A Book of the Seasons: Indian Summer

 

October 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 –

and what ever more glowing sunset or Indian summer we have then 

is the afterglow of the year. 

Henry Thoreau, November 14, 1853

Indian-summer.

The sun comes out and lights up

the mellowing year.

October 7, 1852

Frosts in the mornings –

open window for a week.

Indian summer.

October 31, 1854

November 15

September 4. I think I could write a poem to be called Concord. For argument I should have the River, the Woods, the Ponds, the Hills,  the Fields, the Swamps and Meadows' the Streets and Buildings and the Villagers. Then Morning, Noon and Evening, Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, Night, Indian Summer, and the Mountains in the Horizon. September 4, 1841 

September 8.  Some spring flowers bloom again, followed by an Indian summer of finer atmosphere and of a pensive beauty.  May my life be not destitute of its Indian summer, a season of fine and clear, mild weather in which I may prolong my hunting before the winter comes, when I may once more lie on the ground with faith, as in spring, and even with more serene confidence. And then I will [wrap the] drapery of summer about me and lie down to pleasant dreams. As one year passes into another through the medium of winter, so does this our life pass into another through the medium of death. September 8, 1851

September 21. A fine-grained air, seething or shimmering as I look over the fields, reminds me of the Indian summer that is to come.  Do not these days always succeed the first frosty mornings? September 21, 1854

September 27.  It is a very fine afternoon to be on the water, some what Indian-summer-like. I do not know what constitutes the peculiarity and charm of this weather . . . There is a slight coolness in the air, yet the sun is occasionally very warm. September 27, 1857

October 4.  This is a fine and warm afternoon, Indian-summer like, but we have not had cold enough before it.  October 4, 1859 

October 5.  A warm and bright October afternoon.[Begins now ten days of perfect Indian summer without rain; and the eleventh and twelfth days equally warm, though rainy.] October 5, 1857

October 7.  I sit on Poplar Hill. It is a warm Indian-summerish afternoon. October 7, 1852

October 10. These are the finest days in the year, Indian summer. This afternoon it is 80°, between three and four, and at 6.30 this evening my chamber is oppressively sultry, and the thermometer on the north side of the house is at 64°. . .  The phebe note of the chickadee is now often heard in the yards, and the very Indian summer itself is a similar renewal of the year, with the faint warbling of birds and second blossoming of flowers. October 10, 1856

October 11. The Indian summer continues . . . It is perfect Indian summer, a thick haze forming wreaths in the near horizon. The sun is almost shorn of its rays now at mid-afternoon, and there is only a sheeny reflection from the river. October 11, 1856

October 13.  It is a sufficiently clear and warm, rather Indian-summer day, and they are gathering the apples in the orchard . . . The chickadees take heart, too, and sing above these warm rocks. October 13, 1852 

October 13. This has been the ninth of those wonderful days, and one of the warmest. I am obliged to sit with my window wide open all the evening as well as all day. It is the earlier Indian summer. October 13, 1857

October 14.   Fine, clear Indian-summer weather.  October 14, 1853

October 14.   A fine Indian-summer day. The 6th and 10th were quite cool, and any particularly warm days since may be called Indian summer (?), I think. October 14, 1859

October 15.  The ten days — at least — before this were plainly Indian summer. They were remarkably pleasant and warm. The latter half I sat and slept with an open window, though the first part of the time I had a little fire in the morning. These succeeded to days when you had worn thick clothing and sat by fires for some time. October 15, 1857 

October 16. There is less wind these days than a week or fortnight ago; calmer and more Indian-summer-like days. October 16, 1858

 October 17. A fine Indian-summer afternoon.  October 17, 1855 

October 19. It is a very pleasant afternoon, quite still and cloudless, with a thick haze concealing the distant hills. Does not this haze mark the Indian summer? October 19, 1855

October 19. A remarkably warm day. I have not been more troubled by the heat this year, being a little more thickly clad than in summer. I walk in the middle of the street for air. The thermometer says 74° at l P. M. This must be Indian summer. October 19, 1858

October 19 Indian-summer-like and gossamer. October 19, 1860

October 20.   Indian summer this and the 19th. I hear of apple trees in bloom again in Waltham or Cambridge . . . Another remarkably warm and pleasant day . . . 74° at 2 P. M.  . . . There is a haze between me and the nearest woods, as thick as the thickest in summer.  October 20, 1858

October 21. A very warm Indian-summer day, too warm for a thick coat.  October 21, 1856

October 22. A week or more of fairest Indian summer ended last night, for to-day it rains. It was so warm day before yesterday, I worked in my shirt-sleeves in the woods. October 22, 1853

October 22.  This and the last two days Indian-summer weather, following hard on that sprinkling of snow west of Concord. Pretty hard frosts these nights. October 22, 1854 

October 22.  Do not the darkest nights occur about this time, when there is a haze produced by the Indian-summer days, succeeded by a moonless night? October 22, 1858

October 24.  Another Indian-summer day. October 24,  1852

October 25. A beautiful, calm Indian-summer afternoon, the withered reeds on the brink reflected in the water.  October 25, 1854

October 28. Here is an Indian-summer day. Not so warm, indeed, as the 19th and 20th, but warm enough for pleasure.  October 28, 1858

October 31.  It is a beautiful, warm and calm Indian-summer afternoon. October 31, 1853

October 31. Ever since October 27th we have had remarkably warm and pleasant Indian summer, with frequent frosts in the morning. Sat with open window for a week.  October 31, 1854 

October 31.  It is a fine day, Indian-summer-like, and there is considerable gossamer on the causeway and blowing from all trees. That warm weather of the 19th and 20th was, methinks, the same sort of weather with the most pleasant in November (which last alone some allow to be Indian summer), only more to be expected. October 31, 1858

November 1.  A beautiful Indian-summer day, the most remarkable hitherto and equal to any of the kind. November 1, 1855

November 1.  A perfect Indian-summer day, and wonderfully warm. 72+ at 1 P. M. and probably warmer at two.  November 1, 1860

November 2. As several days past, it has been cloudy and misty in the morning fairer and warmer, if not Indian summer, in the afternoon; yet the mist lingers in drops on the cobwebs and grass until night. November 2, 1860

November 5. In Boston. — The first Indian-summer day, after an unusually cold October. November 5, 1859

November 6.Wind southwest. Thermometer on north of the house 70° at 12 M. Indian summer. The cocks crow in the soft air. They are very sensitive to atmospheric changes .November 6, 1857

November 7. This has been another Indian-summer day. Thermometer 58° at noon. November 7, 1857

November 8. Like Viola pedata, I shall be ready to bloom again here in my Indian summer days. Here ever springing, never dying, with perennial root I stand; for the winter of the land is warm to me. November 8, 1851

November 9.  A fine Indian-summer day. Have had pleasant weather about a week. November 9, 1859

November 11. The fall of the year is over, and now let us see if we shall have any Indian summer. November 11, 1851

November 11. Clear and fine Indian-summer day. November 11, 1857

November 13.  No Indian summer have we had this November. November 13, 1851

November 15.  After yesterday's clear, windy weather we have to-day less wind and much haze. It is Indian-summer-like. November 15, 1853

November 15.  A very pleasant Indian-summer day. November 15, 1859

November 16. There seems to be in the fall a sort of attempt at a spring, a rejuvenescence, as if the winter were not expected by a part of nature. November 16, 1850

November 16.  This and yesterday Indian-summer days. November 16, 1860

November 17.  Another Indian-summer day, as fair as any we've had.  November 17, 1859

November 19.  This is a very pleasant and warm Indian-summer afternoon. Methinks we have not had one like it since October . . .What is the peculiarity of the Indian summer? From the 14th to the 21st October inclusive, this year, was perfect Indian summer; and this day the next? Methinks that any particularly pleasant and warmer weather after the middle of October is thus called. November 19, 1853

November 22.   A sort of Indian summer in the day, which thus far has been denied to the year. After a cold gray day this cheering light almost warms us by its resemblance to fire. November 22, 1851

November 22.  This is quite a pleasant day, but hardly amounting to Indian summer. November 22, 1858

November 23. The Indian summer itself, said to be more remarkable in this country than elsewhere, no less than the reblossoming of certain flowers, the peep of the hylodes, and sometimes the faint warble of some birds, is the reminiscence, or rather the return, of spring, the year renewing its youth.November 23, 1853

November 25. This afternoon, late and cold as it is, has been a sort of Indian summer. Indeed, I think that we have summer days from time to time the winter through, and that it is often the snow on the ground makes the whole difference. November 25, 1850

November 27.  Almost an Indian-summer day. November 27, 1852

November 30.  This has been a very pleasant month, with quite a number of Indian-summer days, - a pleasanter month than October was. It is quite warm today, and as I go home at dusk on the railroad causeway, I hear a hylodes peeping. November 30, 1859

December 4. Fair Haven Pond is now open, and there is no snow. It is a beautiful, almost Indian-summer, afternoon, though the air is more pure and glassy. December 4, 1850

December 5.  Rather hard walking in the snow . . . thus suddenly we have passed from Indian summer to winter.  December 5, 1859

December 7. Perhaps the warmest day yet. True Indian summer. December 7, 1852

December 7. The winters come now as fast as snowflakes. It was summer, and now again it is winter. December 7, 1856 

December 8. Another Indian-summer day. December 8, 1852

December 11.  Almost a complete Indian-summer day, clear and warm. I am without greatcoat.  December 11, 1853

December 13. We had one hour of almost Indian summer weather in the middle of the day. I felt the influence of the sun. It melted my stoniness a little. December 13, 1851

See also 

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The world can never be more beautiful than now

 A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Gossamer Days

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Indian Summer

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

 "A book, each page written in its own season, 

out-of-doors, in its own locality."

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2022

The satisfaction of existence.

November 25

I feel a little alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit. 

November 25, 2017

I would fain forget all my morning's occupation, my obligations to society. But some times it happens that I cannot easily shake off the village; the thought of some work, some surveying, will run in my head, and I am not where my body is, I am out of my senses.

In my walks I would return to my senses like a bird or a beast.

What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?

This afternoon, late and cold as it is, has been a sort of Indian summer. Indeed, I think that we have summer days from time to time the winter through, and that it is often the snow on the ground makes the whole difference.

This afternoon the air was indescribably clear and exhilarating, and though the thermometer would have shown it to be cold, I thought that there was a finer and purer warmth than in summer; a wholesome, intellectual warmth, in which the body was warmed by the mind's contentment. The warmth was hardly sensuous, but rather the satisfaction of existence.


I found Fair Haven skimmed entirely over, though the stones which I threw down on it from the high bank on the east broke through.Yet the river was open.

The landscape looked singularly clean and pure and dry, the air, like a pure glass, being laid over the picture, the trees so tidy, stripped of their leaves; the meadows and pastures, clothed with clean dry grass, looked as if they had been swept; ice on the water and winter in the air, but yet not a particle of snow on the ground.

The woods, divested in great part of their leaves, are being ventilated.

It is the season of perfect works, of hard, tough, ripe twigs, not of tender buds and leaves. The leaves have made their wood, and a myriad new withes stand up all around pointing to the sky, able to survive the cold.

It is only the perennial that you see, the iron age of the year.

These expansions of the river skim over before the river itself takes on its icy fetters. What is the analogy?



I saw a muskrat come out of a hole in the ice. He is a man wilder than Ray or Melvin. While I am looking at him, I am thinking what he is thinking of me. He is a different sort of a man, that is all.

He would dive when I went nearer, then reappear again, and had kept open a place five or six feet square so that it had not frozen, by swimming about in it. Then he would sit on the edge of the ice and busy himself about something, I could not see whether it was a clam or not.

What a cold blooded fellow! thoughts at a low temperature, sitting perfectly still so long on ice covered with water, mumbling a cold, wet clam in its shell. What safe, low, moderate thoughts it must have! It does not get on to stilts.

The generations of muskrats do not fail. They are not preserved by the legislature of Massachusetts.


Boats are drawn up high which will not be launched again till spring.


There is a beautiful fine wild grass which grows in the path in sprout land, now dry, white, and waving, in light beds soft to the touch.

I experience such an interior comfort, far removed from the sense of cold, as if the thin atmosphere were rarefied by heat, were the medium of invisible flames, as if the whole landscape were one great hearthside, that where the shrub oak leaves rustle on the hillside, I seem to hear a crackling fire and see the pure flame, and I wonder that the dry leaves do not blaze into yellow flames.

I find but little change yet on the south side of the Cliffs; only the leaves of the wild apple are a little frostbitten on their edges and curled dry there, but some wild cherry leaves and blueberries are still fresh and tender green and red, as well as all the other leaves and plants which I noticed there the other day.

When I got up so high on the side of the Cliff the sun was setting like an Indian-summer sun. There was a purple tint in the horizon. It was warm on the face of the rocks, and I could have sat till the sun disappeared, to dream there. It was a mild sunset such as is to be attended to. 

November 25, 2021

Just as the sun shines into us warmly and serenely, our Creator breathes on us and re-creates us.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 25, 1850

What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods? See Walking (“I am alarmed when it happens that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit. … But sometimes it happens that I cannot easily shake off the village. The thought of some work will run in my head and I am not where my body is. I am out of my senses. In my walks I would fain return to my senses. What business have I in the woods, if I am thinking of something out of the woods?” ); August 21, 1851 ("A man may walk abroad and no more see the sky than if he walked under a shed."); November 18 1851 ("The chopper who works in the woods all day is more open in some respects to the impressions they are fitted to make than the naturalist who goes to see them.. . .A man can hardly be said to be there if he knows that he is there, or to go there if he knows where he is going."); November 6, 1853 (“It is remarkable how little we attend to what is passing before us constantly, unless our genius directs our attention that way.”); January 7, 1857 ("I have told many that I walk every day about half the daylight, but I think they do not believe it. I wish to get the Concord, the Massachusetts, the America, out of my head and be sane a part of every day. . . .and therefore I come out to these solitudes, where the problem of existence is simplified."); September 13, 1859 ("Few live so far outdoors as to hear the first geese go over."); February 12, 1860 ("Surrounded by our thoughts or imaginary objects, living in our ideas, not one in a million ever sees the objects which are actually around him."); March 1, 1860 ("I have thoughts, as I walk, on some subject that is running in my head, but all their pertinence seems gone before I can get home to set them down.") See also December 20, 1851 ("Go out before sunrise or stay out till sunset "); December 29, 1856 (“We must go out and re-ally ourselves to Nature every day. . . .. Staying in the house breeds a sort of insanity always.”)

I found Fair Haven skimmed entirely over, . . . Yet the river was open. . . .Boats are drawn up high which will not be launched again till spring See November 18, 1858 ("Am surprised to see Fair Haven Pond completely frozen over during the last four days. It will probably open again."); November 21, 1852 ("I am surprised this afternoon to find the river skimmed over in some places, and Fair Haven Pond one-third frozen or skimmed over, though commonly there is scarcely any ice to be observed along the shores."); November 23, 1852 ("I am surprised to see Fair Haven entirely skimmed over"); November 24, 1858 ("Fair Haven Pond is closed still ");. November 26, 1855 ("The ice next the shore bears me and my boat"); November 26, 1857 ("Got my boat up this afternoon. (It is Thanksgiving Day.) One end had frozen in"):November 26, 1858 ("Got in boat on account of Reynolds’s new fence going up (earlier than usual)."); November 29, 1860 ("Get up my boat, 7 a. m. Thin ice of the night is floating down the river."); November 30, 1855 ("River skimmed over behind Dodd’s and elsewhere. Got in my boat. River remained iced over all day."); November 30, 1858 ("The river may be said to have frozen generally last night.")
.

When I got up so high on the side of the Cliff the sun was setting . . . and I could have sat till the sun disappeared.  See November 25, 1851 ("the sun had set and there was a very clear amber light in the west, and, turning about, we were surprised at the darkness in the east, the crescent of night, almost as if the air were thick, a thick snow-storm were gathering, which, as we had faced the west, we were not prepared for; yet the air was clear."); November 25, 1857 ("I shiver about awhile on Pine Hill, waiting for the sun to set. Methinks the air is dusky soon after four these days. . . . There is the sun a quarter of an hour high, shining on it through a perfectly clear sky, but to my eye it is singularly dark or dusky. And now the sun has disappeared"); November 27, 1853 ("The days are short enough now. The sun is already setting before I have reached the ordinary limit of my walk."); November 28, 1859 ("We make a good deal of the early twilights of these November days, they make so large a part of the afternoon.") See also December 25, 1851 (“I go forth to see the sun set. Who knows how it will set, even half an hour beforehand ?”) June 5, 1854 ("I have come to this hill to see the sun go down, to recover sanity and put myself again in relation with Nature.”); August 14, 1854 ("I have come forth to this hill at sunset. . . to behold and commune with something grander than man.”)

The satisfaction of existence . . . our Creator breathes on us and re-creates us. See May 12, 1851 ("Imagine yourself alone in the world, a musing, wondering, reflecting spirit, lost in thought, and imagine thereafter the creation of man— man made in the image of God!");  June 22, 1851 ("Sometimes we are clarified and calmed . . ., so that we become like a still lake of purest crystal and without an effort our depths are revealed to our selves . All the world goes by us and is reflected in our deeps . . . . We live and rejoice . . . I feel my Maker blessing me."); July 16, 1851 (" My life was ecstasy. In youth,. . .I was all alive, and inhabited my body with inexpressible satisfaction;. . .To have such sweet impressions made on us, such ecstasies begotten of the breezes! I can remember how I was astonished. I said to myself, — I said to others, — "There comes into my mind such an indescribable, infinite, all-absorbing, divine, heavenly pleasure, a sense of elevation and expansion, and [I] have had nought to do with it. I perceive that I am dealt with by superior powers. This is a pleasure, a joy, an existence which I have not procured myself. . . .. The maker of me is improving me."); August 5, 1851 ("As the twilight deepens and the moonlight is more and more bright, I begin to distinguish myself, who I am and where. I become more collected and composed, and sensible of my own existence, as when a lamp is brought into a dark apartment. ... I am sobered by the moonlight. I bethink myself.”);  August 3, 1852 ("By some fortunate coincidence of thought or circumstance I am attuned to the universe, I am fitted to hear, my being moves in a sphere of melody, my fancy and imagination are excited to an inconceivable degree. "); August 23, 1852 ("There is something invigorating in this air, which I am peculiarly sensible is a real wind blowing from over the surface of a planet.”); March 30, 1853 ("Ah, those youthful days! are they never to return? when the walker . . . sees, hears, scents, tastes, and feels only himself, - the phenomena that show themselves in him, - his expanding body, his intellect and heart.”); May 23, 1854 ("There was a time when the beauty and the music were all within, and I sat and listened to my thoughts, and there was a song in them. I sat for hours on rocks and wrestled with the melody which possessed me. I sat and listened by the hour to a positive though faint and distant music . . .. When I walked with a joy which knew not its own origin."); December 11, 1855 ("To perceive freshly, with fresh senses, is to be inspired. My body is all sentient. As I go here or there, I am tickled by this or that I come in contact with, as if I touched the wires of a battery. The age of miracles is each moment thus returned. Now it is wild apples, now river reflections, now a flock of lesser redpolls.”) 

November 25. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, November 25

Just as the sun shines

our Creator breathes on us 

and re-creates us.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The satisfaction of existence.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

 "A book, each page written in its own season, 

out-of-doors, in its own locality."

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2022

The reflection enchants us, just as an echo does. The rhyme makes even what was odd.

November 23.

6 A. M. – To Swamp Bridge Brook mouth.

The cocks are the only birds I hear, but they are a host. They crow as freshly and bravely as ever, while poets go down the stream, degenerate into science and prose.

I have not seen a flock of small birds, either tree sparrows or F. hyemalis or white-in-tails, etc., for about a fortnight. There is now no sound of early birds on the leafless trees and bushes -- willows and alders -- along this watercourse. The few that are left probably roost in the evergreen woods.

Yet I hear, or seem to hear, the faintest possible lisp or creak from some sparrow, as if from a crack in the mist-clad earth, or some ox-yoke or distant wain. I suspect that the song sparrow lingers as late, here and there alone, as any migrating bird.

By 8 o'clock the misty clouds disperse, and it turns out a pleasant, calm, and springlike morning.

The water, going down, but still spread far over the meadows, is seen from the window perfectly smooth and full of reflections.  

What lifts and lightens and makes heaven of the earth is the fact that you see the reflections of the humblest weeds against the sky, but you cannot put your head low enough to see the substance so.  The reflection enchants us, just as an echo does.

If I would preserve my relation to nature, I must make my life more moral, more pure and innocent. The problem is as precise and simple as a mathematical one. I must not live loosely, but more and more continently.

What an engineer this water is! It comes with its unerring level, and reveals all the inequalities of the meadow. The farmer may see now what route to take to get the driest and firmest ground for his hay - carts, how to cut his ditches, and where to drop more sand. It is an obvious piece of geometry in nature.

Every peculiar curve in the limbs of the trees is doubly conspicuous seen both above and beneath, yet the rhyme makes even what was odd, regular what was irregular.

For a week or more there has been no freezing day or night.

The springs and swamps are getting filled.

The Indian summer itself, said to be more remarkable in this country than elsewhere, no less than the reblossoming of certain flowers, the peep of the hylodes, and sometimes the faint warble of some birds, is the reminiscence, or rather the return, of spring, the year renewing its youth.

At 5 P. M. I saw, flying southwest high overhead, a flock of geese, and heard the faint honking of one or two. They were in the usual harrow form, twelve in the shorter line and twenty four in the longer, the latter abutting on the former at the fourth bird from the front. I judged hastily that the interval between the geese was about double their alar extent, and, as the last is, according to Wilson, five feet and two inches, the former may safely be called eight feet.  I hear they were fired at with a rifle from Bunker Hill the other day. This is the sixth flock I have seen or heard of since the morning of the 17th, i.e. within a week.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 23, 1853

I suspect that the song sparrow lingers as late, here and there alone, as any migrating bird. See  October 26, 1855 ("The song sparrow still sings on a button-bush."): October 27, 1853 ("These, methinks, are song sparrows flitting about, with the three spots on breast"): December 9, 1858 ("At New Bedford. See a song sparrow"): January 15, 1857 (" As I passed the south shed at the depot, observed what . . . must be a song sparrow, it having the usual marks on its breast and no bright-chestnut crown. The snow is nine or ten inches deep, and it appeared to have taken refuge in this shed, where was much bare ground exposed by removing the wood."): 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 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.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Song Sparrow (Fringilla melodia)

You see the reflections of the humblest weeds against the sky, but you cannot put your head low enough to see the substance so. The reflection enchants us, just as an echo does. See  September 2, 1852 ("We see things in the reflection which we do not see in the substance. In the reflected woods of Pine Hill there is a vista through which I see the sky, but I am indebted to the water for this advantage, for from this point the actual wood affords no such vista. "); November 30, 1853 (Though frequently we could not see the real bush in the twilight against the dark bank, in the water it appeared against the sky. We were thus often enabled to steer clear of the overhanging bushes");  December 8, 1853 (“I saw from the peak the entire reflection of large white pines very distinctly against a clear white sky, though the actual tree was completely lost in night against the dark distant hillside.”); December 9, 1856 ("I perceive that more or other things are seen in the reflection than in the substance."); October 14, 1857 ("The reflection is never a true copy or repetition of its substance, but a new composition, and this may be the source of its novelty and attractiveness, and of this nature, too, may be the charm of an echo."); November 2, 1857 ("The water tells me how it looks to it seen from below.”); November 27, 1857 ("I think that Ruskin is wrong about reflections . . .He says . . . 'Whatever you can see from the place in which you stand, of the solid objects so reversed under the water, you will see in the reflection’”).

Every peculiar curve in the limbs of the trees is doubly conspicuous seen both above and beneath, yet the rhyme makes even what was odd, regular what was irregular. See April 11, 1852 (". At this season the reflections of deciduous trees are more remarkable than when they are in leaf, because, the branches being seen, they make with their reflections a more wonderful rhyme.. . .a kind of geometrical figure.")

What an engineer this water is! It comes with its unerring level . . . an obvious piece of geometry in nature. See November 11, 1855 ("At the Hemlocks I see a narrow reddish line of hemlock leaves and, half an inch below, a white line of saw dust, eight inches above the present surface, on the upright side of a rock, both mathematically level.");. April 1, 1860 ("The river being so low, we see lines of sawdust perfectly level and parallel to one another on the side of the steep dark bank at the Hemlocks. . . .reminding you of a coarse chalk line made by snapping a string, not more than half an inch wide much of it, but more true than that would be.")

I saw, flying southwest high overhead, a flock of geese, and heard the faint honking of one or two. They were in the usual harrow form, . . . This is the sixth flock I have seen or heard of since the morning of the 17th, i.e . within a week. See November 18, 1854 ("Sixty geese go over the Great Fields, in one waving line, broken from time to time by their crowding on each other and vainly endeavoring to form into a harrow, honking all the while.”);. 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");. November 22, 1853 ("Geese went over yesterday, and to-day also");. November 24, 1855 ("Geese went over on the 13th and 14th, on the 17th the first snow fell, and the 19th it began to be cold and blustering"); November 30, 1857 ("The air is full of geese. I saw five flocks within an hour, about 10 A. M., containing from thirty to fifty each, and afterward two more flocks, making in all from two hundred and fifty to three hundred at least") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Geese in Autumn

Weeds against the sky –

in reflection enchants us

just as an echo.

The recent water-line at Walden is quite distinct.

December 8. 

Another Indian-summer day. 

Saw some puffballs in the woods, wonderfully full of sulphur-like dust, which yellowed my shoes, greenish-yellow. 

The recent water-line at Walden is quite distinct, though like the limit of a shadow, on the alders about eighteen inches above the present level.

One cannot burn or bury even his old shoes without a feeling of sadness and compassion; much more his old body, without a slight sense of guilt.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 8, 1852

Wonderfully full of sulphur-like dust, which yellowed my shoes, greenish-yellow. Compare June 29, 1858 ("Walking in the white pine wood there, I find that my shoes and, indeed, my hat are covered with the greenish-yellow pollen of the white pines,. . .My shoes are green-yellow, or yellow-green, even the next day with it.")

The recent water-line at Walden is quite distinct, See December 5, 1852 ("This great rise of the pond after an interval of many years, and the water standing at this great height for a year or more, kills the shrubs and trees about its edge")

Burn or bury old shoes.  See December 3, 1856 ("The man who has bought his boots feels like him who has got in his winter's wood.”); December 6, 1859 ("That is an era, when, in the beginning of the winter, you change from the shoes of summer to the boots of winter.")

Sat at the end of Long Wharf.

November 5.

In Boston. — The first Indian-summer day, after an unusually cold October. 

November 5, 2020

Sat at the end of Long Wharf for coolness, but it was very warm, with scarcely a breath of wind, and so thick a haze that I could see but little way down the harbor.


H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 5, 1859

The first Indian-summer day, See November 1, 2015 ("A beautiful Indian-summer day, the most remarkable hitherto and equal to any of the kind. "); November 1, 1860 ("A perfect Indian-summer day, and wonderfully warm. 72+ at 1 P. M. and probably warmer at two.");November 6, 1857 ("Thermometer on north of the house 70° at 12 M. Indian summer.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The world can never be more beautiful than now.

Sat at the end of Long Wharf . See December 25, 1853 ("When I go to Boston, I go naturally straight through the city down to the end of Long Wharf and look off")

Fine, clear Indian-summer weather.

October 14.

Friday.

A Mr. Farquhar of Maryland came to see me; spent the day and the night.

Fine, clear Indian-summer weather.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 14, 1853

Fine, clear Indian-summer. See October 14, 1857 ("Another, the tenth of these memorable days . . .
It is indeed a golden autumn. These ten days are enough to make the reputation of any climate."); October 14, 1859 ("A fine Indian-summer day. The 6th and 10th were quite cool, and any particularly warm days since may be called Indian summer.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Indian Summer

A fine Indian-summer day.

November 9. 

November 9, 2019

A fine Indian-summer day. 

Have had pleasant weather about a week.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 9, 1859


Have had pleasant weather about a week. See November 1, 1855 (“It is a beautiful Indian-summer day, the most remarkable hitherto and equal to any of the kind. . . .It is akin to sin to spend such a day in the house.”); November 7, 1857 (“This has been another Indian-summer day. Thermometer 58° at noon.”)

October has been the month of autumnal tints.

October 23. 

P. M. — To Conantum. 

This may be called an Indian-summer day. 

It is quite hazy withal, and the mountains invisible. I see a horehound turned lake or steel-claret color. The yellow lily pads in Hubbard's ditch are fresh, as if recently expanded. There are some white lily pads in river still, but very few indeed of the yellow lily. A pasture thistle on Conantum just budded, but flat with the ground. The fields generally wear a russet hue. 

A striped snake out.

The milkweed (Syriaca) now rapidly discounting. The lanceolate pods having opened, the seeds spring out on the least jar, or when dried by the sun, and form a little fluctuating white silky mass or tuft, each held by the extremities of the fine threads, until a stronger puff of wind sets them free. It is a pleasant sight to see it dispersing its seeds. 

The bass has lost its leaves. 

I see where boys have gathered the mockernut, though it has not fallen out of its shells. 

The red squirrel chirrups in the walnut grove. 

The chickadees flit along, following me inquisitively a few rods with lisping, tinkling note, — flit within a few feet of me from curiosity, head downward on the pines.

The white pines have shed their leaves, making a yellow carpet on the grass, but the pitch pines are yet parti-colored. 

Is it the procumbent speedwell (Veronica agrestis) still in flower on Lee's Cliff? But its leaves are neither heart-ovate nor shorter than the peduncles. 
.

     

             October 23, 2020                                                     October 23, 2024

                (Avesong)                                                                     (Avesong)

The sprays of the witch-hazel are sprinkled on the air, and recurved

The pennyroyal stands brown and sere, though fragrant still, on the shelves of the Cliff. 

The elms in the street have nearly lost their leaves. 

October 23, 2024

October has been the month of autumnal tints. 

October 22, 2020

October 23, 2016

The first of the month the tints began to be more general, at which time the frosts began, though there were scattered bright tints long before; but not till then did the forest begin to be painted. By the end of the month the leaves will either have fallen or besered and turned brown by the frosts for the most part. 

Also the month of barberries and chestnuts. 

My friend is one whom I meet, who takes me for what I am. 

A stranger takes me for something else than I am. We do not speak, we cannot communicate, till we find that we are recognized. The stranger supposes in our stead a third person whom we do not know, and we leave him to converse with that one. It is suicide for us to become abetters in misapprehending ourselves. Suspicion creates the stranger and substitutes him for the friend. I cannot abet any man in misapprehending myself. 

What men call social virtues, good fellowship, is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter, which lie close together to keep each other warm. It brings men together in crowds and mobs in barrooms and elsewhere, but it does not-deserve the name of virtue.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 23, 1852


The chickadees flit along, following me inquisitively a few rods with lisping, tinkling note, — flit within a few feet of me from curiosity, head downward on the pines. See October 13, 1852    ("It is a clear, warm, rather Indian-summer day. . . The chickadees take heart, too, and sing above these warm rocks. ")See also October 10, 1851 ("flitting ever nearer and nearer and nearer, inquisitively, till the boldest was within five feet of me");; November 9, 1850 (" The chickadees, if I stand long enough, hop nearer and nearer inquisitively, from pine bough to pine bough, till within four or five feet, occasionally lisping a note");  December 1, 1853 ("inquisitively hop nearer and nearer to me. They are our most honest and innocent little bird, drawing yet nearer to us as the winter advances, and deserve best of any of the walker.")

The chickadee

Hops near to me.

November 8, 1857

 See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Chickadee in Winter

The sprays of the witch-hazel are sprinkled on the air.  See October 20, 1852 ("The witch-hazel is bare of all but flowers") See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Witch-Hazel