As if the globe itself were a fruit on its stem, with ever one cheek toward the sun.

October 24.

A northeast storm, though not much rainfalls to-day, but a fine driving mizzle or “drisk.” 

This, as usual, brings the geese, and at 2.30 P. M. I see two flocks go over. I hear that some were seen two or three weeks ago (??), faintly honking. A great many must go over to-day and also alight in this neighborhood. This weather warns them of the approach of winter, and this wind speeds them on their way. Surely, then, while geese fly overhead we can live here as contentedly as they do at York Factory on Hudson’s Bay. We shall perchance be as well provisioned and have as good society as they. 

Let us be of good cheer, then, and expect the annual vessel which brings the spring to us without fail.

 P. M. — To Woodis Park over Hill. 

The celtis has just fallen. Its leaves were apparently a yellow green. 

The sassafras trees are bare, — how long ? — and the white ash apparently just bared. 

The locusts are bare except the tops, and in this respect those on the hills, at least, are as peculiar as birches. Some trees lose their lower leaves first, as birches and locusts; some the upper, as apples (though a few green leaves may remain on the very tips of the twigs) and generally maples, though the last fall fast. 

Hickories are two thirds fallen, at least. [Apparently mocker-nut later.]

This rain and wind too bring down the leaves very fast. The yard is strewn with the yellow leaves of the peach and the orange and scarlet ones of the cherry. You could not spread a cloth but it would soon be strewn with them. 

Thorns and balm-of-Gilead and red mulberries bare. 

The brilliant autumnal colors are red and yellow and the various tints, hues, and shades of these. Blue is reserved to be the color of the sky, but yellow and red are the colors of the earth flower. Every fruit, on ripening, and just before its fall, acquires a bright tint. So do the leaves; so the sky before the end of the day, and the year near its setting. October is the red sunset sky, November the later twilight. 

Color stands for all ripeness and success. We have dreamed that the hero should carry his color aloft, as a symbol of the ripeness of his virtue. The noblest feature, the eye, is the fairest colored, the jewel of the body. The warrior’s flag is the flower which precedes his fruit. He unfurls his flag to the breeze with such confidence and brag as the flower its petals. Now we shall see what kind of fruit will succeed.

The very forest and herbage, the pellicle of the earth as it were, must acquire a bright color, an evidence of its ripeness, as if the globe itself were a fruit on its stem, with ever one cheek toward the sun. Our appetites have commonly confined our views of ripeness and its phenomena — color and mellowness and perfectness — to the fruits which we eat, and we are wont to forget that an immense harvest which we do not eat, hardly use at all, is annually ripened by nature. At our annual cattle-shows and horticultural exhibitions we make, as we think, a great show of fair fruits, destined, however, to a rather ignoble fate, fruits not worshipped for this chiefly; but round about and within our towns there is annually another show of fruits, on an infinitely grander scale, fruits which address our taste for beauty alone. 

The scarlet oak, which was quite green the 12th, is now completely scarlet and apparently has been so a few days. This alone of our indigenous deciduous trees (the pitch pine is with it) is now in its glory. 

(I have not seen the beech, but suppose it past. The Populus grandidentata and sugar maple come nearest to it, but they have lost the greater part of their leaves.)

Look at one, completely changed from green to bright dark-scarlet, every leaf, as if it had been dipped into a scarlet dye, between you and the sun. Was not this worth waiting for? Little did you think ten days ago that that cold green tree could assume such color as this. Its leaves still firmly attached While those of other trees are falling around it. I am the last to blush, but I blush deeper than any of ye. I bring up the rear in my red coat. The scarlet oaks, alone of oaks, have not given up the fight. Perchance their leaves, so finely cut, are longer preserved partly because they present less surface to the elements, and for a long time, if I remember rightly, some scarlet oak leaves will “hold out to burn.”   

Now in huckleberry pastures you see only here and there a few bright scarlet or crimson (for they vary) leaves amid or above the bare reddish stems, burning as if with condensed brightness, — as if the few that remained burned with the condensed brightness of all that have fallen. 

In sheltered woods you [see] some dicksonia still straw-color or pale-yellow. Some thoroughwort the same color. In the shade generally you find paler and more delicate tints, fading to straw-color and white.

The deep reds and scarlets and purples show exposure to the sun. I see an intensely scarlet high blueberry— but where one leaf has overlapped another it is yellow — with a regular outline. 

That large hornets’ nest which I saw on the 4th is now deserted, and I bring it home. But in the evening, warmed by my fire, two or three come forth and crawl over it, and I make haste to throw it out the window.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 24, 1858

I see two flocks go over. I hear that some were seen two or three weeks ago.  See note to October 23, 1858 ("One tells me that he saw geese go over Wayland the 17th") and October 27, 1857 ("I hear that Sammy Hoar saw geese go over to-day. The fall (strictly speaking) is approaching an end in this probably annual northeast storm"); November 13, 1858 ("A large flock of geese go over just before night. "); November 20, 1853 ("Methinks the geese are wont to go south just before a storm, and, in the spring, to go north just after one, say at the end of a long April storm. ") See also A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Geese in Autumn

This rain and wind too bring down the leaves very fast. Compare  October 24, 1855 ("The gentle touch of the rain brings down more leaves than the wind."); October 24, 1853 ("Just after dark, high southerly winds arise, but very warm, blowing the rain against the windows and roof and shaking the house.")

October is the red sunset sky, November the later twilight. See November 14, 1853 ("October is the month of painted leaves, of ripe leaves, when all the earth, not merely flowers, but fruits and leaves, are ripe. With respect to its colors and its season, it is the sunset month of the year, when the earth is painted like the sunset sky. This rich glow flashes round the world. This light fades into the clear, white, leafless twilight of November."); August 31, 1852 ("The evening of the year is colored like the sunset."); November 2, 1853 ("We come home in the autumn twilight, which lasts long and is remarkably light, the air being purer, — clear white light, which penetrates the woods"). Also Autumnal Tints ("October is the month for painted leaves. Their rich glow now flashes round the world. As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. October is its sunset sky ; November the later twilight.") and note to October 28, 1852 ("Suddenly the light of the setting sun yellows and warms all the landscape.")

That large hornets’ nest which I saw on the 4th is now deserted. See October 4, 1858 ("Hornets are still at work in their nests."); October 15, 1855 ("The hornets’ nests are exposed, the maples being bare, but the hornets are gone"); October 22, 1858 ("Hornets’ nests are now being exposed, deserted by the hornets") ; October 25, 1854 ("The maples being bare, the great hornet nests are exposed."); See also September 25, 1851 ("The hornets' nest not brown but gray, two shades, whitish and dark, alternating on the outer layers or the covering, giving it a waved appearance."). See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau. Wasps and Hornets

October is the

red sunset sky – November

the later twilight. 

The day is an epitome of the year.

August  19. 

As the rays of the sun fall horizontally across the placid pond, they light up the side of Baker's Pleasant Meadow Wood, which covers a hill. The different shades of green of different and the same trees, — alders, pines, birch, maple, oak, etc., — melting into one another on their rounded bosky edges, make a most glorious soft and harmonious picture, only to be seen at this season of the day and perhaps of the year. 

It is a beautiful green rug with lighter shadings and rounded figures like the outlines of trees and shrubs of different shades of green. In the case of a single tree there is the dark glossy green of the lower, older leaves, — the spring growth, — which hang down, fading on every side into the silvery hoariness of the younger and more downy leaves on the edges, — the fall growth, — whose under sides are seen, which stand up, and more perhaps at this hour. This is also the case with every bush along the river, — the larger glossy dark -green watery leaves beneath and in the recesses, the upright hoary leaves whose under sides are seen on the shoots which rise above. These lighter shades in the rug had the effect of watered silks, — the edges lit, the breasts dark-green, almost the cast on green crops seen by moon-light. I never saw a forest-side look more luxuriantly and at the same time freshly beautiful.

As toward the evening of the day the lakes and streams are smooth, so in the fall, the evening of the year, the waters are smoothed more perfectly than at any other season. The day is an epitome of the year.

The smaller, or green, bittern goes over. Now, while off Conantum, we have a cool, white, autumnal twilight, and as we pass the Hubbard Bridge, see the first stars.

H. D. Thoreau, August 19, 1853

 . . . only to be seen at this season of the day and perhaps of the year. See August 19, 1851 ("The seasons do not cease a moment to revolve, and therefore Nature rests no longer at her culminating point than at any other.”); June 6, 1857 ("Each season is but an infinitesimal point.”); November 3, 1853 (“There are very few phenomena which can be described indifferently as occurring at different seasons of the year, for they will occur with some essential difference. ”);April 24, 1859("There is a season for everything, and we do not notice a given phenomenon except at that season, if, indeed, it can be called the same phenomenon at any other season.")

As toward the evening of the day the lakes and streams are smooth, so in the fall, the evening of the year, the waters are smoothed more perfectly than at any other season. See October 17, 1858 ("One reason why I associate perfect reflections from still water with this and a later season may be that now, by the fall of the leaves, so much more light is let in to the water. The river reflects more light, therefore, in this twilight of the year, as it were an afterglow.")

The day is an epitome of the year. See August 23, 1853 ("I am again struck by the perfect correspondence of a day — say an August day — and the year. I think that a perfect parallel may be drawn between the seasons of the day and of the year.”); Walden, "Spring" ("The day is an epitome of the year. The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer."); August 31, 1852 ("The evening of the year is colored like the sunset.");August 15, 1853 ("an inky darkness as of night under the edge of the woods, now at noonday heralding the evening of the year.”); March 18, 1853 ("This the foreglow of the year, when the walker goes home at eve to dream of summer”); July 27, 1853 ("This the afternoon of the year. How apt we are to be reminded of lateness, even before the year is half spent!");  August 18, 1853 ("The night of the year is approaching.");

See also August 24, 1852 (“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.”)

We have a cool, white, autumnal twilight, and as we pass the Hubbard Bridge, see the first stars. See August 28, 1853 ("A cool, white, autumnal evening.") ; August 30, 1856 ("A cold white horizon sky in the north, forerunner of the fall of the year."); September 11, 1854 ("This is a cold evening with a white twilight, and threatens frost, the first in these respects decidedly autumnal evening.");September 29, 1854 ("This evening is quite cool and breezy, with a prolonged white twilight, quite Septemberish."); November 2, 1853 ("We come home in the autumn twilight, which lasts long and is remarkably light, the air being purer, — clear white light, which penetrates the woods.");  November 14, 1853 ("This [October] light fades into the clear, white, leafless twilight of November, ")

August 19. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, August 19

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 © 2009-2021

The night of the year approaches.

August 18

Many leaves of the cultivated cherry are turned yellow, and a very few leaves of the elm have fallen, — the dead or prematurely ripe. 

The abundant and repeated rains since this month came in have made the last fortnight and more seem like a rainy season in the tropics, — warm, still copious rains falling straight down, contrasting with the cold, driving spring rains. Now again I am caught in a heavy shower in Moore's pitch pines on edge of Great Fields, and am obliged to stand crouching under my umbrella till the drops turn to streams, which find their way through my umbrella, and the path up the hillside is all afloat, a succession of puddles at different levels, each bounded by a ridge of dead pine-needles. 

What means this sense of lateness that so comes over one now, — as if the rest of the year were down-hill, and if we had not performed anything before, we should not now? The season of flowers or of promise may be said to be over, and now is the season of fruits; but where is our fruit? 

The night of the year is approaching. What have we done with our talent? All nature prompts and reproves us. How early in the year it begins to be late! The sound of the crickets, even in the spring, makes our hearts beat with its awful reproof, while it encourages with its seasonable warning. It matters not by how little we have fallen behind; it seems irretrievably late. 

The year is full of warnings of its shortness, as is life. The sound of so many insects and the sight of so many flowers affect us so, — the creak of the cricket and the sight of the prunella and autumnal dandelion. They say, "For the night cometh in which no man may work."

H. D. Thoreau,  Journal, August 18, 1853 

What means this sense of lateness that so comes over one now, — as if the rest of the year were down-hill . . . See  August 18, 1856 ("It reminds me of past autumns and the lapse of time, . . . so little brought to pass! "). See also .July 30 1852 (After midsummer we have a belated feeling as if we had all been idlers, and are forward to see in each sight and hear in each sound some presage of the fall, just as in middle age man anticipates the end of life.);

But where is our fruit? See August 17, 1851  ("Ah! if I could so live that . . . when small fruits are ripe, my fruits might be ripe also! ! "); June 17, 1854 (“The season of small fruits has arrived. We are a little saddened, because we begin to see the interval between our hopes and their fulfillment.”); Augusst 9, 1854  ("Walden" published.")

The night of the year is approaching. See August, 19, 1853 (" The day is an epitome of the year.")

The sound of the crickets. . . with its seasonable warning. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Cricket in August

August 18. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau August 18

This sense of lateness.

Now is the season of fruits

but where is our fruit?

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The night of the year approaches.

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 © 2009-2025

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-530818

An inky noonday darkness heralds the evening of the year.

August 15.

Rain again in the night, but now clear. It has been melting weather; hundreds sunstruck in New York. Sultry, mosquitoey nights, with both windows and door open, and scarcely a sheet to be endured. 

But now it is cooler and beautifully clear at last after all these rains, and the crickets chirp with a still more autumnal sound.

Instead of the late bluish mistiness, I see a distinct, dark shade under the edge of the woods, the effect of the luxuriant foliage seen through the clear air. It is a pleasure to look at the washed woods far away. You see every feature of the white pine grove with distinctness, -- the stems of the trees, then the dark shade, then their fresh sunlit outsides -- and an inky darkness as of night under the edge of the woods, now at noonday heralding the evening of the year.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 15, 1853

. . .heralding the evening of the year. See August, 19, 1853 (" The day is an epitome of the year.")

After all these rains

 the crickets chirp with a still 

more autumnal sound.

The evening of the year

August 31

Tuesday . 9 A.M. - Up river in boat to the bend above the Pantry . It is pleasant to embark on a voyage , if only for a short river excursion , the boat to be your home for the day , especially if it is neat and dry . 

A sort of moving studio it becomes , you can carry so many things with you . It is almost as if you put oars out at your windows and moved your house along . A sailor , I see , easily becomes attached to his vessel . How continually we [ are ] thankful to the boat if it does not leak ! We move now with a certain pomp and circumstance , with planetary dignity . The pleasure of sailing is akin to that which a planet feels . It seems a more complete adventure than a walk . We make believe embark our all , - our house and furniture . We are further from the earth than the rider ; we receive no jar from it . We can carry many things with us . 

This high water will retard the blossoming of the Bidens Beckii , perhaps . The pads are covered for the most part ; only those which have very long stems are on the surface , the white lilies oftenest . Here and there is seen a blue spike of a pontederia still , but I do not see a single white lily . I should think this would put an end to them . It is a bright and breezy day . I hear the note of goldfinches . The shore is whitened in some places with dense fields of the Polygonum hydropiperoides , now in its prime , but the smaller rose - colored polygonum , also in blossom , is covered . The mikania still covers the banks , and imparts its fragrance to the whole shore , but it is past its prime , as also is the trumpet - weed . The purple gerardias are very fresh and handsome next the water , behind Hubbard's or Den- nis's . I see crows feeding on the meadow , large and black . I rigged my mast by putting a post across the boat , and putting the mast through it and into a piece of a post at the bottom , and lashing and bracing it , and so sailed most of the way . The water , methinks , has a little of the fall sparkle on it after the rain . It has run over the meadows considerably and drowned the flowers . I feel as if it was a month later than it was a week ago . A few days ago some saw a circular rainbow about the sun at midday . Singular phenomenon . Is not this the season when conventions are held ? Or do they not appoint conventions , temperance or political , at such times as the farmers are most at leisure ? There is a silvery light on the washed willows this morning , and the shadows under the wood - sides appear deeper , perchance by contrast , in the brilliant air . Is not the air a little more bracing than it was ? Looking up the sparkling river , whose waves are flashing in the sun , it appears to be giving off its pure silver from the amal- gam . The sky is more beautiful , a clearer blue , me- thinks , than for some time past , with light and downy clouds sailing all round a quarter of the way up it . The fields of bulrushes are now conspicuous , being left alone above the water . The balls of the button - bush have lost their bloom . From the shore I hear only the creak of crickets . The winds of autumn begin to blow . Now I can sail . The cardinal - flowers , almost drowned in a foot or two of water , are still very brilliant . The wind is Septemberish . That rush , reed , or sedge with the handsome head rises above the water . I pass boats now far from the shore and full of water . I see and hear the kingfisher with his disproportionate black [ sic ] head or crest . The pigeon woodpecker darts across the valley ; a catbird mews in the alders ; a great bittern flies sluggishly away from his pine tree perch on Tupelo Cliff , digging his way through the air . These and crows at long intervals are all the birds seen or heard . How much he knows of the wind , its strength and direction , whose steed it is , - the sailor . With a good gale he advances rapidly ; when it dies away he is at a standstill . The very sounds made by moving the furniture of my boat are agreeable , echoing so distinctly and sweetly over the water ; they give the sense of being abroad . I find myself at home in new scenery . I carry more of myself with me ; I am more entirely abroad , as when a man takes his children into the fields with him . I carry so many me's with [ me ] . This large basket of melons , umbrella , flowers , hammer , etc. , etc. , all go with me to the end of the voyage without being the least incumbrance , and preserve their relative distances . Our capacity to carry our furniture with us is so much increased . There is lit- tle danger of overloading the steed . We can go com- pletely equipped to fields a dozen miles off . The tent and the chest can be taken as easily as not . We em- bark ; we go aboard a boat ; we sit or we stand . If we sail , there is no exertion necessary . If we move in the opposite direction , we nevertheless progress . And if we row , we sit to an agreeable exercise , akin to flying . A student , of course , if it were perfectly convenient , would always move with his escritoire and his library about him . If you have a cabin and can de- scend into that , the charm is double . Landed near the bee tree . A bumblebee on a cow- wheat blossom sounded like the engine's whistle far over the woods ; then like an æolian harp . Then walked through the damp , cellar - like , fungus woods , with bare , damp , dead leaves and no bushes for their floor , where the corallorhiza grows , now out of bloom . The fall dandelion yellows the meadows . What is that bird like a large peetweet that flew away with a kind of whistle from a grass spit in the Sudbury meadows ? A larger sandpiper ? Probably a yellow - legs . Lunched on Rice's Hill . I see some yellow pump- kins from afar in the field next his house . This sight belongs to the season . It has all clouded up again , so that I scarcely see the sun during the day . I find , on bathing , that the water has been made very cold by the rain - storm , so that I soon come out . It must affect the fishes very much . All the fields and meadows are shorn . I would like to go into perfectly new and wild country where the meadows are rich in decaying and rustling vegetation , present a wilder luxuriance . I wish to lose myself amid reeds and sedges and wild grasses that have not been touched . If haying were omitted for a season or two , a voyage up this river in the fall , methinks , would make a much wilder impression . I sail and paddle to find a place where the bank has a more neglected look . I wish to bury myself amid reeds . I pine for the luxuriant vegetation of the river - banks . I ramble over the wooded hill on the right beyond the Pantry . The bushy gerardia is now very conspicuous with its great yellow trumpets , on hillsides on sprout - lands . Sometimes you come upon a large field of them . The buds or closed tubes are as handsome , at least , as the flowers . The various kinds of lespedezas are now in bloom . The panicled desmodium is going to seed and adheres to the clothes , with only a few flowers left . The strong contrast of the bright - pink ( hard ) and blue ( soft and ripe ) berries of the Viburnum nudum . Here are some irregularly globular or apple- shaped and larger than the common , which are more elliptical . The rustling of aspen leaves ( grandidentata ) this cloudy day startled me as if it were rain - drops on the leaves . Here are great pyrus berries in dense clusters falling over in wreaths and actually blackening the ground . I have rarely seen any kind of berries so thick . As big as small cherries . The great Bidens chrysanthemoides , now in blossom , like a sunflower , two inches in diameter , is for the most part far under water , blossoms and all . I see its drowned flowers far beneath the surface . Gunners out with their pants tucked into their boots . Pigeons fly over , and ducks . Poke berries ripe for some time . The various beauties of this plant now appear . Its stem is ripe , too , as if full of purple wine . It is so florid that the whole plant blossoms . In the fall , after so much sun , all leaves turn to petals and blossoms .  

The evening of the year is colored like the sunset.

I land at Lee's Cliff
in Fair Haven Pond
and sit on the Cliff.

Late in the afternoon. 

The wind is gone down

the water is smooth 

a serene evening approaches

the clouds disperse.

The pond so smooth and 

full of reflections 

after a dark and breezy day 

is unexpectedly beautiful. 

There is a little boat on it

schooner-rigged, with three sails, 

a perfect little vessel and 

perfectly reflected now in the water. 

The boatman is airing 

his sails after the storm. 

There is hardly a puff of air.

Being in the reflection 

of the opposite woods

the water on which the little boat rests 

is absolutely invisible and 

it makes an impression 

of buoyancy and lightness.

I float slowly down from Fair Haven 

till I have passed the bridge. 

The sun comes out just before setting

with a brilliant, warm light

and there is the slightest undulation 

discernible on the water. 

The reflections are perfect. 

A bright, fresh green 

on fields and trees now after the rain, 

spring-like with the sense of summer past. 

The reflections are the more perfect 

for the blackness of the water. 

This is the most glorious part of this day, 

the serenest, warmest, brightest part, 

and the most suggestive. 

Evening is fairer than morning.  

Morning is full of promise and vigor. 

Evening is pensive. 

The serenity is far more remarkable 

to those who are on the water.

I let the boat float 

That part of the sky 

just above the horizon

 

seen reflected 

is as light a blue as the actual

but it goes on deepening 

as your eye draws nearer to the boat

until it is lost in the 

blackness of the water. 

I observe on the willows 

on the east shore

the shadow of my boat

and self and oars

upside down.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 31, 1852

I land at Lee's Cliff, in Fair Haven Pond, and sit on the Cliff. Late in the afternoon . . . See  February 14, 1851 ("One afternoon in the fall, November 21st, I saw Fair Haven Pond with its island and meadow; between the island and the shore, a strip of perfectly smooth water in the lee of the island; and two hawks sailing over it; and something more I saw which cannot easily be described . . ."); April 14, 1852 ("Fair Haven Pond -- the pond, the meadow beyond the button-bush and willow curve, the island, and the meadow between the island and mainland with its own defining lines -- are all parted off like the parts of a mirror. A fish hawk is calmly sailing over all . . . "); November 1, 1852 ("As I approached their edge, I saw the woods beneath, Fair Haven Pond, and the hills across the river, — which, owing to the mist, was as far as I could see, and seemed much further in consequence. I saw these 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.")

Evening is pensive. The serenity is far more remarkable to those who are on the water. See August 31, 1851 ("I saw the seal of evening on the river.")

Upside down shadow: see also October 18, 1853("Returning late, we see a double shadow of ourselves and boat, one, the true, quite black, the other directly above it and very faint, on the willows and high bank."); August 16, 1854 ("At the steam mill sand-bank is the distinct shadow of our shadows, — first on the water, then the double one on the bank bottom to bottom, one being upside down, — three in all, — one on water, two on land or bushes.");  November 2, 1854 ("Sailing past the bank above the railroad, just before a clear sundown, close to the shore on the east side I see a second fainter shadow of the boat, sail, myself, and paddle, etc., directly above and upon the first on the bank. What makes the second? At length I discovered that it was the reflected sun which cast a higher shadow like the true one. As I moved to the west side, the upper shadow rose, grew larger and less perceptible; and at last when I was so near the west shore that I could not see the reflected sun, it disappeared; but then there appeared one upside down in its place!") and Walden, The Pond in Winter ("Sometimes, also, when the ice was covered with shallow puddles, I saw a double shadow of myself, one standing on the head of the other, one on the ice, the other on the trees or hillside.”)

The evening of the year is colored like the sunset. See August, 19, 1853 (" The day is an epitome of the year.”); November 14, 1853 (“October [w]ith respect to its colors and its season, it is the sunset month of the year, when the earth is painted like the sunset sky.”)

Morning is full of 

promise and vigor –Evening 

pensive and serene.