Now the mountains are concealed by the dog-day haze.

August 13.

First marked dog-day; sultry and with misty clouds. 

For ten days or so we have had comparatively cool, fall-like weather. I remember only with a pang the past spring and summer thus far. 

I have not been an early riser. Society seems to have invaded and overrun me. I have drank tea and coffee and made myself cheap and vulgar. My days have been all noontides, without sacred mornings and evenings. I desire to rise early henceforth, to associate with those whose influence is elevating, to have such dreams and waking thoughts that my diet may not be indifferent to me. 

P. M. — To Bare Hill, Lincoln, via railroad. 

This is a quite hot day again, after cooler weather. 

I see where the pasture thistles have apparently been picked to pieces (for their seeds? by the goldfinch?), and the seedless down strews the ground. 

Huckleberries begin to be wormy, but are still sound on Bare Hill. 

August 13, 2023

Now the mountains are concealed by the dog-day haze, and the view is of dark ridges of forest, one behind the other, separated by misty valleys. 

Squirrels have begun to eat hazelnuts, and I see their dry husks on the ground turned reddish-brown. 

The change, decay, and fall of the brakes in woods, etc., is perhaps more autumnal than any sight. Some are quite brown and shrivelled, others yellow, others yellow and brown, others yellow, brown, and green, making a very rich and parti-colored or checkered work, as of plaited straw, — bead or straw work or ivory; others are still green with brown spots. 

At Thrush Alley, I am surprised to behold how many birch leaves have turned yellow, — every other one, — while clear, fresh, leather-colored ones strew the ground with a pretty thick bed under each tree. So far as the birches go it is a perfect autumnal scene here.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 13, 1854

Now the mountains are concealed by the dog-day haze. See August 14, 1852 (There is such a haze that I cannot see the mountains.); August 12, 1856 (“It is thick, smoky, dog-day weather again.”)

I remember only with a pang. See July 19, 1851 ("Yesterday it was spring, and to-morrow it will be autumn. Where is the summer then? ");  December 1, 1852 ("The year looks back toward summer, and a summer smile is reflected in her face."); January 12, 1855 ("Perhaps what most moves us in winter is some reminiscence of far-off summer"); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Reminiscence and Prompting

I see where the pasture thistles have apparently been picked to pieces (for their seeds? by the goldfinch?) See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Thistles; A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau the Goldfinch

Squirrels have begun to eat hazelnuts, and I see their dry husks on the ground. See August 21, 1854 ("Now, say, is hazelnut time.");  August 29, 1858 ("The bushes have been completely stripped by squirrels already and the rich brown burs are strewn on the ground beneath . . .Take warning from the squirrel, which is already laying up his winter store.")

The change, decay, and fall of the brakes in woods, etc., is perhaps more autumnal than any sight. See August 23, 1859 ("The scarlet lower leaves of the choke-berry and some brakes are the handsomest autumnal tints which I see to-day")

Birch leaves have turned yellow, — every other one, — while clear, fresh, leather-colored ones strew the ground. See August 31, 1858 ("The birches have lately lost a great many of their lower leaves, which now cover and yellow the ground.")

August 13. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 13.

Cool fall-like weather –

with a pang I remember

spring and summer past.

First marked dog-day

 sultry and with misty clouds –

mountains now concealed.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, with a pang I remember

spring and summer past.

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-540813 

Cannabis sativa, apparently out.

August 11.

To Contantum.

The mountain-ash berries are turning. We had a ripe watermelon on the 7th. I see the great yellow flowers of the squash amid the potatoes in the garden, one of the largest yellow flowers we have. How fat and rich! Of course it is long since they blossomed. Green corn begins.

The autumnal ring of the alder locust. White lilies are not very numerous now.

The skunk-cabbage leaves are fallen and decaying, and their fruit is black. Their fall is earlier than that of other plants.

I am attracted by the clear dark-green leaves of the fever-bush. The rum cherry is ripe.

The Collinsonia Canadensis just begun. The great trumpet-weeds now fairly out. Sumach berries now generally red. Some naked viburnum berries are red. The sweet viburnum turning.

The larger skull-cap is quite an important and interesting flower.

Platanthera blephariglottis, white fringed orchis.

This side of Hubbard's Meadow Bridge, Lespedeza hirta (hairy), Cannabis sativa, apparently out.

Aster corymbosus, path beyond Corner Spring and in Miles Swamp.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 11, 1852

Cannabis sativa, apparently out. See August 4, 1854 ("Cannabis sativa")

Platanthera blephariglottis, white fringed orchis. See August 8, 1858 ("I find at Ledum Swamp, near the pool, the white fringed orchis, quite abundant but past prime, only a few, yet quite fresh. It seems to belong to this sphagnous swamp and is some fifteen to twenty inches high, quite conspicuous, its white spike, amid the prevailing green. The leaves are narrow, half folded, and almost insignificant. It loves, then, these cold bogs.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The White Fringed Orchis

Aster corymbosus, path beyond Corner Spring and in Miles Swamp. See August 9, 1856 ("What I have called Aster corymbosus out a day, above Hemlocks. . . .")

August 11.  See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 11

 

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

Morning Fog

July 25

From Fair Haven Hill, the sun having risen, I see great wreaths of fog far northeast, revealing the course of the river, a noble sight, as it were the river elevated, or rather the ghost of the ample stream that once flowed to ocean between these now distant uplands in another geological period, filling the broad meadows, -the dews saved to the earth by this great Musketaquid condenser, refrigerator.

The fog rises highest over the channel of the river and over the ponds in the woods which are thus revealed. I clearly distinguish where White Pond lies by this sign, and various other ponds, methinks, to which I have walked ten or twelve miles distant, and I distinguish the course of the Assabet far in the west and southwest beyond the woods. 

And now the rising sun makes glow with downiest white the ample wreaths, which rise higher than the highest trees. The farmers that lie slumbering on this their day of rest, how little do they know of this stupendous pageant! Every valley is densely packed with the downy vapor.  A certain thrilling vastness or wasteness it now suggests. This is one of those ambosial, white, ever-memorable fogs presaging fair weather. 

In the meanwhile the wood thrush and the jay and the robin sing around me here, and birds are heard singing from the midst of the fog. And in one short hour this sea will all evaporate and the sun be reflected from farm windows on its green bottom.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 25, 1852


Great wreaths of fog...white, ever-memorable fogs presaging fair weather. See July 22, 1851 ("The season of morning fogs has arrived. A great crescent over the course of the river, the fog retreats, and I do not see how it is dissipated, leaving this slight, thin vapor to curl over the surface of the still, dark water, still as glass. These are our fairest days, which are born in a fog.")

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

From the midst of fog

wood thrush and jay and robin

sing around me here.

Fireflies.

August 21

Soaking rains, and in the night. A few fireflies still at night.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 21, 1860

See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Fireflies

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