August 26.
P. M. — To Great Meadows.
The Solidago arguta is apparently in its prime.
Hips of moss rose not long scarlet.
The Juncus effusus, a long [time] withered (the upper part).
The liatris is about (or nearly) in prime.
Aster loevis, how long?
Two interesting tall purplish grasses appear to be the prevailing ones now in dry and sterile neglected fields and hillsides, — Andropogon furcatus, forked beard grass, and apparently Andropogon scoparius, purple wool grass, though the last appears to have three awns like an Aristida.
The first is a very tall and slender-culmed grass,with four or five purple finger-like spikes, raying upward from the top. It is very abundant on the hillside behind Peter’s. The other is also quite slender, two to three or four feet high, growing in tufts and somewhat curving, also commonly purple and with pretty purple stigmas like the last, and it has purple anthers. When out of bloom, its appressed spikes are re curving and have a whitish hairy or fuzzy look.
These are the prevailing conspicuous flowers where I walk this afternoon in dry ground.
I have sympathy with them because they are despised by the farmer and occupy sterile and neglected soil. They also by their rich purple reflections or tinges seem to express the ripeness of the year. It is high-colored like ripe grapes, and expresses a maturity which the spring did not suggest. Only the August sun could have thus burnished these culms and leaves.
The farmer has long since done his upland haying, and he will not deign to bring his scythe to where these slender wild grasses have at length flowered thinly. You often see the bare sand between them. I walk encouraged between the tufts of purple wool grass, over the sandy fields by the shrub oaks, glad to recognize these simple contemporaries.
These two are almost the first grasses that I have learned to distinguish. I did not know by how many friends I was surrounded. The purple of their culms excites me like that of the pokeweed stems.
Think what refuge there is for me before August is over, from college commencements and society that isolates me! I can skulk amid the tufts of purple wood grass on the borders of the Great Fields! Wherever I walk this afternoon the purple-fingered grass stands like a guide-board and points my thoughts to more poetic paths than they have lately travelled.
A man shall, perchance, rush by and trample down plants as high as his head, and cannot be said to know that they exist, though he may have cut and cured many tons of them for his cattle. Yet, perchance, if he ever favorably attend to them, he may be overcome by their beauty.
Each humblest plant, or weed, as we call it, stands there to express some thought or mood of ours, and yet how long it stands in vain!
I have walked these Great Fields so many Augusts and never yet distinctly recognized these purple companions that I have there. I have brushed against them and trampled them down, for sooth, and now at last they have, as it were, risen up and blessed me.
Beauty and true wealth are always thus cheap and despised. Heaven, or paradise, might be defined as the place which men avoid. Who can doubt that these grasses which the farmer says are of no account to him find some compensation in my appreciation of them?
I may say that I never saw them before, or can only recall a dim vision of them, and now wherever I go I hardly see anything else. It is the reign and presidency only of the andropogons.
I walk down the Great Meadows on the upland side. They are still mowing, but have not got more than half, and probably will not get nearly all. I see where the tufts of Arum peltandrum have been cut off by the mower, and the leaves are all gone, but the still green fruit, which had curved downward close to the ground on every side amid the stubble, was too low for his scythe, and so escaped. Thus this plant is perpetuated in such localities, though it may be cut before the seed is mature.
The wool-grass, black-bracted, of these meadows long since went out of bloom, and is now not merely withered at top but wasted half away, and is quite gray, while that which I examine in another meadow, green-bracted, has but recently ceased to bloom. Looking from this side, the meadow appears to be filled almost exclusively with wool-grass, yet very little has any culm or has blossomed this year.
I notice, however, one tract, in the midst of the rest, an oblong square with perfectly straight sides, reaching from the upland toward the river, where it has quite generally blossomed and the culms still stand as high as my head. This, plainly, is because the land of a particular proprietor has been subjected to a peculiar treatment.
Minott tells me that once, one very dry summer, when but part of these meadows had been cut, Moore and Hosmer got the owners to agree to have them burnt over, in the expectation that it would improve the quality of the grass, and they made quite an affair of it, — had a chowder, cooked by Moore’s boys, etc.; but the consequence was that this wool-grass came in next year more than ever.
Some come a good way for their meadow-grass, even from Lincoln. George Baker has some in this meadow and some in the Sudbury meadows. But Minott says they want to get rid of their river meadow now, since they can get more and very much better grass off their redeemed swamps, or meadows of their own making, near home.
Hardhack, meadow-sweet, alders, maples, etc., etc., appear to be creeping into the meadow.
M. says they used to mow clean up to the ditch by the hard land. He remembers how he used to suffer from the heat, working out in the sun on these broad meadows, and when they took their luncheon, how glad he was to lie along close to the water, on the wet ground under the white maples by the riverside. And then one would swim a horse over at the Holt go up to Jack Buttrick’s (now Abner’s), where there was a well of cool water, and get one or two great jugs full, with which he recrossed on the horse. He tells of one fellow who trod water across there with a jug in each hand!
He has seen young woodcocks in the nest there, i. e. on the ground where he had mowed, the middle of August; and used to see the summer ducks perched on the maples, on some large limb close up to the main stem, since they cannot cling to a small twig.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 26, 1858
Hips of moss rose not long scarlet. See
August 27, 1852 ("Hips of the early roses are reddening.”);
August 27, 1856 (“The large depressed globular hips of the moss rose begin to turn scarlet in low ground ”);
August 29, 1854 ("The moss rose hips will be quite ripe in a day or two.”)
The farmer has long since done his upland haying, and he will not deign to bring his scythe to where these slender wild grasses have at length flowered thinly. See
August 12, 1858 (“That very handsome high-colored fine purple grass grows particularly on dry and rather unproductive soil just above the edge of the meadows, on the base of the hills, where the hayer does not deign to swing his scythe. He carefully gets the meadow-hay and the richer grass that borders it, but leaves this fine purple mist for the walker’s harvest”);
September 1, 1857 ("Landing at Bittern Cliff, I see that fine purple grass; how long? ");
October 9, 1857 ("Under the pines by the Clamshell, that fine purple grass is now withered and faded to a very light brown which reflects the autumnal light.”)
Each humblest plant, or weed, as we call it, stands there to express some thought or mood of ours. See
May 23, 1853 ("Every new flower that opens, no doubt, expresses a new mood of the human mind.”); August 30, 1851 ("The fall of each humblest flower marks the annual period of some phase of human life experience. I can be said to note the flower's fall only when I see in it the symbol of my own change. When I experience this, then the flower appears to me.");
August 7, 1853 ("Is it not as language that all natural objects affect the poet? He sees a flower or other object, and it is beautiful or affecting to him because it is a symbol of his thought. . .The objects I behold correspond to my mood.”);
June 6, 1857 (“A year is made up of a certain series and number of sensations and thoughts which have their language in nature. Now I am ice, now I am sorrel. Each experience reduces itself to a mood of the mind. ”)
Each humblest plant or
weed stands there to express some
thought or mood of ours
