July 4, 2022
3 A. M. - To Conantum, to see the lilies open.
I hear an occasional crowing of cocks in distant barns, as has been their habit for how many thousand years. It was so when I was young; and it will be so when I am old.
I hear the croak of a tree-toad as I am crossing the yard.
I am surprised to find the dawn so far advanced. There is a yellowish segment of light in the east, paling a star and adding sensibly to the light of the waning and now declining moon.
There is very little dew on the uplands.
I hear a little twittering and some clear singing from the seringo and the song sparrow as I go along the back road, and now and then the note of a bullfrog from the river.
The light in the east has acquired a reddish tinge near the horizon. Small wisps of cloud are already fuscous and dark, seen against the light, as in the west at evening.
It being Sunday morning, I hear no early stirring farmer driving over a bridge. The crickets are not remarkably loud at this season. The sound of a whip-poor-will is wafted from the woods. Now, on the Corner road, the hedges are alive with twittering sparrows, a bluebird or two, etc.
The daylight now balances the moonlight.
How short the nights! The last traces of day have not disappeared much before 10 o'clock, or perchance 9.30, and before 3 A. M. you see them again in the east, probably 2.30, leaving about five hours of solid night, the sun so soon coming round again.
The robins sing, but not so loud and long as in the spring. I have not been awakened by them latterly in the mornings. Is it my fault?
How short the nights! The last traces of day have not disappeared much before 10 o'clock, or perchance 9.30, and before 3 A. M. you see them again in the east, probably 2.30, leaving about five hours of solid night, the sun so soon coming round again.
The robins sing, but not so loud and long as in the spring. I have not been awakened by them latterly in the mornings. Is it my fault?
Ah! those mornings when you are awakened in the dawn by the singing, the matins, of the birds!
I hear the dumping sound of frogs now on the causeway.
Some small clouds in the east are reddish fuscous. There is no fog on the river nor in the meadows.
The kingbird twitters (?) on the black willows.
Methinks I saw the not yet extinguished lights of one or two fireflies in the darker ruts in the grass, in Conant's meadow.
The moon yields to the sun. She pales even in the presence of his dawn.
It is chiefly the spring birds that I hear at this hour, and in each dawn the spring is thus revived.
The notes of the sparrows and the bluebirds and the robin have a prominence now which they have not by day.
The light is more and more general, and some low bars begin to look bluish as well as reddish. (Else-where the sky wholly clear of clouds.) The dawn is at this stage far lighter than the brightest moonlight. I write by it. Yet the sun will not rise for some time.
Those bars are reddening more purplish, or lilac rather, light in the eastern sky. (And now, descending to the Cliff by the riverside, I cannot see the low horizon and its phenomena.)
Some small clouds in the east are reddish fuscous. There is no fog on the river nor in the meadows.
The kingbird twitters (?) on the black willows.
Methinks I saw the not yet extinguished lights of one or two fireflies in the darker ruts in the grass, in Conant's meadow.
The moon yields to the sun. She pales even in the presence of his dawn.
It is chiefly the spring birds that I hear at this hour, and in each dawn the spring is thus revived.
The notes of the sparrows and the bluebirds and the robin have a prominence now which they have not by day.
The light is more and more general, and some low bars begin to look bluish as well as reddish. (Else-where the sky wholly clear of clouds.) The dawn is at this stage far lighter than the brightest moonlight. I write by it. Yet the sun will not rise for some time.
Those bars are reddening more purplish, or lilac rather, light in the eastern sky. (And now, descending to the Cliff by the riverside, I cannot see the low horizon and its phenomena.)
I love to go through these old apple orchards so irregularly set out. Sometimes two trees standing close together. The rows of grafted fruit will never tempt me to wander amid them like these.
A bittern leaves the shore at my approach. I suppose it is he whose excrement has whitened the rocks, as if a mason had spilled his whitewash.
A nighthawk squeaks and booms, before sunrise.
The insects shaped like shad-flies (some which I see are larger and yellowish) begin to leave their cases (and selves?) on the stems of the grasses and the rushes in the water. I find them so weak they can hardly hold on.
I hear the black-bird's conqueree, and the kingfisher darts away with his alarum and outstretched neck.
Every lily is shut.
A bittern leaves the shore at my approach. I suppose it is he whose excrement has whitened the rocks, as if a mason had spilled his whitewash.
A nighthawk squeaks and booms, before sunrise.
The insects shaped like shad-flies (some which I see are larger and yellowish) begin to leave their cases (and selves?) on the stems of the grasses and the rushes in the water. I find them so weak they can hardly hold on.
I hear the black-bird's conqueree, and the kingfisher darts away with his alarum and outstretched neck.
Every lily is shut.
Sunrise. I see it gilding the top of the hill behind me, but the sun itself is concealed by the hills and woods on the east shore.
A very slight fog begins to rise now in one place on the river.
There is something serenely glorious and memorable to me in the sight of the first cool sunlight now gilding the eastern extremity of the bushy island in Fair Haven, that wild lake.
The subdued light and the repose remind me of Hades. In such sunlight there is no fever. It is such an innocent pale yellow as the spring flowers. It is the pollen of the sun, fertilizing plants. The color of the earliest spring flowers is as cool and innocent as the first rays of the sun in the morning falling on woods and hills.
The fog not only rises upward (about two feet), but at once there is a motion from the sun over the surface.
What means this endless motion of water-bugs collected in little groups on the surface and ceaselessly circling about their centre, as if they were a family hatched from the eggs on the under side of a pad? Is not this motion intended partly to balk the fishes? Methinks they did not begin to move till sunrise. Where were they?
A very slight fog begins to rise now in one place on the river.
There is something serenely glorious and memorable to me in the sight of the first cool sunlight now gilding the eastern extremity of the bushy island in Fair Haven, that wild lake.
The subdued light and the repose remind me of Hades. In such sunlight there is no fever. It is such an innocent pale yellow as the spring flowers. It is the pollen of the sun, fertilizing plants. The color of the earliest spring flowers is as cool and innocent as the first rays of the sun in the morning falling on woods and hills.
The fog not only rises upward (about two feet), but at once there is a motion from the sun over the surface.
What means this endless motion of water-bugs collected in little groups on the surface and ceaselessly circling about their centre, as if they were a family hatched from the eggs on the under side of a pad? Is not this motion intended partly to balk the fishes? Methinks they did not begin to move till sunrise. Where were they?
And now I see an army of skaters advancing in loose array, of chasseurs or scouts, as Indian allies are drawn in old books.
Now the rays of the sun have reached my seat, a few feet above the water; flies begin to buzz, mosquitoes to be less troublesome.
A hummingbird hums by over the pads up the river, as if looking, like myself, to see if lilies have blossomed.
The birds begin to sing generally, and, if not loudest, at least most noticeably on account of the quietness of the hour, just before -- a few minutes before -- sunrise. They do not sing so incessantly and earnestly, as a regular thing, half an hour later.
Carefully looking both up and down the river, I could perceive that the lilies began to open about fifteen minutes after the sun from over the opposite bank fell on them, which was perhaps three quarters of an hour after sunrise (which is about 4.30), and one was fully expanded about twenty minutes later. When I returned over the bridge about 6.15, there were perhaps a dozen open ones in sight.
Now the rays of the sun have reached my seat, a few feet above the water; flies begin to buzz, mosquitoes to be less troublesome.
A hummingbird hums by over the pads up the river, as if looking, like myself, to see if lilies have blossomed.
The birds begin to sing generally, and, if not loudest, at least most noticeably on account of the quietness of the hour, just before -- a few minutes before -- sunrise. They do not sing so incessantly and earnestly, as a regular thing, half an hour later.
Carefully looking both up and down the river, I could perceive that the lilies began to open about fifteen minutes after the sun from over the opposite bank fell on them, which was perhaps three quarters of an hour after sunrise (which is about 4.30), and one was fully expanded about twenty minutes later. When I returned over the bridge about 6.15, there were perhaps a dozen open ones in sight.
It was very difficult to find one not injured by insects. Even the buds which were just about to expand were frequently bored quite through, and the water had rotted them. You must be on hand early to anticipate insects.
One thimble-berry which will be quite ripe by to-morrow.
Indigo almost expanded.
I perceive the meadow fragrance on the causeway.
Bobolinks still.
I bring home a dozen perfect lily buds, — all I can find within many rods, — which have never yet opened; I prepare a large pan of water; I cut their stems quite short; I turn back their calyx-leaves with my fingers, so that they may float upright; I touch the points of their petals, and breathe or blow on them, and toss them in. They spring open rapidly, or gradually expand in the course of an hour, all but one or two.
One thimble-berry which will be quite ripe by to-morrow.
Indigo almost expanded.
I perceive the meadow fragrance on the causeway.
Bobolinks still.
I bring home a dozen perfect lily buds, — all I can find within many rods, — which have never yet opened; I prepare a large pan of water; I cut their stems quite short; I turn back their calyx-leaves with my fingers, so that they may float upright; I touch the points of their petals, and breathe or blow on them, and toss them in. They spring open rapidly, or gradually expand in the course of an hour, all but one or two.
At 12.30 P. M., I perceive that the lilies in the river have begun to shut up. The water has gone down so much that I can stand on the shore and pluck as many as I want, and they are the fairest ones, concealed by the pickerel-weed, often the whole plant high and dry. I go again to the river at 2.30 P. M., and every lily is shut.
I will here tell the history of my rosaceous lilies plucked the 1st of July.
- They were buds at the bottom of a pitcher of water all the 2d, having been kept in my hat part of the day before.
- On the morning of the 3d I assisted their opening, and put them in water, as I have described; but they did not shut up at noon, like those in the river, but at dark, their petals, at least, quite tight and close.
- They all opened again in the course of the forenoon of the 4th, but had not shut up at 10 o'clock P. M., though I found them shut in the morning of the 5th.
Can that meadow fragrance come from the purple summits of the eupatorium?
I looked down on the river behind Dodd's at 2.30 P. M., a slate-colored stream with a scarcely perceptible current, with a male and female shore; the former, more abrupt, of button-bushes and willows, the other, flat, of grass and pickerel-weed alone. Beyond the former, the water being deep, extends a border or fringe of green and purplish pads lying perfectly flat on the surface, but on the latter side the pads extend a half a rood or a rod beyond the pickerel-weed, — shining pads reflecting the light, dotted with white or yellow lilies. This sort of ruff does the river wear, and so the land is graduated off to water.
A tender place in nature, an exposed vein, and nature making a feint to bridge it quite over with a paddy film, with red-winged black- birds liquidly warbling and whistling on the willows, and kingbirds on the elms and oaks; these pads, if there is any wind, rippling with the water and helping to smooth and allay it. It looks tender and exposed, as if it were naturally subterranean, and now, with these shields of pads, held scale-like by long threads from the bottom, she makes a feint to bridge it.
So floats the Musketaquid over its segment of the sphere.
Methinks there is not even a lily, white or yellow, in Walden.
I see perfectly formed pouts by the shore of the river, one inch long.
The great spatterdock lily is a rich yellow at a little distance, and, seen lying on its great pads, it is an indispensable evidence of the fertility of the river. The gratiola begins to yellow the mud by the riverside. The Lysimachia lanceolata var. hybrida is out, in the meadows.
A tender place in nature, an exposed vein, and nature making a feint to bridge it quite over with a paddy film, with red-winged black- birds liquidly warbling and whistling on the willows, and kingbirds on the elms and oaks; these pads, if there is any wind, rippling with the water and helping to smooth and allay it. It looks tender and exposed, as if it were naturally subterranean, and now, with these shields of pads, held scale-like by long threads from the bottom, she makes a feint to bridge it.
So floats the Musketaquid over its segment of the sphere.
Methinks there is not even a lily, white or yellow, in Walden.
I see perfectly formed pouts by the shore of the river, one inch long.
The great spatterdock lily is a rich yellow at a little distance, and, seen lying on its great pads, it is an indispensable evidence of the fertility of the river. The gratiola begins to yellow the mud by the riverside. The Lysimachia lanceolata var. hybrida is out, in the meadows.
The Rosa nitida (?) appears to be now out of bloom.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal,
July 4, 1852
the light of the waning and now declining moon. See June 30, 1852 ('Moon nearly full; rose a little before sunset.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July Moonlight
The Rosa nitida (?) appears to be now out of bloom. See June 16, 1854 ("The Rosa nitida grows along the edge of the ditches, the half-open flowers showing the deepest rosy tints, so glowing that they make an evening or twilight of the surrounding afternoon, seeming to stand in the shade or twilight. Already the bright petals of yesterday's flowers are thickly strewn along on the black mud at the bottom of the ditch."); July 8, 1854 ("The Rosa nitida I think has [been] some time done") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Wild Rose
