the sixth day of some kind of skating.")
February 5, 1859 ("I see another butcher-bird on the top of a young tree by the pond.")

February 5, 1855 ("The ice for the last week has reached quite up into the village, so that you could get on to it just in the rear of the bank and set sail on skates for any part of the Concord River valley. ")
February 5, 1855 ("It was surprising how, in the midst of all this stationary and drifting snow, the skate found a smooth and level surface")
February 5, 1855 (“The fine snow, blowing over the meadow in parallel streams between which the darker ice was seen, looked just like the steam curling along the surface of a river.”) 

February 5, 1859 ("I see another butcher-bird on the top of a young tree by the pond.")

February 6, 1853 (“Observed some buds on a young apple tree, partially unfolded at the extremity and apparently swollen. Probably blossom-buds.”)
February 6, 1856 (" On the 18th of January the ice had been about seven inches thick here , . . It was now 19 inches thick. ")
February 7, 1854 ("We had often sailed over this very spot.")

February 8, 1856 ("At this hour the crust sparkles with a myriad brilliant points or mirrors, one to every six inches, at least.")

February 8, 1858 ("The ice which J. Brown is now getting for his ice house from S. Barrett’s is from eight to nine plus inches thick, but I am surprised to find that Walden ice is only six inches thick, or even a little less, and it has not been thicker.")

February 9, 1851 ("We have forgotten summer and autumn. Though the days are much longer, the cold sets in stronger than ever.")

February 10, 1860 ("A very strong and a cold northwest wind to-day, shaking the house, consumes wood and yet we are cold, and drives the smoke down the chimney.")
February 10, 1858 ("Grows cold toward night, and windy.")
February 13, 1856 (“Grew cold again last night, with high wind. . . . I think a high wind commonly follows rain or a thaw in winter.”) 

 February 15, 1855 (“The fire needs no replenishing, and we save our fuel.")

February 16, 1852 ("I see the steam-like snow-dust curling up and careering along over the fields. . . .like the spray on a beach before the northwest wind.")

February 18, 1854 ("I begin to think that my wood will last.")

February 18, 1857 (“Thermometer at 1 p.m., 65. . . I sit all this ay and evening without a fire")

February 18, 1857 ("Picked up a mouse-nest in the stubble at Hubbard's mountain sumachs, left bare by the melting snow. It is about five inches wide and three or four high, with one, if not two, small round indistinct entrances on the side, not very obvious till you thrust your finger through them and press aside the fine grass that closes them, . . .A very snug and warm nest, where several might have lain very cosily under the snow in the hardest winter.”)

February 18, 1858 (“I find Walden ice to be nine and a half plus inches thick, having gained three and a half inches since the 8th”)

February 21, 1855 (“There can be no more arctic scene than these mountains in the edge of the horizon completely crusted over with snow, with the sun shining on them.”);

February 22, 1856 ([T]he river is still perfectly closed (as it has been for many weeks), both against Merrick’s and in the Assabet, excepting directly under this upper stone bridge and probably at mouth of Loring’s Brook. I am surprised that the warm weather within ten days has not caused the river to open at Merrick’s, but it was too thick to be melted)

February 23, 1854 (“The fine snow drives along over the field like steam curling from a roof, forming architectural drifts.”) 

February 27, 1856 (Am surprised to see how the ice lasts on the river. It but just begins to be open for a foot or two at Merrick’s, and you see the motion of the stream. It has been tight even there (and of course everywhere else on the main stream, and on North Branch except at Loring’s Brook and under stone bridge) since January 25th…That is, we may say that the river has been frozen solidly for seven weeks.)

February 27, 1852 ("We have almost completely forgotten summer.")

February 27, 1860 ("This [sheldrake] is the first bird of the spring that I have seen or heard of.") 

February 28, 1852 (“To get the value of the storm we must be out a long time and travel far in it, so that it may fairly penetrate our skin")

February 28, 1855 ("Our meadows present a very wild and arctic scene.")

February 29, 1852 (“High winds last night and this morning. The house shakes, and the beds and tables rock.”);
March 5, 1857 ("Most of the warmth of the fire is carried off by the draught, which consumes the wood very fast.")
March 5, 1857 ("I scare up six male sheldrakes, with their black heads, in the Assabet,—the first ducks I have seen”)
March 7, 1852 ("At 9 o'clock P.M to the woods by the full moon.")
March 7, 1852 ("I look to see if these white tracts in the distant fields correspond to openings in the woods, and find that they are places where the crystal mirrors are so disposed as to reflect the moon's light to me.")
March 7, 1859 (" I then see a bird alight on the dead top of the highest white oak on the hilltop, on the topmost point. It is a shrike. . . . Then, to my surprise, the shrike begins to sing. . . .Why, then, have I never heard them sing in the winter? (I have seen seven or eight of them the past winter quite near.")

February 3, 2019

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 

February 2 <<<<<<<<   February 3  >>>>>>>>  February 4

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February 3

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

tinyurl.com/FEB03HDT

A Book of the Seasons: February 2 (winter or spring? a sparrow, a fox mouse and and owl, night sounds, skating in the dark)

The year is but 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

Sometimes I heard the foxes

 as they ranged over the snow crust, in moonlight nights,

 in search of a partridge or other game.

 ~ Walden

February 2 

The scream of the jay 

in harmony with winter –

a true winter sound.

February 2, 1854

The fox seems to get 

his living by industry 

and perseverance.  

February 2, 1854

 In the meanwhile 

we hear the distant note 

of a hooting owl.

February 2, 1855

Walk as usual 

on the fresh track of a fox

in very thin snow . . .

Kindling a fire on

the pond by the island –

see the fox himself.

February 2, 1860

February 2, 2016

The scream of the jay is a true winter sound. It is wholly without sentiment, and in harmony with winter.  February 2, 1854

6° below at about 8 a. m. Clock has stopped. February 2, 1860

The ice is about eighteen inches thick on Fair Haven. Saw some pickerel just caught there, with a fine lustre to them.  February 2, 1854

It was a very arctic scene this cold day. February 2, 1860

With February we have genuine winter again. Almost all the openings in the river are closed again, and the new ice is covered with rosettes. February 2, 1860

Indeed, no part of our scenery is ever more arctic than the river and its meadows now, though the snow was only some three inches deep on a level. February 2, 1860

It is cold and perfectly still, and you walk over a level snowy tract. February 2, 1860

I frequently see where oak leaves, absorbing the heat of the sun, have sunk into the ice an inch in depth and afterward been blown out, leaving a perfect type of the leaf with its petiole and lobes sharply cut, with perfectly upright sides, so that I can easily tell the species of oak that made it. February 2, 1860

Sometimes these moulds have been evenly filled with snow while the ice is dark, and you have the figure of the leaf in white. February 2, 1860

Is not January the hardest month to get through? When you have weathered that, you get into the gulfstream of winter, nearer the shores of spring. February 2, 1854

Another warm, melting day, like yesterday. You can see some softening and relenting in the sky. February 2, 1854

Already we begin to anticipate spring, and this is an important difference between this time and a month ago. We begin to say that the day is springlike.  February 2, 1854

Still rains, after a rainy night with a little snow, forming slosh. February 2, 1858

The Cliff Hill is nearly bare on the west side, and you hear the rush of melted snow down its side in one place. February 2, 1854

The snow-crust on all hills and knolls is now marked by the streams of water that have flowed down it . . . in alternate ridges and furrows from the tops of the hills to the bottoms. February 2, 1857

We stop awhile under Bittern Cliff, the south side, where it is very warm.  February 2, 1854

There are a few greenish radical leaves to be seen, — primrose and johnswort, strawberry, etc., and spleenwort still green in the clefts.  February 2, 1854

The Stellaria media is full of frost-bitten blossoms, containing stamens, etc., still and half-grown buds.  February 2, 1853

The winter gnat is seen in the warm air. February 2, 1854

Snows again last night, perhaps an inch, erasing the old tracks and giving us a blank page again, restoring the purity of nature. February 2, 1856

The shade of pines on the snow is in some lights quite blue. February 2, 1854

About 3 p. m. I noticed a distinct fragment of rainbow, about as long as wide, on each side of the sun, one north and the other south and at the same height above the horizon with the sun, all in a line parallel with the horizon; and, as I thought, there was a slight appearance of a bow.

February 2, 1860

We walk, as usual, on the fresh track of a fox, peculiarly pointed, and sometimes the mark of two toe nails in front separate from the track of the foot in very thin snow. February 2, 1860

He runs smelling for miles along the most favorable routes, especially the edge of rivers and ponds, until he smells the track of a mouse beneath the snow.  February 2, 1854

Probably he has smelt out many such galleries. Perhaps he seizes them through the snow.  February 2, 1854

I have myself seen one place where a mouse came to the surface to-day in the snow. February 2, 1854

And as we kindle a fire on the pond by the side of the island, we see the fox himself at the inlet of the river. February 2, 1860

He had a blackish tail and blackish feet. Looked lean and stood high. February 2, 1860

The fox seems to get his living by industry and perseverance.  February 2, 1854

He was eagerly searching for food, intent on finding some mouse to help fill his empty stomach. February 2, 1860

I had a transient vision of one mouse this winter, and that the first for a number of years.  February 2, 1854

I stole up within five or six feet of a pitch pine behind which a downy woodpecker was pecking. February 2, 1854

From time to time he hopped round to the side and observed me without fear. They are very confident birds, not easily scared, but incline to keep the other side of the bough to you, perhaps. February 2, 1854

As I return from the post-office, I hear the hoarse, robin-like chirp of a song sparrow on Cheney's ground, and see him perched on the top most twig of a heap of brush, looking forlorn and drabbled and solitary in the rain. February 2, 1858

The water falling, the ice on the meadow occasionally settles with a crack under our weight. February 2, 1855

It is pleasant to feel these swells and valleys occasioned by the subsidence of the water, in some cases pretty abrupt. February 2, 1855

Also to hear the hollow, rumbling sound in such rolling places on the meadow where there is an empty chamber beneath, the water being entirely run out. February 2, 1855

Snowed again half an inch more in the evening, after which, at ten o'clock, the moon still obscured, I skate on the river and meadows. February 2, 1855

Our skates make but little sound in this coating of snow about an inch thick, as if we had on woolen skates, and we can easily see our tracks in the night. February 2, 1855

We seem thus to go faster than by day, not only because we do not see (but feel and imagine) our rapidity, but because of the impression which the mysterious muffled sound of our feet makes. February 2, 1855

Now and then we skate into some chippy, crackling white ice, where a superficial puddle had run dry before freezing hard, and get a tumble. February 2, 1855

In the meanwhile we hear the distant note of a hooting owl. February 2, 1855

February 2, 2022

*****

A Book of the Seasons,   by Henry Thoreau, the Pitch Pine. 

A Book of the Seasons,   by Henry Thoreau, Pickerel

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Snow-flea

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Fuzzy Gnats 

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Blue Jay

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Downy Woodpecker

.A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Song Sparrow (Fringilla melodia)

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Voice of the Barred Owl.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  The Wild Mouse

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

A Book of the Seasons,   by Henry Thoreau, The Winter of Skating

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February Belongs to Spring

*****

November 1, 1852 ("Stellaria media in Cheney's garden, as last spring,")
November 8, 1853 ("The Stellaria media still blooms in Cheney’s garden,")

November 25, 1857 ("Returning, I see a fox run across the road in the twilight from Potter’s into Richardson’s woods. He is on a canter, but I see the whitish tip of his tail. I feel a certain respect for him, because, though so large, he still maintains himself free and wild in our midst")
December 24, 1856 ("Do not see a track of any animal till returning near the Well Meadow Field, where many foxes, one of whom I have a glimpse of, had been coursing back and forth in the path and near it for three quarters of a mile. They had made quite a path")

January 7, 1854 (" I went to these woods partly to hear an owl, but did not; but, now that I have left them nearly a mile behind, I hear one distinctly, hoorer hoo. Strange that we should hear this sound so often, loud and far, — a voice which we call the owl, — and yet so rarely see the bird. . . .  It is a sound which the wood or horizon makes.")

.January 8, 1860 ("After December all weather that is not wintry is springlike")

January 15, 1857 ("I saw, to my surprise, that it must be a song sparrow, . . .taken refuge in this shed"); January 21, 1857 ("I noticed that several species of birds lingered late this year. . . . What does it mean?")
January 21, 1857 (“It is remarkable how many tracks of foxes you will see quite near the village, where they have been in the night, and yet a regular walker will not glimpse one oftener than once in eight or ten years.”)
January 22, 1857 ("Minott tells me that Sam Barrett told him once when he went to mill that a song sparrow took up its quarters in his grist-mill and stayed there all winter.")
January 23, 1853 ("Rain, carrying off the snow and making slosh of the lower half of it. It is perhaps the wettest walking we ever have.")
January 28, 1857 (“Am again surprised to see a song sparrow sitting for hours on our wood-pile in the yard, in the midst of snow in the yard.”)
January 30, 1856 ("Crossing Walden Pond, a spotless field of snow surrounded by woods, whose intensely blue shadows and your own are the only objects")

January 30, 1859 ("How peculiar the hooting of an owl! It is not shrill and sharp like the scream of a hawk, but full, round, and sonorous, waking the echoes of the wood.")

January 30, 1860 ("The snow-flea seems to be a creature whose summer and prime of life is a thaw in the winter. . . .It is the creature of the thaw. Moist snow is its element. .");  

January 31, 1856 ("These fresh falls of snow are like turning over a new leaf of Nature’s Album.")

January 31, 1856 ("The tracks of the mice suggest extensive hopping in the night and going a-gadding. They commence and terminate in the most insignificant little holes by the side of a twig or tuft, and occasionally they give us the type of their tails very distinctly.")

February 1, 1855 ("The river falling all day, no water has burst out through the ice next the shore, and it is now one uninterrupted level white blanket of snow quite to the shore on every side.")

February 1, 1856 ("The eaves have scarcely run at all. It has been what is called “an old-fashioned winter.")

February 3, 1852 (" The landscape covered with snow two feet thick, seen by moonlight from these Cliffs, gleaming in the moon and of spotless white. . . . The scenery is wholly arctic. See if a man can think his summer thoughts now. ")

February 3, 1852 (" I hear my old acquaintance, the owl, from the Causeway. . .Floundering through snow, sometimes up to my middle, my owl sounds hoo hoo hoo, ho-O")

February 3, 1856 ("Track some mice to a black willow by riverside, just above spring, against the open swamp; and about three feet high, in apparently an old woodpecker’s hole, was probably the mouse-nest")

February 4, 1852 ("Now the white pine are a misty blue; anon a lively, silvery light plays on them, and they seem to erect themselves unusually")

February 5, 1854 ("The tracks were about two inches long, or a little less, by one and a half wide, shaped thus where the snow was only half an inch deep on ice")

February 6, 1854 ("Crossing Walden where the snow has fallen quite level, I perceive that my shadow is a delicate or transparent blue .")
February 7, 1859 ("Evidently the distant woods are more blue in a warm and moist or misty day in winter, and is not this connected with the blue in snow in similar days?")
February 7, 1855 ("Thermometer at about 7.30 A. M. gone into the bulb, -19° at least. The cold has stopped the clock.")
February 8, 1860 ("I see hundreds of oak leaves which have sunk deep into the ice. Here is a scarlet oak leaf which has sunk one inch into the ice, and the leaf still rests at the bottom of this mould.")

February 8, 1860 ("40° and upward may be called a warm day in the winter. We have had much of this weather for a month past, reminding us of spring.")
February 8, 1860 ("February may be called earine (springlike).")
February 8, 1860 ("A different sound comes to my ear now from iron rails which are struck, as from the cawing crows, etc. Sound is not abrupt, piercing, or rending, but softly sweet and musical. It will take a yet more genial and milder air before the bluebird's warble can be heard")
February 8, 1860 ("There is a peculiarity in the air when the temperature is thus high and the weather fair, at this season, which makes sounds more clear and pervading, as if they trusted themselves abroad further in this genial state of the air. ")

February 9, 1854 ("Is not January alone pure winter? February belongs to the spring; it is a snowy March")
February 9, 1854 ("The jays are more lively than usual")
February 9, 1854 ("There is a peculiar softness and luminousness in the air this morning, perhaps the light being diffused by vapor. It is such a warm, moist, or softened, sunlit air as we are wont to hear the first bluebird's warble in. ")
February 9, 1854 ("And the brightness of the morning is increased tenfold by the sun reflected from broad sheets of rain and melted snow water. ")
February 9, 1854 ("The sun is reflected from a hundred rippling sluices of snow-water finding its level in the fields")
February 9, 1854 ("The voices of the school-children sound like spring.")
February 9, 1854 ("There are snow-fleas, quite active, on the half-melted snow on the middle of Walden.")
February 10, 1855 ("I go across Walden. My shadow is blue. It is especially blue when there is a bright sunlight on pure white snow.")
February 10, 1856  ("Returning, I saw a fox on the railroad, at the crossing below the shanty site, eight or nine rods from me. He looked of a dirty yellow and lean. I did not notice the white tip to his tail. Seeing me, he pricked up his ears and at first ran up and along the east bank on the crust, then changed his mind and came down the steep bank, crossed the railroad before me, and, gliding up the west bank, disappeared in the woods.")

February 11, 1854 ("Snow-fleas lie in black patches on the ice which froze last night. When I breathe on them I find them all alive and ready to skip")
February 12, 1854 ("the unrelenting steel-cold scream of a jay, unmelted, that never flows into a song, a sort of wintry trumpet, screaming cold; hard, tense, frozen music, like the winter sky itself; in the blue livery of winter's band. It is like a flourish of trumpets to the winter sky.”)
February 18, 1857 ("The air over these fields is a foundry full of moulds for casting bluebirds' warbles. Any sound uttered now would take that form, not of the harsh, vibrating, rending scream of the jay, but a softer, flowing, curling warble, like a purling stream or the lobes of flowing sand and clay. Here is the soft air and the moist expectant apple trees, but not yet the bluebird.")
February 24, 1857 ("I am surprised to hear the strain of a song sparrow from the riverside.")
February 26, 1851 ("See five red-wings and a song sparrow(?) this afternoon.”);
March 2, 1860 ("We see one or two gnats in the air")

March 2, 1859 (“We thus commonly antedate the spring more than any other season, for we look forward to it with more longing. We talk about spring as at hand before the end of February, and yet it will be two good months, one sixth part of the whole year, before we can go a-maying. There may be a whole month of solid and uninterrupted winter yet”)

March 2, 1860 ("Looking up a narrow ditch in a meadow, I see a modest brown bird flit along it furtively, — the first song sparrow, -- and then alight far off on a rock.")
March 3, 1860 ("The first song sparrows are very inconspicuous and shy on the brown earth. You hear some weeds rustle, or think you see a mouse run amid the stubble, and then the sparrow flits low away.")

March 5, 1860 ("Chickweed and shepherd's-purse in bloom in C.'s garden, and probably all winter, or each month.")
March 22, 1860 ("Stellaria media and shepherd's-purse bloom;")

April 26, 1852 ("Chickweed (Stellaria media), naturalized, shows its humble star-like white flowers now")

February 2, 2022

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 

February 1 <<<<<<<<      February 2  >>>>>>>>  February 3

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  February 2

A Book of Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February

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

tinyurl.com/HDT02fEB