A Book of the Seasons: The Arrival of the Eastern Wood Pewee

 

For the first time I perceive this spring that the year is a circle.

I would make a chart of our life,

know why just this circle of creatures completes the world.

Henry Thoreau, April 18, 1852

I do not hear those peculiar tender die-away notes from the pewee yet.

Is it another pewee, or a later note? 

April 14, 1852

Pee-a-wee, Pee-oo.

In the wood behind the spring

a wood pewee sings.

May 23, 1854

May 17.   I hear the wood pewee, — pe-a-wai. The heat of yesterday has brought him on. May 17, 1853

May 17.   Hear the wood pewee, the warm weather sound. May 17, 1854

May 19.   Wood pewee. May 19, 1856

May 22.The wood pewee’s warm note is heard . . .This is the first truly lively summer Sunday, what with lilacs, warm weather, waving rye, slight dusty sandy roads in some places, falling apple blossoms, etc., etc., and the wood pewee. May 22, 1853

May 22. I hear also pe-a-wee pe-a-wee, and then occasionally pee-yu, the first syllable in a different and higher key emphasized, — all very sweet and naive and innocent. May 22, 1854

May 23. The wood pewee sings now in the woods behind the spring in the heat of the day (2 p. m.), sitting on a low limb near me, pe-a-wee, pe-a-wee, etc., five or six times at short and regular intervals, looking about all the while, and then, naively, pee-a-oo, emphasizing the first syllable, and begins again. It flies off occasionally a few feet, catches an insect and returns to its perch between the bars, not allowing this to interrupt their order. May 23, 1854

May 24. Hear the wood pewee.  May 24, 1859

May 24. Hear a wood pewee. May 24, 1860

May 25. Wood pewee. May 25, 1855

May 26..  I hear the pea-wai, the tender note. May 26, 1852

May 26.   Wood pewee. May 26, 1857

May 28.  Hear the wood pewee. May 28, 1858

Last night the eastern wood pewee was not heard, 

but tonight it was peeweeing in the creeping darkness of the evening.

Spring is coming to an end and 

the thickness of summer will soon take its place.

Avesong May 24, 2009.

See also  A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Eastern Wood-Pewee

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Arrival of the Eastern Wood Pewee

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 ©  2009-2023

The most beautiful little flowers yet.

May 24.

The smooth speedwell is in its prime now, whitening the sides of the back road, above the Swamp Bridge and front of Hubbard's. Its sweet little pansy like face looks up on all sides. 

This and the Myosotis laxa are the two most beautiful little flowers yet, if I remember rightly. 

forget-me-nots

May 15, 2022

P. M. —Talked, or tried to talk, with R. W. E. 

Lost my time — nay, almost my identity. He, assuming a false opposition where there was no difference of opinion, talked to the wind — told me what I knew and I lost my time trying to imagine myself somebody else to oppose him.

The wild pink was out day before yesterday.

Silene caroliniana, (wild pink)

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 24, 1853

Myosotis laxa [small-flowered forget-me-not, one of] the.most beautiful little flowers yet.  See May 17, 1853 (“Myosotis laxa is out a day or two. At first does not run; is short and upright like M. stricta.”); May 21, 1856 (“Myosotis laxa by Turnpike, near Hosmer Spring, may have been out several days; two or three at least.”);  June 5, 1855 (“That very early (or in wintergreen radical leaf) plant by ash is the myosotis laxa, open since the 28th of May, say June 1st.”); June 12, 1852 (“The mouse-ear forget me-not (Myosotis laxa) has now extended its racemes (?) very much, and hangs over the edge of the brook. It is one of the most interesting minute flowers. It is the more beautiful for being small and unpretending, for even flowers must be modest.”)  See also April 29, 1854 ("The mouse-ear is now fairly in blossom in many places. It never looks so pretty as now in an April rain, covered with pearly drops.”);  May 6, 1859 ("I perceive a peculiar fragrance in the air . . . like that of vernal flowers or of expanding buds. The ground is covered with the mouse-ear in full bloom.”);   May 26, 1855 ("Already the mouse-ear down begins to blow in the fields and whiten the grass, together with the bluets”); and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Mouse-ear forget-me-not (Myosotis laxa small-flowered forget- me- not)

The wild pink was out day before yesterday. See April 25, 1859 ("This is the beginning of that season which, methinks, culminates with the buttercup and wild pink and Viola pedata"); May 29, 1852 ("Barberry in bloom, wild pinks, and blue-eyed grass."); May 31, 1856 ("Pink, common wild, maybe two or three days"); June 5, 1850 ("The first of June, when the lady’s-slipper and the wild pink have come out in sunny places on the hillsides, then the summer is begun according to the clock of the seasons.”).

On the hill where Billington climbed a tree.

May 24

The cooing of a dove reminded me of an owl this morning. 

Counted just fifty violets (pedata) in a little bunch, three and a half by five inches, and as many buds, there being six plants close together; on the hill where Billington climbed a tree. 

A calabash at Pilgrim Hall nearly two feet high, in the form of a jar, showed what these fruits were made for. Nature's jars and vases. 

Holbrook says the Bufo Americanus is the most common in America and is our representative of the Bufo communis of Europe; speaks of its trill; deposits its spawn in pools. 

Found in College Yard Trifolium procumbens, or yellow clover. 

Concord. — Celandine in blossom, and horse-chest nut.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 24, 1852


Counted just fifty violets (pedata) in a little bunch. See May 20, 1853 ("Plucked to-day a bunch of Viola pedata, consisting of four divisions or offshoots around a central or fifth root, all united and about one inch in diameter at the ground and four inches at top") See also May 10, 1858 ("How much expression there is in the Viola pedata! I do not know on the whole but it is the handsomest of them all, it is so large and grows in such large masses. [I]t spreads so perfectly open with its face turned upward that you get its whole expression."); May 17, 1853 ("The V. pedata there presents the greatest array of blue of any flower as yet. The flowers are so raised above their leaves, and so close together, that they make a more indelible impression of blue on the eye; it is almost dazzling. . . .The effect and intensity is very much increased by the numbers.")

On the hill where Billington climbed a tree. See Cape Cod 256-57 ("Though they landed on Clark's Island in Plymouth harbor the 9th of December . . . and the 19th decided to settle there it was the 8th of January before Francis Billington went with one of the master's mates look at the magnificent pond or lake now called Billington Sea about two miles distant which he discovered from the top of a tree and mistook for a great sea.") [According to tradition,on January 8, 1621,14-year-old Mayflower passenger Francis Billington climbed a a tall tree on a high hill (possibly Burial or Cows Hill) and spotted what he called a "great sea," believing  he had discovered the Pacific Ocean,  Wikipedia]

Found in College Yard Trifolium procumbens, or yellow clover. See  May 30, 1856 ("Yellow clover abundantly out, though the heads are small yet. Are they quite open?"); June 5, 1855 ("Yellow clover well out some days."); September 21, 1858 ("Saw, in Salem, . . . Trifolium procumbens, still abundant"). [Trifolium procumbens is now called Trifolium campestre, commonly known as hop trefoil, field clover and low hop clover, is a species of clover  growing in dry, sandy grassland habitats, fields, woodland margins, roadsides, wastelands and cultivated land. The species name campestre means "of the fields".]

Celandine in blossom. See May 24, 1855 ("Celandine pollen."); See also May 14, 1858 ("Celandine by cemetery. "); May 16, 1853 ("Celandine is out a day or more"); May 18, 1854 ("Celandine yesterday.");

May 24. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, May 24 

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 sad surprise of remembering our past lives

May 24 

Saturday. 

Our most glorious experiences are a kind of regret. Our regret is so sublime that we may mistake it for triumph. It is the painful, plaintively sad surprise of our Genius remembering our past lives and contemplating what is possible.

It is a regret so divine and inspiring, so genuine, based on so true and distinct a contrast, that it surpasses our proudest boasts and the fairest expectations. 

My most sacred and memorable life is commonly on awaking in the morning. I frequently awake with an atmosphere about me as if my unremembered dreams had been divine, as if my spirit had journeyed to its native place, and, in the act of reentering its native body, had diffused an elysian fragrance around. 

The Genius says: 

"Ah! That is what you were! That is what you may yet be!” 

It is glorious for us to be able to regret even such an existence. 

A sane and growing man revolutionizes every day. What institutions of man can survive a morning experience? 

A single night's sleep, if we have indeed slumbered and forgotten anything and grown in our sleep, puts them behind us like the river Lethe. It is no unusual thing for him to see the kingdoms of this world pass.

It is remarkable that men commonly never refer to, never hint at, any crowning experiences when the common laws of their being were unsettled and the divine and eternal laws prevailed in them. Their lives are not revolutionary; they never recognize any other than the local and temporal authorities.

H. D Thoreau, Journal, May 24, 1851

A kind of regret . . . the painful, plaintively sad surprise of our Genius remembering our past lives and contemplating what is possible. See  August 18, 1851 ("It plainly makes men sad to think. Hence pensiveness is akin to sadness"); October 26, 1851 ("I awoke this morning to infinite regret.");  August 18, 1856 ("I hear the steady (not intermittent) shrilling of apparently the alder cricket. . .It reminds me of past autumns and the lapse of time, suggests a pleasing, thoughtful melancholy, like the sound of the flail."): August 20, 1858 ( There is more shadow in the landscape than a week ago, methinks, and the creak of the cricket sounds cool and steady. The grass and foliage and landscape generally are of a more thought-inspiring color, suggest what some perchance would call a pleasing melancholy.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Reminiscence and Prompting

My most sacred and memorable life is commonly on awaking in the morning.  March 17, 1852 (“I am conscious of having, in my sleep, transcended the limits of the individual . . . There is a moment in the dawn . . . when we see things more truly than at any other time.”); November 23, 1852 ("I had a thought in a dream last night which surprised me by its strangeness, as if it were based on an experience in a previous state of existence, and could not be entertained by my waking self. Both the thought and the language were equally novel to me, but I at once perceived it to be true and to coincide with my experience in this state. );  Walden (“Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me.”); October 29, 1857 ("Such early morning thoughts as I speak of . . . are a sort of permanent dream in my mind . . . we cannot tell what we have dreamed from what we have actually experienced."); April 1, 1860 (“I am surprised that my affirmations or utterances come to me ready-made, - not fore-thought, - so that I occasionally awake in the night simply to let fall ripe a statement which I had never consciously considered before, and as surprising and novel and agreeable to me as anything can be. As if we only thought by sympathy with the universal mind, which thought while we were asleep”)

May 24. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, May 24 

The sad surprise of

remembering our past lives –

glorious regret.

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

In the the aquarium at Barnum's the glass boxes with nothing but water (labelled fresh or salt) seemed sufficiently interesting.

May 24.

Monday. To New York by railroad.

All through Connecticut and New York the white involucres of the cornel (C. Florida), recently expanded, some of them reddish or rosaceous, are now conspicuous. It is not quite expanded in Concord.

It is the most showy indigenous tree now open. (One plant at Staten Island on the 25th had but just begun to flower, i. e. the true flowers to open.)

After entering the State of New York I observed, now fully in bloom, what I call the Viburnum prunifolium, looking very like our V. Lentago in flower at a little distance. It is thorny, as they told me at Staten Island, and the same I dealt with at Perth Amboy, and is insufficiently described.

It grows on higher and drier ground than our V. nudum, but its fruit, which is called “nanny berries,” resembles that rather than the V. Lentago. It shows now rich, dense, rounded masses of white flowers; i.e., the surface of the bushes makes the impression of regular curves or convex masses of bloom, bearing a large proportion to the green leaves.

The pink azalea, too, not yet out at home, is generally out, with the cornel. (I see it also next day at Staten Island.)

I saw a musquash swimming across a pool, I think after entering upon Manhattan Island!

In the evening, looked at the aquarium at Barnum's. The glass boxes with nothing but water (labelled fresh or salt) and pebbles seemed sufficiently interesting.

There were breams only two inches long, probably hatched only last year. The sea-anemones were new and interesting to me. The ferns, etc., under glass a fine parlor ornament.

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



The white involucres of the cornel (C. Florida), recently expanded, some of them reddish or rosaceous, are now conspicuous. It is not quite expanded in Concord. See  May 16, 1858 ("The flower-buds of the Cornus florida are five eighths of an inch in diameter."). See also   May 25, 1855 ("Cornus florida, no bloom. Was there year before last? Does it not flower every other year?”); May 22, 1856("The Cornus florida does not bloom this year.")

May 24. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, May 24 

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

We want no completeness but intensity of life.

May 24. 

A. M. — To Hill.

White ash, apparently yesterday, at Grape Shore but not at Conantum. What a singular appearance for some weeks its great masses of dark-purple anthers have made, fruit-like on the trees! 

A very warm morning. Now the birds sing more than ever, methinks, now, when the leaves are fairly expanding, the first really warm summer days. 

The water on the meadows is perfectly smooth nearly all the day. 

At 3 p. m. the thermometer is at 88°. 

It soon gets to be quite hazy. 

Apple out. 

Heard one speak to-day of his sense of awe at the thought of God, and suggested to him that awe was the cause of the potato-rot. 

The same speaker dwelt on the sufferings of life, but my advice was to go about one's business, suggesting that no ecstasy was ever interrupted, nor its fruit blasted. As for completeness and roundness, to be sure, we are each like one of the laciniae of a lichen, a torn fragment, but not the less cheerfully we expand in a moist day and assume unexpected colors. We want no completeness but intensity of life. 

Hear the first cricket as I go through a warm hollow, bringing round the summer with his everlasting strain.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 24, 1857

At 3 p. m. the thermometer is at 88°. See May 24, 1856 ("To-day is suddenly overpowering warm. Thermometer at 1 P. M., 94° in the shade!")

It soon gets to be quite hazy. See May 24, 1860 ("Looking into the northwest horizon, I see that Wachusett is partially concealed by a haze.")

We each ... assume unexpected colors. We want no completeness but intensity of life. See October 18, 1856 ("[L]ife is everything. All that interests the reader is the depth and intensity of the life excited.")

Hear the first cricket as I go through a warm hollow, bringing round the summer . . . . See May 22, 1854 ("Only in their saner moments do men hear the crickets."); May 26, 1852 ("To-night I hear many crickets. They have commenced their song. They bring in the summer.")

May 24. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, May 24 

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

A Book of the Seasons: May 24 (the wood pewee, first cricket, dewy cobwebs, first summer days and clouds, first shadows of hickories)

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.

Henry Thoreau, August 24, 1852

May 24

The sad surprise of 

remembering our past lives –

that is what you were. 

 May 24, 1851

The morning comes in

and awakens me early –

A window open.

May 24, 1854

Hear the first cricket 

bringing round the summer with 

his everlasting strain.

May 24, 1857

Myriad sparkles

of brilliant white sunlight seen

on a rippled stream.

 May 24, 1860

Hickories first shade –

an open latticed network

of sun and shadow.

May 24, 1860

May 24, 2012

The morning came in and awakened me early, — for I slept with a window open. May 24, 1854

My most sacred and memorable life is commonly on awaking in the morning. May 24, 1851 

The cooing of a dove reminded me of an owl this morning. May 24, 1852

We expand in a moist day and assume unexpected colors. We want no completeness but intensity of life. May 24, 1857

There are dewy cobwebs on the grass. May 24, 1854

As I go along the causeway the sun rises red, with a great red halo, through the fog. May 24, 1854

4.30 A. M. — To Cliffs. A considerable fog, but already rising and retreating to the river. May 24, 1854

When I reach the hill, the fog . . . is like a greater dewy cobweb spread over the earth. It gives a wholly new aspect to the world. May 24, 1854

As I return down the hill, my eyes are cast toward the very dark mountains in the northwest horizon. May 24, 1854

Looking into the northwest horizon, I see that Wachusett is partially concealed by a haze. May 24, 1860

I should not have noticed this haze if I had not looked toward the mountains. May 24, 1860

It is very hazy in consequence of the sudden warmth after cold, and I cannot see the mountains. May 24, 1855

To-day is suddenly overpowering warm. Thermometer at 1 P. M., 94° in the shade! but in the afternoon it suddenly fell to 56, and it continued cold the next two days. May 24, 1856

At 3 p. m. the thermometer is at 88°. It soon gets to be quite hazy. May 24, 1857

The water on the meadows is perfectly smooth nearly all the day. May 24, 1857

Hear the first cricket as I go through a warm hollow, bringing round the summer with his everlasting strain. May 24, 1857 

Conant fever-bush had not begun to leaf the 12th. May 24, 1855

Now the birds sing more than ever, methinks, now, when the leaves are fairly expanding, the first really warm summer days. May 24, 1857

Hear a purple finch sing more than one minute without pause, loud and rich, on an elm over the street. Another singing very faintly on a neighboring elm. May 24, 1855

Hear the wood pewee. May 24, 1859

Hear a wood pewee. May 24, 1860

In woods the chestnut-sided warbler, with clear yellow crown and yellow on wings and chestnut sides. It is exploring low trees and bushes, often along stems about young leaves, and frequently or after short pauses utters its somewhat summer-yellowbird like note, say, tchip tchip, chip chip (quick), tche tche ter tchéa, —— sprayey and rasping and faint. May 24, 1855

What is that brilliant warbler on the young trees on the side of the Deep Cut? Orange throat and beneath, with distinct black stripes on breast, and, I think, some light color of crown. 

 Was it Blackburnian? May 24, 1859

Young robins some time hatched. May 24, 1855

Humphrey Buttrick says that he hears the note of the woodcock from the village in April and early in May (too late now); . . . that when you see one spring right up straight into the air, you may go to the spot, and he will surely come down again after some minutes to within a few feet of the same spot and of you. May 24, 1856

Hear a rose-breasted grosbeak. At first think it a tanager, but soon I perceive its more clear and instrumental — should say whistle, if one could whistle like a flute; a noble singer, reminding me also of a robin; clear, loud and flute-like; on the oaks, hill side south of Great Fields. Black all above except white on wing, with a triangular red mark on breast but, as I saw, all white beneath this. Female quite different, yellowish olivaceous above, more like a muscicapa. Song not so sweet as clear and strong. Saw it fly off and catch an insect like a flycatcher. May 24, 1855

As I sit just above the northwest end of the Cliff, I see a tanager perched on one of the topmost twigs of a hickory, evidently come to spy after me, peeping behind a leafet. He is between me and the sun, and his plumage is incredibly brilliant, all aglow. It a deep scarlet (with a yellower reflection when the sun strikes him), in the midst of which his pure-black wings look high-colored also. You can hardly believe that a living creature can wear such colors. May 24, 1860

A hickory, too, is the fittest perch for him. May 24, 1860

I notice the first shadows of hickories, - not dense and dark shade, but open-latticed, a network of sun and shadow on the north sides of the trees. May 24, 1860

Counted just fifty violets (pedata) in a little bunch, three and a half by five inches, and as many buds, there being six plants close together; on the hill where Billington climbed a tree. May 24, 1852

The smooth speedwell . . . and the Myosotis laxa are the two most beautiful little flowers yet, if I remember rightly. May 24, 1853

The wild pink was out day before yesterday. May 24, 1853

Silene caroliniana, (wild pink)

I seem to have seen, among sedges, etc., (1) the Carex Pennsylvanica; also (2) another similar, but later and larger, in low ground with many more pistillate flowers nearly a foot high, three-sided and rough culm (the first is smooth); also (3) an early sedge at Lee’s Cliff with striped and pretty broad leaves not rigid, perhaps on 554th page of Gray; (4) the rigid tufted are common in meadows, with cut-grass-like leaves. Call it C. stricta, though not yet more than a foot high or eighteen inches. May 24, 1855

And, apparently, of grasses, foxtail grass, on C. ’s bank. May 24, 1855

Of Juncacea, perhaps Luzula campestris, the early umbelled purple-leaved, low. May 24, 1855

Naked azalea shoots more than a week old, and other leaves, say a week at least. May 24, 1855

Found in College Yard Trifolium procumbens, or yellow clover. May 24, 1852

Apple out. May 24, 1857

Celandine in blossom. May 24, 1852

Buttonwood not open. Celandine pollen. Butternut pollen, apparently a day or two. May 24, 1855

Juniperus repens pollen not even yet; apparently to-morrow. Apparently put back by the cold weather. May 24, 1855

Beach plum pollen probably several days in some places; and leaves begun as long. May 24, 1855

An early thorn pollen (not Crus-Galli) apparently yesterday. May 24, 1855

Black oak pollen yesterday, at least. Scarlet oak the same, but a little later. The staminate flowers of the first are on long and handsome tassels for three or four inches along the extremities of last year’s shoots, depending five inches (sometimes six) by four in width and quite dense and thick. May 24, 1855

Chinquapin pollen. Lupine not yet. Black scrub oak tassels, some reddish, some yellowish. May 24, 1855

The scarlet oak tassels are hardly half as long; the leaves, much greener and smoother and now somewhat wilted, emit a sweet odor, which those of the black do not. Both these oaks are apparently more forward at top, where I cannot see them. May 24, 1856

White ash . . . What a singular appearance for some weeks its great masses of dark-purple anthers have made, fruit-like on the trees! May 24, 1857

Mountain-ash open apparently yesterday. May 24, 1855

Surprised to find the Andromeda Polifolia in bloom and apparently past its prime at least a week or more. It is in water a foot and a half deep, and rises but little above it. May 24, 1854

 Andromeda Polifolia now in prime . . . Its shoots or new leaves, unfolding, say when it flowered or directly after, now one inch long. May 24, 1855

Its flowers are more interesting than any of its family, almost globular, crystalline white, even the calyx, except its tips, tinged with red or rose. May 24, 1854

How perfectly new and fresh the world is seen to be, when we behold a myriad sparkles of brilliant white sunlight on a rippled stream! May 24, 1860

Just before six, see in the northwest the first summer clouds, methinks, piled in cumuli with silvery edges, and westward of them a dull, rainy looking cloud advancing and shutting down to the horizon; later, lightning in west and south and a little rain. May 24, 1855

Our most glorious experiences are a kind of regret. It is the painful, plaintively sad surprise of our Genius remembering our past lives and contemplating what is possible. The Genius says : “ Ah ! That is what you were ! That is what you may yet be ! ”  May 24, 1851 

*****

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Reminiscence and Prompting

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  The Horizon

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Cricket in Spring

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Spring Leaf-out

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Apple Blossom Time

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Violet

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Mouse-ear forget-me-not 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Birds of May

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Young Birds

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Eastern Wood Pewee

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the  Scarlet Tanager

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Chestnut-sided Warbler

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Blackburnian Warbler

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

My most sacred and memorable life is commonly on awaking in the morning. See October 26, 1851 ("The instant that I awoke, methought I was a musical instrument . . . the organ and channel of melody, as a flute is of the music that is breathed through it"); March 17, 1852 (“ I am conscious of having, in my sleep, transcended the limits of the individual . . .There is a moment in the dawn,. . .when we see things more truly than at any other time.”); October 29, 1857 ("Such early morning thoughts as I speak of . . . are a sort of permanent dream in my mind . . . we cannot tell what we have dreamed from what we have actually experienced. ") April 1, 1860 (“ I am surprised that my affirmations or utterances come to me ready-made, - not fore-thought, - so that I occasionally awake in the night simply to let fall ripe a statement which I had never consciously considered before, and as surprising and novel and agreeable to me as anything can be. As if we only thought by sympathy with the universal mind, which thought while we were asleep”)

We each assume unexpected colors. We want no completeness but intensity of life. See October 18, 1856 ("[L]ife is everything. All that interests the reader is the depth and intensity of the life excited.")

 Hear the first cricket . . .bringing round the summer with his everlasting strain. See May 18, 1860 ("The creak of the cricket has been common. . . for a week, - inaugurating the summer.");

May 22, 1853 ("The crickets now first are generally heard. "); May 22, 1854 ("Only in their saner moments do men hear the crickets. . . . A quire has begun which pauses not for any news, for it knows only the eternal."); May 26, 1852 ("They have commenced their song. They bring in the summer. ")

Dewy cobwebs on the grass. See  May 21, 1854 ("Cobwebs on grass, the first I have noticed. This is one of the late phenomena of spring . . . When these begin to be seen, then is not summer come?")

I notice  the first shadows of hickories , — not dense and dark shade, but open-latticed, a network of sun and shadow on the north sides of the trees. See May 17, 1852 ("The birch leaves are so small that you see the landscape through the tree,”); May 21, 1860 ("Noticed the shadows of apple trees yesterday”); May 26, 1857 ("The very sudden expansion of the great hickory buds, umbrella-wise."); May 29, 1857 (“Those great hickory buds, how much they contained! You see now the large reddish scales turned back at the base of the new twigs. Suddenly the buds burst, and those large pinnate leaves stretched forth in various directions.”)

Counted just fifty violets (pedata) in a little bunch. See May 20, 1853 ("Plucked to-day a bunch of Viola pedata, consisting of four divisions or offshoots around a central or fifth root, all united and about one inch in diameter at the ground and four inches at top") See also May 10, 1858 ("How much expression there is in the Viola pedata! I do not know on the whole but it is the handsomest of them all, it is so large and grows in such large masses. [I]t spreads so perfectly open with its face turned upward that you get its whole expression."); May 17, 1853 ("The V. pedata there presents the greatest array of blue of any flower as yet. The flowers are so raised above their leaves, and so close together, that they make a more indelible impression of blue on the eye; it is almost dazzling. . . .The effect and intensity is very much increased by the numbers.")

Myosotis laxa [small-flowered forget-me-not, one of] the.most beautiful little flowers yet. See May 17, 1853 (“Myosotis laxa is out a day or two. At first does not run; is short and upright like M. stricta.”); May 21, 1856 (“Myosotis laxa by Turnpike, near Hosmer Spring, may have been out several days; two or three at least.”); June 5, 1855 (“That very early (or in wintergreen radical leaf) plant by ash is the myosotis laxa, open since the 28th of May, say June 1st.”); June 12, 1852 (“The mouse-ear forget me-not (Myosotis laxa) has now extended its racemes (?) very much, and hangs over the edge of the brook. It is one of the most interesting minute flowers. It is the more beautiful for being small and unpretending, for even flowers must be modest.”)

The wild pink was out day before yesterday. See April 25, 1859 ("This is the beginning of that season which, methinks, culminates with the buttercup and wild pink and Viola pedata"); May 29, 1852 ("Barberry in bloom, wild pinks, and blue-eyed grass."); May 31, 1856 ("Pink, common wild, maybe two or three days"); June 5, 1850 ("The first of June, when the lady’s-slipper and the wild pink have come out in sunny places on the hillsides, then the summer is begun according to the clock of the seasons.”).

Wood pewee heard. See May 22, 1854 ("I hear also pe-a-wee pe-a-wee, and then occasionally pee-yu, the first syllable in a different and higher key emphasized, — all very sweet and naive and innocent.") 

In woods the chestnut-sided warbler, with clear yellow crown and yellow on wings and chestnut sides. See May 23, 1857 ("It appears striped slate and black above, white beneath, yellow-crowned with black side-head, two yellow bars on wing, white side-head below the black, black bill, and long chestnut streak on side. Its song lively . . .")

Orange throat and beneath, with distinct black stripes on breast, and, I think, some light color of crown. Was it Blackburnian? See April 11, 1853 ("Blackburnian is orange-throated."); May 26, 1855 ("Black, with a large white mark forward on wings and a fiery orange throat, above and below eye, and line on crown, yellowish beneath, white vent, forked tail, dusky legs and bill . . .The Blackbumian warbler very plainly.")

He is between me and the sun, and his plumage is incredibly brilliant, all aglow. It a deep scarlet (with a yellower reflection when the sun strikes him). . . You can hardly believe that a living creature can wear such colors. See May 23, 1853 ("How he enhances the wildness and wealth of the woods! That contrast of a red bird with the green pines and the blue sky! Even when I have heard his note and look for him and find the fellow sitting on a dead twig of a pine, I am always startled. . . . That incredible red, with the green and blue. I am transported; these are not the woods I ordinarily walk in.”)

 

How perfectly new and fresh the world is seen to be, when we behold a myriad sparkles of brilliant white sunlight on a rippled stream. See May 17, 1852 ("Now the sun has come out after the May storm, how bright, how full of freshness and tender promise and fragrance is the new world!")

Our most glorious experiences are a kind of regret. See October 26, 1851 ("I awoke this morning to infinite regret.)

May 24, 2014

   

If you make the least correct 

observation of nature this year,

 you will have occasion to repeat it

 with illustrations the next, 

and the season and life itself is prolonged.

  April 7, 1853 

 May 23< <<<<<   May 24.   >>>>> May 25

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, May 24

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