Cold and windy.

February 10

February 10, 2018

Grows cold toward night, and windy.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 10, 1858

Grows cold toward night, and windy. See February 10, 1860 ("A very strong and a cold northwest wind to-day, shaking the house, — thermometer at 11 a. m., 14°,") See also February 13, 2016 (“Grew cold again last night, with high wind. . . . I think a high wind commonly follows rain or a thaw in winter.”)

February 10. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, February 10

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 © 2009-2026

I see a large flock of snow buntings on the railroad causeway.

February 1

3 P.M. — Down railroad. 

Thermometer at 42°. Warm as it is, I see a large flock of snow buntings on the railroad causeway. Their wings are white above next the body, but black or dark beyond and on the back. This produces that regular black and white effect when they fly past you.

A laborer on the railroad tells me it is Candlemas Day (February 2d) to-morrow and the winter half out. "Half your wood and half your hay," etc., etc.; and, as that day is, so will be the rest of the winter.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 1, 1857

That regular black and white effect when they fly past you. See January 21,1857 ("As they flew past me they presented a pretty appearance, somewhat like broad bars of white alternating with bars of black.") Also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Snow Bunting

"Half your wood and half your hay," etc., etc. [one version:“Half your wood, and half your hay, you should have by Candlemas Day. Half the winter has passed away, we’ll eat our supper by the light of day.”] 

A snow bunting flock

and that black and white effect

when they fly past you

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, I see a large flock of snow buntings

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-570201

Walking on the River.

February 5

The weather is still clear, cold, and unrelenting. 

I have walked much on the river this winter, but, ever since it froze over, it has been on a snow-clad river, or pond. They have been river walks because the snow was shallowest there. 

Even the meadows, on account of the firmer crust, have been more passable than the uplands. 

In the afternoons I have walked off freely up or down the river, without impediment or fear, looking for birds and birds’ nests and the tracks of animals; and, as often as it was written over, a new snow came and presented a new blank page. 

Fisher tracks

February 5, 2017

If it were still after it, the tracks were beautifully distinct. If strong winds blew, the dry leaves, losing their holds, traversed and scored it in all directions. 

The sleighing would have been excellent all the month past if it had not been for the drifting of the surface snow into the track whenever the wind blew, but that crust on the old snow has prevented very deep drifts.

I should say the average cold was about 8° at 8 A. M. and 18° or 20° at 3 P. M.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 5, 1856

The weather is still clear, cold, and unrelenting. See February 5, 1855 ("In a journal it is important in a few words to describe the weather.")

As often as it was written over, a new snow came and presented a new blank page. See January 31, 1856  ("The old tracks are blotted out, and new and fresher ones are to be discerned. It is a tabula rasa. These fresh falls of snow are like turning over a new leaf of Nature’s Album."); and note to February 2, 1856 ("Snows again last night, perhaps an inch, erasing the old tracks and giving us a blank page again, restoring the purity of nature.")

 I have walked much on the river this winter . . .because the snow was shallowest there. See January 20, 1856 ("Here, where you cannot walk at all in the summer, is better walking than elsewhere in the winter."); 

I should say the average cold [the month past]was about 8° at 8 A. M. and 18° or 20° at 3 P. M. See January 26, 1856 ("Methinks it is a remarkably cold, as well as snowy, January, for we have had good sleighing ever since the 26th of December and no thaw."); February 1, 1856 ("It has been what is called “an old-fashioned winter.”")

February 5. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  February 5

In the afternoons

I have walked off freely up

or down the river.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Walking on the River

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 ©  2009-2026

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-560205

An old-fashioned winter continues.

February 2

Snows again last night, perhaps an inch, erasing the old tracks and giving us a blank page again, restoring the purity of nature. 

February 2, 2026

It may be even a trifle deeper now than hitherto.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 2, 1856

Erasing old tracks and giving us a blank page. See January 31, 1856 ("These fresh falls of snow are like turning over a new leaf of Nature’s Album.");  See also December 23, 1851 ("A pure and trackless white napkin covers the ground,");  January 14, 1853 ("Snow freshly fallen is one thing, to-morrow it will be another. It is now pure and trackless . . . yet by to-morrow morning there will he countless tracks of all sizes all over the country."); February 21, 1854 ("There is scarcely a track of any animal yet to be seen. You cannot walk too early in new-fallen snow to get the sense of purity, novelty, and unexploredness.")

Snow again last night

 gives us a blank page again –

erasing old tracks.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, An old-fashioned winter continues

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 ©  2009-2026

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-560202

“An old-fashioned winter.”

February 1 

P. M. — Up river. 

What gives to the excrements of the fox that clay color often, even at this season? Left on an eminence. 

I scent a fox’s trail this afternoon (and have done so several times before), where he crossed the river, just three rods distant. Looked sharp, and discover where it had stopped by a prominence. Yet he could not have passed since last night, or twelve hours before, it being near the village. How widely they range these nights! 

The snow is somewhat banked toward the sides of the river, but shows darker-yellowish or icy in the middle. 

Lichens, blown from the black willows, lie here and there on the snow. 

Nut Meadow Brook open for some distance in the meadow. I am affected by the sight of some green polygonum leaves there. Some kind of minnow darts off. 

I see where a crow has walked along its side. In one place it hopped, and its feet were side by side, as in the track of yesterday, though a little more spread, the toes. I have but little doubt that yesterday’s track was a crow’s. The two inner toes are near together; the middle, more or less curved often. 

I see a gray rabbit amid the young oaks in Hubbard’s riverside grove, curled and shrunk up, squatting on the snow. I advance and begin to sketch it, when it plunges into a little hole in the snow by its side, the entrance to its burrow, three inches wide by a little more in length. The track of its foot is about one inch wide. 

I see a pitch pine seed, blown thirty rods from J. Hosmer’s little grove. 

This has been a memorable January for snow and cold. 

It has. been excellent sleighing ever since the 26th of December, — not less than a foot at any time since January 6th on a level in open fields, in swamps much more. Cars have been detained; the wood-lots for the most part inaccessible. The river has been closed up from end to end, with the exception of one or two insignificant openings on a few days. No bare ice. 

The crows have been remarkably bold, coming to eat the scraps cast out behind the houses. They alight in our yard. 

I think I have not noticed a tree sparrow during the month. Blue jays and chickadees also common in the village, more than usual. 

We have completely forgotten the summer. There has been no January thaw, though one prophesied it a fortnight ago because he saw snow-fleas. 

The ponds are yielding a good crop of ice. The eaves have scarcely run at all. 

It has been what is called “an old-fashioned winter.”

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 1, 1856

I scent a fox’s trail this afternoon (and have done so several times before) . . . See February 24, 1854 ("The other day I thought that I smelled a fox very strongly, and went a little further and found that it was a skunk.")

The snow is somewhat banked toward the sides of the river, but shows darker-yellowish or icy in the middle. Compare February 1, 1855 ("[The river] is now one uninterrupted level white blanket of snow quite to the shore on every side.").

The crows have been remarkably bold, coming to eat the scraps cast out behind the houses. See January 7, 1856("The cold weather has brought the crows, and for the first time this winter I hear them cawing amid the houses.");January 14, 1856 ("The crows are flitting about the houses and alight upon the elms."): January 23, 1852 ("The snow is so deep and the cold so intense that the crows are compelled to be very bold in seeking their food, and come very near the houses in the village.").  Also A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau: The American Crow

We have completely forgotten the summer. See February 3, 1852 ("The landscape covered with snow two feet thick, . . .The scenery is wholly arctic. See if a man can think his summer thoughts now.");
February 9, 1851 ("We have forgotten summer and autumn. Though the days are much longer, the cold sets in stronger than ever.");February 27, 1852 (" We have almost completely forgotten summer."); December 29, 1853 ("The thoughts and associations of summer and autumn are now as completely departed from our minds as the leaves are blown from the trees. ")

Old-fashioned winter

memorable snow and cold –

summer forgotten

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, “An old-fashioned winter.” 

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

The brightening of the willows or of osiers, —that is a season in the spring

February 24

Clear, but very cold and windy for the season. 

P. M. -To young willow-row near Hunt’s Pond road. 

The whole of the broad meadows is a rough, irregular checker-board of great cakes a rod square or more,—arctic enough to look at. 

The willow-row does not begin to look bright yet. The top two or three feet are red as usual at a distance, the lower parts a rather dull green. 

February 24, 2018

The brightening of the willows or of osiers, —that is a season in the spring, showing that the dormant sap is awakened. I now remember a few osiers which I have seen early in past springs, thus brilliantly green and red (or yellow), and it is as if all the landscape and all nature shone. Though the twigs were few which I saw, I remember it as a prominent phenomenon affecting the face of Nature, a gladdening of her face. 

You will often fancy that they look brighter before the spring has come, and when there has been no change in them.

Thermometer at 10° at 10 P. M.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 24, 1855

Clear, but very cold and windy for the season . . .Thermometer at 10° at 10 P. M. See February 26, 1855 ("Still clear and cold and windy . . .This and the last two or three days have been very blustering and unpleasant,") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, February is Mid-Winter

The whole of the broad meadows is a rough, irregular checker-board of great cakes a rod square or more,—arctic enough to look at. See February 23, 1855 ("I see great cakes of ice, a rod or more in length and one foot thick, lying high and dry on the bare ground in the low fields some ten feet or more beyond the edge of the thinner ice, washed up by the last rise (the 18th).”)

The brightening of the willows or of osiers, —that is a season in the spring. See  February 24, 1852 ("The brightness of the willow's bark. It is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality.");  See also  November 18, 1858 ("Notice the short bright-yellow willow twigs on Hubbard’s Causeway"); December 5, 1858 (" On the causeway the yellowish bark of the willows gleams warmly through the ice."); March 2, 1860 ('Notice the brightness of a row of osiers this morning. ");  March 20, 1859 ("A rich yellow or orange yellow in the upper three or four feet. This is, methinks, the brightest object in the landscape these days. Nothing so betrays the spring sun. I am aware that the sun has come out of a cloud first by seeing it lighting up the osiers. Such a willow-row, cut off within a year or two, might be called a heliometer, or measure of the sun's brightness"); May 14, 1852 ("Going over the Corner causeway, the willow blossoms fill the air with a sweet fragrance, and I am ready to sing, Ah! willow, willow! These willows have yellow bark, bear yellow flowers and yellowish-green leaves, and are now haunted by the summer yellowbird and Maryland yellow-throat") and A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau. Willows on the Causeway; A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Osier in Winter and early Spring

You will often fancy that they look brighter before the spring has come, and when there has been no change in them. See March 2, 1860 ("This phenomenon, whether referable to a change in the condition of the twig or to the spring air and light, or even to our imaginations, is not the less a real phenomenon, affecting us annually at this season")

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

Brightening willows.

That is a season in spring -

even if fancied.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The brightening of the willows or of osiers

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/hdt55-0224

Midwinter travel; missing lives and landmarks

February 19.

Rufus Hosmer says that in the year 1820 there was so smooth and strong an icy crust on a very deep snow that you could skate everywhere over the fields and for the most part over the fences. Sam Potter’s father, moving into town, turned off into the fields with a four-horse team as soon as he had crossed Wood’s Bridge and went directly across to Deacon Hubbard’s.

When Wood’s Bridge was carried off up stream, it was landed against Hubbard’s land. Showed me where his grandfather, Nathan Hosmer, who lived in the old house still standing on Conantum, was drowned when crossing the river on the ice from town, just below the bridge since built.

The water is about a foot deep on the Jimmy Miles road. E. Conant thinks that the Joe Miles causeway is rather worse than Hubbard’s in respect to water. Conant was cutting up an old pear tree which had blown down by his old house on Conantum. This and others still standing, and a mulberry tree whose stump remains, were set anciently with reference to a house which stood in the little peach orchard near by. 

The only way for Conant to come to town when the water is highest is by Tarbell’s and Wood’s on the stone bridge, about a mile and a half round. 

It is true when there is no snow we cannot so easily see the birds, nor they the weeds.

Many will complain of my lectures that they are transcendental. “Can’t understand them.” “Would you have us return to the savage state?” etc., etc. A criticism true enough, it may be, from their point of view. 

But the fact is, the earnest lecturer can speak only to his like, and the adapting of himself to his audience is a mere compliment which he pays them. 

If you wish to know how I think, you must endeavor to put yourself in my place. If you wish me to speak as if I were you, that is another affair. 

I think it was about a week ago that I saw some dead honey-bees on the snow. 

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 19, 1855

Rufus Hosmer says that in the year 1820 there was so smooth and strong an icy crust on a very deep snow that you could skate everywhere over the fields and for the most part over the fences. See December 29, 1855 ("Jonas Potter tells me that he has known the crust on snow two feet deep to be as strong as this, so that he could drive his sled anywhere over the walls.")

Showed me where his grandfather, Nathan Hosmer, who lived in the old house still standing on Conantum, was drowned when crossing the river on the ice. See February 12, 1860 ("Next above Good Fishing Bay and where the man was drowned, I pass Black Rock Shore, and over the Deep Causeway I come to Drifted Meadow.")

I think it was about a week ago that I saw some dead honey-bees on the snow. See February 10, 1852 ("I saw yesterday on the snow on the ice, on the south side of Fair Haven Pond, some hundreds of honey-bees, dead and sunk half an inch below the crust.")

Many will complain of my lectures that they are transcendental. See February 13, 1860 ("Read to them a lecture on "Education," naming that subject, and they will think that they have heard some thing important, but call it "Transcendentalism," and they will think it moonshine.")

My shadow is very blue.

February 10 

A fine, clear day. There is a glare of light from the fresh surface of the snow, so that it pains the eyes to travel toward the sun. 

February 10, 2022

I go across Walden. My shadow is very blue. It is especially blue when there is a bright sunlight on pure white snow. It suggests that there may be something divine, something celestial, in me. 

In many places the edges of drifts are sharp and curving, almost a complete circle, reflecting a blue color from within like blue-tinted shells. 

I hear the faint metallic chirp of a tree sparrow in the yard from time to time, or perchance the mew of a linaria. It is worth the while to let some pigweed grow in your garden, if only to attract these winter visitors. It would be a pity to have these weeds burned in the fall. Of the former I see in the winter but three or four commonly at a time; of the latter, large flocks. This in and after considerable snow-storms.

Since this deeper snow, the landscape is more wintry than before; the rivers and roads are more concealed than they have been, and billows of snow succeed each other across the fields and roads, like an ocean waste.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 10, 1855

My shadow is blue. It is especially blue when there is a bright sunlight on pure white snow. See February 6, 1854 ("Crossing Walden where the snow has fallen quite level, I perceive that my shadow is a delicate or transparent blue."); January 4, 1856 ("I think it is only such a day as this, when the fields on all sides are well clad with snow, over which the sun shines brightly, that you observe the blue shadows on the snow."); January 15, 1856 ("My shadow is a most celestial blue. This only requires a clear bright day and snow-clad earth, not great cold. "); January 18, 1856 ("Clear and bright, yet I see the blue shadows on the snow at Walden. . . .I am in raptures at my own shadow") Also see note to January 6, 1856 ("Now, at 4.15, the blue shadows are very distinct on the snow-banks.”)

It is worth the while to let some pigweed grow in your garden, if only to attract these winter visitors. See January 2, 1856 ("I see, near the back road and railroad, a small flock of eight snow buntings feeding on the the seeds of the pigweed.”); January 19, 1855 (“At noon it is still a driving snow-storm, and a little flock of redpolls is busily picking the seeds of the pigweed in the garden.”); February 9, 1855 ("I was so sure this storm would bring snowbirds into the yard that I went to the window at ten to look for them, and there they were.“);  February 13, 1853 ("I am called to window to see a dense flock of snowbirds on and under the pigweed in the garden .")  Compare  March 25, 1856  ("I have not seen a tree sparrow, nuthatch, creeper, nor more than one redpoll since Christmas.  They probably went further south."); April 17, 1854 ("Did not see a linaria the past winter, though they were the prevailing bird the winter before.") See also 

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Pigweed; A Book of the Seasons,by Henry Thoreau, Winter Birds; A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Lesser Redpoll; A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Tree Sparrow

Since this deeper snow, the landscape is more wintry than before; the rivers and roads are more concealed. See February 1, 1855 ("[The river] is now one uninterrupted level white blanket of snow quite to the shore on every side.").

Billows of snow succeed each other across the fields and roads, like an ocean waste. See December 23, 1850 ("The surface of the snow is wont to be in waves like billows of the ocean")

February 10. See A Book of the Seasons,by Henry Thoreau, February 10

My shadow is blue.

Bright sunlight on pure white snow –

celestial me.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, My shadow is very blue

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-550210

River and meadow concealed under a foot of snow.

February 9.

Snowed harder in the night and blowed considerably. 

It is somewhat drifted this morning. A very fine and dry snow, about a foot deep on a level. It stands on the top of our pump about ten inches deep, almost a perfect hemisphere, or half of an ellipse.

It snows finely all day, making about twice as much as we have had on the ground before this winter.

February 9, 2025

Tree sparrows, two or three only at once, come into the yard, the first I have distinguished this winter.   I was so sure this storm would bring snowbirds into the yard that I went to the window at ten to look for them, and there they were.

I notice that the snow-drifts on the windows, as you see the light through them, are stratified, showing undulating, equidistant strata, alternately dark and light. 

The snow is so light and dry that it rises like spray or foam before the legs of the horses. They dash it before them upward like water. It is a handsome sight, a span of horses at a little distance dashing through it, like suds around their legs. 

Why do birds come into the yards in storms almost alone? Are they driven out of the fields and woods for their subsistence? Or is it that all places are wild to them in the storm? 

It is very dark in cellars, the windows being covered with snow.

P. M. — Up river to Hubbard’s Swamp and Wood.  The river and meadow are concealed under a foot of snow. I cannot tell when I am on it. It would be dangerous for a stranger to travel across the country now. 

The snow is so dry that but little lodges on the trees. Though I go through drifts up to my middle, it falls off at once and does not adhere to and damp my clothes at all.  

It must be very hard for our small wild animals to get along while the snow is so light. Not only the legs but the whole body of some sinks in it and leaves its trail. I see very few tracks to-day.

All over this swamp I find that the ice, upheld by the trees and shrubs, stands some two feet above the ground, the water having entirely run out beneath, and as I go along the path, not seeing any ice in snow a foot deep, it suddenly sinks with a crash for a rod around me, snow and all, and, stooping, I look through a dry cellar from one to two feet deep, in some places pretty dark, extending over the greater part of the swamp, with a perfectly level ceiling composed of ice one to two inches thick, surmounted by a foot of snow, and from the under side of the ice there depends from four to six inches a dense mass of crystals, so that it is a most sparkling grotto. 

You could have crawled round under the ice and snow all over the swamp quite dry, and I saw where the rabbits, etc., had entered there. Those crystals were very handsome, and tinkled when touched like bits of tin. I saw a similar phenomenon February 4th, on a smaller scale.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 9, 1855

A very fine and dry snow. See  December 14, 1859 ("Snow-storms might be classified. This is a fine, dry snow, drifting nearly horizontally from the north, so that it is quite blinding to face, almost as much so as sand."); January 19, 1857 ("A fine dry snow, intolerable to face.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Snow-storms might be classified.

It stands on the top of our pump about ten inches deep, almost a perfect hemisphere, or half of an ellipse. See January 1, 1854 ("The snow-drift does not lie close about the pump, but is a foot off, forming a circular bowl"); December 30, 1855 ("A dry, light, powdery snow . . .T he pump has a regular conical Persian cap.")

Tree sparrows, two or three only at once, come into the yard, the first I have distinguished this winter.  See  December 28, 1853 (" I hear and see tree sparrows about the weeds in the garden. They seem to visit the gardens with the earliest snow"); March 14, 1855 ("Winter back again in prospect, and I see a few sparrows, probably tree sparrows, in the yard"); December 25, 1855 ("Snow driving almost horizontally from the northeast and fast whitening the ground, and with it the first tree sparrows I have noticed in the yard") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Tree Sparrow

February 9. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, February 9

Drifted this morning. 

A very fine and dry snow

 about a foot deep.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, River and meadow concealed under a foot of snow

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-550209

Midwinter snow

February 8

Commenced snowing last evening about 7 o’clock,—a fine, dry snow,—and this morning it is about six inches deep and still snows a little.

Continues to snow finely all day.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 8, 1855

See February 9, 1855 ("A very fine and dry snow, about a foot deep on a level. . . . It snows finely all day, making about twice as much as we have had on the ground before this winter.")

February 8. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February 8

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

Cold Tuesday.

February 6

The coldest morning this winter. Our thermometer stands at -14° at 9 A.M.; others, we hear, at 6 A.M. stood at -18°, at Gorham, N. H., -30°. 

There are no loiterers in the street, and the wheels of wood wagons squeak as they have not for a long time, —actually shriek. Frostwork keeps its place on the window within three feet of the stove all day in my chamber. 

At 4 P.M. the thermometer is at -10°; at six it is at -14°. I was walking at five, and found it stinging cold. It stung the face. 

The setting sun no sooner leaves our west windows than a solid but beautiful crystallization coats them. A solid sparkling field in the midst of each pane, with broad, flowing sheaves surrounding it. 

It has been a very mild as well as open winter up to this. 

At 9 o’clock P.M., thermometer at -16°. They say it did not rise above -6° to-day.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 6, 1855

Frostwork keeps its place on the window within three feet of the stove all day in my chamber. See February 5, 1855 ("It was quite cold last evening, and I saw the scuttle window reflecting the lamp from a myriad brilliant points when I went up to bed."); February 7, 1855 (" The latches are white with frost, and every nail-head in entries, etc., has a white cap. Thermometer at about 7.30 A. M. gone into the bulb, -19° at least. The cold has stopped the clock.") See also December 28, 1859 ("In the morning the windows are like ground glass (covered with frost), and we cannot see out."); January 4, 1856 ("It is snapping cold this night (10 P. M.). I see the frost on the windows sparkle as I go through the passageway with a light ")'; February 17, 1860 ("Grows colder yet at evening, and frost forms on the windows.")

The wheels of wood wagons squeak as they have not for a long time, —actually shriek. See February 6, 1854 ("The thermometer goes down to 19 ° below zero, and our shoes squeak on the snow.")

The coldest morning . . .They say it did not rise above -6° to-day. See January 23, 1857 ("I may safely say that -5° has been the highest temperature to-day”); February 7, 1855 ("Yesterday, the 6th, will be remembered as the cold Tuesday. The old folks still refer to the Cold Friday, when they sat before great fires of wood four feet long, with a fence of blankets behind them, and water froze on the mantelpiece. But they say this is as cold as that was.")

February  6. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  February 6

The coldest morning –

all day well below zero,

frostwork on windows.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Cold Tuesday.

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

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-550206

Below Zero

frost condenses patterns

cold glass

poems of the night

The mystery of rose-colored ice

January 25

January 25, 2015

This morning is a perfect hunter’s morn, for it snowed about three quarters of an inch last evening, covering land and ice. 

(Is not good skating a sign of snow?) 

I  see the tracks apparently of many hunters that hastened out this morning.

It is a rare day for winter, clear and bright, yet warm. The warmth and stillness in the hollows about the Andromeda Ponds are charming. You dispense with gloves.

I have come with basket and hatchet to get a specimen of the rose-colored ice. It is covered with snow. I push it away with my hands and feet. 

At first I detect no rose tint, and suspect it may have disappeared, —faded or bleached out,—or it was a dream. At length I detect a faint tinge; I cut down a young white oak and sweep bare a larger space; I then cut out a cake.

The redness is all about an inch below the surface, the little bubbles in the ice there for half an inch vertically being coated interruptedly within or without with what looks like a minute red dust when seen through a microscope, as if it had dried on. Little balloons, with some old paint almost sealed off their spheres. It has no beauty nor brightness thus seen, no more than brick-dust.

And this it is which gave the ice so delicate a tinge, seen through that inch of clear white ice. What is it? Can it be blood?

For a week or two the days have been sensibly longer, and it is quite light now when the five-o’clock train comes in.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 25, 1855

This morning is a perfect hunter’s morn. See January 16, 1853 ("It was a hunter's day. All tracks were fresh, the snow deep and light.")

Good skating  See February 3, 1855 ("This will deserve to be called the winter of skating.") See also 
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Winter of Skating

Stillness in the hollows about the Andromeda Ponds. See January 24, 1855 ("Those Andromeda Ponds are very attractive spots to me."); February 13, 1859 ("The wonderful stillness of a winter day . . .It is the sabbath of the year, stillness audible")

It is a rare day for winter, clear and bright, yet warm . . . You dispense with gloves. See January 25, 1852 ("It is glorious to be abroad this afternoon . . . The warmth of the sun reminds me of summer."); January 25, 1853 ("There is something springlike in this afternoon "); January 25, 1858 ("A warm, moist day. Thermometer at 6.30 P.M. at 49°.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring: the new warmth of the sun and Walking without Gloves

Rose-colored ice. See January 24, 1855 ("I was surprised to find the ice in the middle of the last pond a beautiful delicate rose-color for two or three rods, deeper in spots. It reminded me of red snow, and may be the same. It extended several inches into the ice, at least, and had been spread by the flowing water recently. It was this delicate rose tint, with internal bluish tinges."); February 23, 1855 ("See at Walden . . . ice formed over the large square where ice has been taken out for Brown’s ice-house has a decided pink or rosaceous tinge.");  March 4, 1855 ("Returning by the Andromeda Ponds, I am surprised to see the red ice visible still . . . It is melted down to the red bubbles, and I can tinge my finger with it there by rubbing it in the rotted ice."); March 7, 1855 ("The redness in the ice appears mostly to have evaporated, so that, melted, it does not color the water in a bottle."). See also See January 22, 1860 ("At the west or nesaea end of the largest Andromeda Pond, I see that there has been much red ice, more than I ever saw, but now spoiled by the thaw and snow.")

It is quite light now when the five-o’clock train comes in. See January 25, 1853 ( The earth and sun appear to have approached some degrees.") See also January 20, 1852 ("The days are now sensibly longer, and half past five is as light as five was.");  January 23, 1854 ("The increased length of the days is very observable of late."); January 24, 1852 ("The sun sets about five.”) and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring; The Days have grown Sensibly Longer

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

Clear and bright, yet warm.

 It is a rare winter day –

you dispense with gloves.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The mystery of rose-colored ice

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

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