Showing posts with label mountains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mountains. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 9, 2022

Distant well-known blue mountains in the horizon - pine leaves are fallen.



November 9.

November 9, 2022

It is a pleasant surprise to walk over a hill where an old wood has recently been cut off, and, on looking round, to see, instead of dense ranks of trees almost impermeable to light, distant well-known blue mountains in the horizon and perchance a white village over an expanded open country. I now take this in preference to all my old familiar walks. So a new prospect and walks can be created where we least expected it.

***

The chickadees, if I stand long enough, hop nearer and nearer inquisitively, from pine bough to pine bough, till within four or five feet, occasionally lisping a note.

The pitcher plant, though a little frost-bitten and often cut off by the mower, now stands full of water in the meadows. I never found one that had not an insect in it. 

***

I found many fresh violets (Viola pedata) to-day (November 9th) in the woods. 

***

The leaves of the larch are now yellow and falling off. 

Just a month ago, I observed that the white pines were parti-colored, green and yellow, the needles of the previous year now falling. Now I do not observe any yellow ones, and I expect to find that it is only for a few weeks in the fall after the new leaves have done growing that there are any yellow and falling, — that there is a season when we may say the old pine leaves are now yellow, and again, they are fallen.

The trees were not so tidy then; they are not so full now. They look best when contrasted with a field of snow.  

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 9, 1850

A pleasant surprise to walk over a hill . . . to see. . . distant well-known blue mountains in the horizon and perchance a white village. See November 9, 1851 ("To-day the mountains seen from the pasture above are dark blue, so dark that they look like new mountains and make a new impression, and the intervening town of Acton is seen against them in a new relation, a new neighborhood"); November 11, 1851 ("The horizon has one kind of beauty and attraction to him who has never explored the hills and mountains in it, and another ... to him who has."); November 22, 1860 ("Simply to see to a distant horizon through a clear air, - the fine outline of a distant hill or a blue mountaintop through some new vista, - this is wealth enough for one afternoon.") See also September 12, 1851 ("It is worth the while to see the mountains in the horizon once a day."); October 22, 1857 (" But what a perfect crescent of mountains we have in our northwest horizon! Do we ever give thanks for it?"); November 4, 1857("But those grand and glorious mountains, how impossible to remember daily that they are there, and to live accordingly! They are meant to be a perpetual reminder to us, pointing out the way."); December 8, 1854("Why do the mountains never look so fair as from my native fields?"); See also
A Book of the Seasons
, by Henry Thoreau, Mountains in the Horizon

November 9, 2024
Distant mountain top
as blue to the memory
as now to the eyes.

I found many fresh violets. See  November 7, 1851 ("Viola pedata in blossom."); November 8, 1851 ("Like Viola pedata, I shall be ready to bloom again here in my Indian summer days.") See also 
A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreauthe Violets

The chickadees, if I stand long enough, hop nearer and nearer See November 8, 1857 ("I do not know exactly what that sweet word is which the chickadee says when it hops near to me now in those ravines.
The chickadee /Hops near to me.") See also 
A Book of the Seasons,by Henry Thoreau, the Chickadee in Winter

The pitcher plant, though a little frost-bitten . . . now stands full of water in the meadows. See November 11, 1858 ("In the meadows the pitcher-plants are bright-red. "); November 15, 1857 ("The water is frozen solid in the leaves of the pitcher plants.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Purple Pitcher Plant

The leaves of the larch are now yellow and falling off.  See November 9, 1858 (" The trees on the hill just north of Alcott’s land, which I saw yesterday so distinctly from Ponkawtasset, and thought were either larches or aspens, prove to be larches. On a hill like this it seems they are later to change and brighter now than those in the Abel Heywood swamp, which are brownish-yellow. The first-named larches were quite as distinct amid the pines seen a mile off as near at hand.") See also November 8, 1853("The yellow larch leaves still hold on, — later than those of any of our pines. "); November 13, 1858 ("Larches now look dark or brownish yellow. Now, on the advent of much colder weather, the last Populus tremuliformis has lost its leaves, the sheltered dogwood is withered, and even the scarlet oak may be considered as extinguished, and the larch looks brown and nearly bare."). and 
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Larch

It is only for a few weeks in the fall after the new leaves have done growing that there are any yellow and falling. See .November 21, 1850 ("It is remarkable that the old leaves turn and fall in so short a time")

There is a season when we may say the old pine leaves are now yellow, and again, they are fallen.
 
See
A Book of the Seasons
, by Henry Thoreau, The October Pine Fall

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

There is a season 
when old pine leaves are yellow – 
then they are fallen.


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-501109

Friday, March 11, 2022

A Book of the Seasons: March 11 (air full of birds, bare ground, distant mountains, the song sparrow sings)




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



Landscape nearly bare
distant mountains white with snow–
song sparrow’s first song.

Gradual but sure
their song develops like an
 expanding flower.


Fair weather after three rainy days. March 11, 1854

P. M. — To Annursnack. Clear and rather pleasant; the ground again bare; wind northerly. March 11, 1855

P. M.—3.30, thermometer 24°. Cut a hole in the ice in the middle of Walden. . . . Snow and ice together make a curtain twenty-eight inches thick now drawn over the pond. March 11, 1856

2 p.m. — About 40°. It is cold and blustering walking in the wind, though the thermometer is at 40; i. e., though the temperature is thus high, the strong and blustering northwest winds of March make this notorious March weather, which is worse to bear than severe cold without wind. March 11, 1860

The farmers say that there is nothing equal to the March winds for drying wood. It will dry more this month than it has in all the winter before. March 11, 1860

I am surprised to see how rapidly that ice that covered the meadows on the 1st of March has disappeared under the influence of the sun alone. March 11, 1855

From the hill the river and meadow is about equally water and ice, — rich blue water and islands or continents of white ice — no longer ice in place — blown from this side or that. March 11, 1854

The greater part of what then lay on the meadows a foot thick has melted—two thirds at least. March 11, 1855

The water is now high on the meadows and there is no ice there, owing to the recent heavy rains. March 11, 1861

Water that has been so long detained on the hills and uplands by frost is now rapidly finding its level in the ocean. March 11, 1852

All lakes without outlet are oceans, larger or smaller. March 11, 1852

As I sit at the base of Annursnack the earth appears almost completely bare, but from the top I see considerable white ice here and there. . . only observed from a height. March 11, 1855

The distant mountains are all white with snow while our landscape is nearly bare. March 11, 1854

Air full of birds, — bluebirds, song sparrows, chickadee (phoebe notes), and blackbirds. March 11, 1854

But methinks the sound of the woodpecker tapping is as much a spring note as any these mornings; it echoes peculiarly in the air of a spring morning. March 11, 1859

A bluebird day before yesterday in Stow. March 11, 1855

Bluebirds' warbling curls in elms. March 11, 1854

On Tuesday, the 7th, I heard the first song sparrow chirp, and saw it flit silently from alder to alder. March 11, 1854

This pleasant morning after three days' rain and mist, they generally forth burst into sprayey song from the low trees along the river. March 11, 1854

Song sparrows toward the water, with at least two kinds or variations of their strain hard to imitate. March 11, 1854

The developing of their song is gradual but sure, like the expanding of a flower. This is the first song I have heard. March 11, 1854

By riverside I hear the song of many song sparrows, the most of a song of any yet. . . .The birds anticipate the spring; they come to melt the ice with their songs. March 11, 1859

I believe that I saw blackbirds yesterday. March 11, 1852

And on the swamp white oak top by the stone bridge, I see and hear a red-wing. March 11, 1859

It sings almost steadily on its perch there, sitting all alone, as if to attract companions . . .calling the river to life and tempting ice to melt and trickle like its own sprayey notes. March 11, 1859

Another flies over on high, with a tchuck and at length a clear whistle. March 11, 1859

And I see two more, also solitary, on different tree-tops within a quarter of a mile.

The birds anticipate the spring; they come to melt the ice with their songs. March 11, 1859

C. says that Walden is almost entirely open to-day, so that the lines on my map would not strike any ice, but that there is ice in the deep cove. March 11, 1861

It will be open then the 12th or 13th. March 11, 1861

This is earlier than I ever knew it to open. March 11, 1861

Fair Haven was solid ice two or three days ago, and probably is still, and Goose Pond is to - day all ice. March 11, 1861

The ice in [White Pond] is soft on the surface, but it is still more than a foot thick. March 11, 1852

Why, then, should Walden have broken up thus early? for it froze over early and the winter was steadily cold up to February at least. March 11, 1861

According to all accounts there has been no skating on Walden the past winter on account of the snow. It was unusually covered with snow. March 11, 1861

I infer that, if it has broken up thus early, it must be because the ice was thin, and that it was thin not for want of cold generally, but because of the abundance of snow which lay on it. March 11, 1861

C. observes where mice (?) have gnawed the pitch pines the past winter. Is not this a phenomenon of a winter of deep snow only? . . . I do not commonly observe it on a large scale. March 11, 1861

I see a woodchuck out on the calm side of Lee's Hill (Nawshawtuct).   March 11, 1860

He has pushed away the withered leaves which filled his hole and come forth, and left his tracks in those slight patches of the recent snow which are left about his hole. March 11, 1860

I was amused with the behavior of two red squirrels as I approached the hemlocks. March 11, 1860

I at first heard a faint, sharp chirp like a bird, within the hemlock, on my account, and then one rushed forward on a descending limb toward me, barking or chirruping at me after his fashion, within a rod. March 11, 1860

They seemed to vie with one another who should be most bold. 

For four or five minutes at least, they kept up an incessant chirruping or squeaking bark, vibrating their tails and their whole bodies and frequently changing their position or point of view, making a show of rushing forward, or perhaps darting off a few feet like lightning and barking still more loudly, i. e. with a yet sharper exclamation, as if frightened by their own motions; their whole bodies quivering, their heads and great eyes on the qui vive. March 11, 1860

You are uncertain whether it is not half in sport after all. March 11, 1860

They were as gray as red, and white beneath. March 11, 1860

Many of those dirty-white millers or ephemera in the air. March 11, 1855

I see pitch pine needles looking as if whitewashed, thickly covered on each of the two slopes of the needle with narrow, white, oyster-shell-like latebra or chrysalids of an insect. March 11, 1855

At this season, — before grass springs to conceal them, — I notice those pretty little roundish shells on the tops of hills; one to-day on Annursnack. March 11, 1855

That dull-gray-barked willow shows the silvery down of its forthcoming catkins.  March 11, 1852

The woods I walked in in my youth are cut off. Is it not time that I ceased to sing? My groves are invaded. March 11, 1852

If these fields and streams and woods, the phenomena of nature here, and the simple occupations of the inhabitants should cease to interest and inspire me, no culture or wealth would atone for the loss. March 11, 1856

I wish so to live ever as to derive my satisfactions and inspirations from the commonest events, every-day phenomena, so that what my senses hourly perceive, my daily walk, the conversation of my neighbors, may inspire me, and I may dream of no heaven but that which lies about me. March 11, 1856

Only that travelling is good which reveals to me the value of home and enables me to enjoy it better.  March 11, 1856


*****

March 3, 1855 (“I see a dirty-white miller fluttering about over the winter-rye patch next to Hubbard’s Grove. ”)
March 5, 1857 ("See the tracks of a woodchuck in the sand-heap about the mouth of his hole, where he has cleared out his entry.")
March 6, 1854 (" Hear and see the first blackbird, flying east over the Deep Cut, with a tchucktchuck, and finally a split whistle.")
March 7, 1859 ("On the Hill I hear first the tapping of a small woodpecker.")
March 8, 1853(" I look into the placid reflecting water for the signs and promise of the morrow . . .  That dark-blue meadowy revelation.")
March 10, 1852 ("Hear the phoebe note of the chickadee to-day for the first time. . . I find that they too have become spring birds; they have changed their note. Even they feel the influence of spring. ")
March 10, 1855 ("You are always surprised by the sight of the first spring bird or insect; they seem premature, and there is no such evidence of spring as themselves, so that they literally fetch the year about. ")
March 10, 1856 ("A biting northwest wind compels to cover the ears. It is one of the hardest days of the year to bear. Truly a memorable 10th of March")
I hear the warble of my first Concord bluebird, borne to me from the hill through the still  March 10, 1859("morning air, and, looking up, I see him plainly, though so far away, a dark speck in the top of a walnut.. . . The bluebird on the apple tree, warbling so innocently to inquire if any of its mates are within call, —  the angel of the spring!")


March 12, 1854 ("This is the blackbird morning. Their sprayey notes and conqueree ring with the song sparrows' jingle all along the river. Thus gradually they acquire confidence to sing. It is a beautiful spring morning")
March 12, 1859 ("There are many other insects and worms and caterpillars (and especially spiders, dead) on  the ice, there as well as elsewhere . . . . May not this have tempted the bluebirds on early this year?  ")
March 12, 1860 (" It is the wind of March that makes it unpleasant often, and to seem much colder than it is")
March 13, 1855 ("I hear the rapid tapping of the woodpecker from over the water.")
March 15, 1860 ("I see to-day in two places, in mud and in snow, what I have no doubt is the track of the woodchuck that has lately been out")

March 11, 2022

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.


March 10 <<<<<  March 11 >>>>> March 12 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, March 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 © 2009-2024

tinyurl.com/hdt11march

Thursday, May 20, 2021

It flies through the green foliage as if it would ignite the leaves.




May 20

The 18th and 19th a rather gentle and warm May storm, more rain, methinks, than we have had before this spring at one time.

Began with thunder-showers on the night of the 18th, the flashing van of the storm, followed by the long, dripping main body, with, at very long intervals, an occasional firing or skirmishing in the rear or on the flanks.

6 A. M. To Island by river.

Probably a red-wing blackbird's nest, of grass, hung between two button-bushes; whitish eggs with irregular black marks.

Sarsaparilla (Aralia nudicaulis), probably two days.

White oak, swamp white, and chestnut oak probably will open by the 22d.

The white ashes are in full flower now, and how long ? 8 A. M.-To Flint's Pond.

Cornus Canadensis just out.

Probably the C. florida should be set down to-day, since it just begins to shed pollen and its involucre is more open.

It is a fair but cool and windy day, a strong northwest wind, and the grass, to which the rain has given such a start, conspicuously waves, showing its lighter under side, and the buttercups toss in the wind.

The pitch and white pines have grown from one to five inches.

On Pine Hill.

In this clear morning light and a strong wind from the northwest, the mountains in the horizon, seen against some low, thin clouds in the background, look darker and more like earth than usual; you distinguish forest and pasture on them. This in the clear, cool atmosphere in the morning after a rain-storm, with the wind northwest. They will grow more ethereal, melting into the sky, as the day advances.

The beech is already one of the most densely clothed trees, or rather makes a great show of verdure from the size of its fully expanded light-green leaves, though some are later. The fresh shoots on low branches are five or six inches long.

It is an interesting tree to me, with its neat, close, tight-looking bark, like the dress which athletes wear, its bare instep, and roots beginning to branch like bird's feet, showing how it is planted and holds by the ground. Not merely stuck in the ground like a stick.

It gives the beholder the same pleasure that it does to see the timbers of a house above and around.

Do they blossom here? I found nuts, but apparently not sound, at Haverhill the other day,-last year's.

There are some slender, perfectly horizontal limbs which go zigzagging, as it were creeping through the air, only two or three feet above the ground, over the side-hill, as if they corresponded to concealed rills in the ground beneath.

Plenty of arums now in bloom. Probably my earliest one was in bloom, for I did not look within it.

What is that pretty, transparent moss in the brooks, which holds the rain or dewdrops so beautifully on the undersides of the leafets, through which they sparkle crystallinely? 

Fresh checkerberry shoots now.

The cedars are full of yellowish cedar apples and minute berries just formed, the effete staminiferous blossom still on. When did they begin to bloom? 

I find none of the rare hedyotis yet on Bare Hill.

The peach bloom is now gone and the apple bloom come.

Heard the seringo note, like a rattling watch-spring, from a flock passing swiftly overhead.

The wind makes such a din in the woods that the notes of birds are lost, and added to this is the sound of the waves of Flint's Pond breaking on the shore, the fresh su
rf. The pond is spotted with whitecaps, five or six feet long by one foot, like a thin flock of sheep running toward the southeast shore. The smallest lakes can be lashed into a sort of fury by the wind, and are quite ocean-like then. These caps are a striving to dilute the water with air.

The barberry will probably blossom to-day.

Here, by the side of the pond, a fire has recently run through the young woods on the hillside. It is surprising how clean it has swept the ground; only the very lowest and dampest rotten leaves remaining, but uvularias and smilacinas have pushed up here and there conspicuously on the black ground, a foot high.

At first you do not observe the full effect of the fire, walking amid the bare dead or dying trees, which wear a perfect winter aspect, which, as trees generally are not yet fully leaved out and you are still used to this, you do not notice, till you look up and see the still green tops everywhere above the height of fifteen feet.

Yet the trees do not bear many marks of fire commonly; they are but little blackened except where the fire has run a few feet up a birch, or paused at a dry stump, or a young evergreen has been killed and reddened by it and is now dropping a shower of red leaves.

Hemlock will blossom to-morrow.

The geranium is just out, 


May 20, 2018

and the lady’s-slipper. 

Some with old seed vessels are still seen.

Hear again, what I have heard for a week or more sometimes, that rasping, springy note, a very hoarse chirp, ooh, twee twee twee, from a bluish bird as big as a bluebird, with some bright yellow about head, white beneath and lateral tail-feathers, and black cheeks (?).

This and that sort of brown-creeper-like bird of May 12 — and the chickadee-like bird (which may be the chickadee), and the ah te ter twee of deep pine woods (which also may be the chickadee), I have not identified.

Arbor-vitæ has been out some time and the butter nut some days.

Mountain-ash on the 18th.

Larch apparently ten days.

Nemopanthes several days.

The swamp blueberry abundantly out.

Saw a tanager in Sleepy Hollow. It most takes the eye of any bird. You here have the red-wing reversed,-the deepest scarlet of the red-wing spread over the whole body, not on the wing-coverts merely, while the wings are black. It flies through the green foliage as if it would ignite the leaves.

Of deciduous trees and shrubs, the latest to leaf out, as I find by observation to-day, must be the panicled andromeda, rhodora, and button-bush.

In some places, however, the first has perfectly formed leaves, the rhodora at most not half unfolded, the button-bush for the most part just bursting buds.

But I have not seen the prinos and perhaps one or two other shrubs.

I have no doubt that the button-bush may be called the latest of all.

Is that female ash by river at Lee's Hill a new kind
In bloom fully May 18th.

Even this remote forest, which stands so far away and innocent, has this terrible foe Fire to fear. Lightning may ignite a dead tree or the dry leaves, and in a few minutes a green forest be blackened and killed. This liability to accident from which no part of nature is exempt.

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. [contained 49 Flowers, 22 Buds] And perhaps more buds would still make their appearance, and undoubtedly half a dozen more would have blown the next day. Forming a complex, close little testudo of violet scales above their leaves.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 20, 1853

Probably a red-wing blackbird's nest, of grass, hung between two button-bushes; whitish eggs with irregular black marks. See May 25, 1855 ("Red-wing’s nest with four eggs. . .curiously and neatly marked with brown-black spots and lines on the large end.”); June 1, 1857 ("A red-wing's nest, four eggs, . . the hieroglyphics on these eggs . . ..who determines the style of the marking?") See See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Red-wing in Spring

It flies through the green foliage as if it would ignite the leaves
. See   May 20, 1858 ("See tanagers, male and female, in the top of a pine, one red, other yellow, from below. We have got to these high colors among birds.") See also  A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Scarlet Tanager

The lady’s-slipper just out. See May 20, 1852 ("A lady’s-slipper well budded and now white."); see also May 18, 1851 ("Lady's-slipper almost fully blossomed”).; May 19, 1860 (“At the Ministerial Swamp I see a white lady's-slipper almost out, fully grown, with red ones.”); May 30, 1858 ("Hear of lady's-slipper seen the 23d; how long?")

Saturday, December 12, 2020

From Cliffs I see snow on the mountains.



December 12. 

Cold at last. 

December 12, 2015

Saw a violet on the C. Miles road where the bank had been burned in the fall. 

Baeomyces roseus also. 

Tansy still fresh yellow by the Corner Bridge. 


From Cliffs I see snow on the mountains. 

Last night's rain was snow there, then. They now have a parti-colored look, like the skin of a pard, as if they were spread with a saddle-cloth for Boreas to ride.

I hear of a cultivated rose blossoming in a garden in Cambridge within a day or two. 

The buds of the aspen are large and show wool in the fall.

H. D Thoreau, Journal, December 12, 1852

Baeomyces roseus. See April 3, 1859 ("We need a popular name for the baeomyces. C. suggests "pink mould" Perhaps "pink shot" or "eggs" would do.")

Saw a violet on the C. Miles road where the bank had been burned in the fall. See December 9, 1852 ("A man tells me he saw a violet to-day.") See also November 9, 1850 ("I found many fresh violets (Viola pedata) to-day (November 9th) in the woods.”);  November 16, 1850 (Violets, dandelions, and some other flowers blossom again, and mulleins and in numerable other plants begin again to spring and are only checked by the increasing cold. There is a slight uncertainty whether there will be any winter this year.")

Tansy still fresh yellow by the Corner Bridge. See November 18, 1855 ("Tansy still shows its yellow disks, but yarrow is particularly fresh and perfect, cold and chaste, with its pretty little dry-looking rounded white petals and green leaves."); November 23, 1852 ("Among the flowers which may be put down as lasting thus far, as I remember, in the order of their hardiness: yarrow, tansy (these very fresh and common) . . . and perhaps tall buttercup, etc."); December 6, 1852 ("Tansy still fresh.")

From Cliffs I see snow on the mountains.
See December 12, 1859 ("I got a new view of the mountains . . .very grand in their snowy mantle, which had a slight tinge of purple . . . It is now that these mountains, in color as well as form, most resemble the clouds.") See also December 8, 1854 ("Why do the mountains never look so fair as from my native fields?")
.
The buds of the aspen are large and show wool. See February 6, 1856 ("The down is just peeping out from some of the aspen buds. "); February 27. 1852 ("The buds of the aspen show a part of their down or silky catkins."); March 4, 1860 ("Aspen down a quarter of an inch out.")

Sunday, June 28, 2020

A record of a sunset. At midnight by moonlight.


June 28.

OEnothera biennis, evening-primrose, with its conspicuous flowers but rather unsightly stem and leaves. 

The Rubus odorata, purple flowering raspberry, in gardens. 

Potatoes for some time. 

Evening. 7 p.m. — Moon more than half. 

There are meteorologists, but who keeps a record of the fairer sunsets? 

While men are recording the direction of the wind, they neglect to record the beauty of the sunset or the rainbow. 

The sun not yet set

The bobolink sings descending to the meadow as I go along the railroad to the pond. 

The seringo-bird and the common song sparrow, — and the swallows twitter. 

The plaintive strain of the lark, coming up from the meadow, is perfectly adapted to the hour. 

When I get nearer the wood, the veery is heard, and the oven-bird, or whet-saw, sounds hollowly from within the recesses of the wood. 

The clouds in the west are edged with fiery red. A few robins faintly sing. 

The huckleberry-bird in more open fields in the woods. The thrasher?

The sun is down. 

The night-hawks are squeaking in the somewhat dusky air and occasionally making the ripping sound; the chewinks sound; the bullfrogs begin, and the toads; also tree-toads more numerously. 

Walden imparts to the body of the bather a remark ably chalky-white appearance, whiter than natural, tinged with blue, which, combined with its magnifying and distorting influence, produces a monstrous and ogre like effect, proving, nevertheless, the purity of the water. 

The river water, on the other hand, imparts to the bather a yellowish tinge.

There is a very low mist on the water close to the shore, a few inches high. 

The moon is brassy or golden now, and the air more dusky; yet I hear the pea-wai and the wood thrush, and now a whip-poor-will before I have seen a star. 

The walker in the woods at this hour takes note of the different veins of air through which he passes, — the fresher and cooler in the hollows, laden with the condensed fragrance of plants, as it were distilled in dews; and yet the warmer veins in a cool evening like this do not fail to be agreeable, though in them the air is comparatively lifeless or exhausted of its vitality. It circulates about from pillar to post, from wood-side to side-hill, like a dog that has lost its master, now the sun is gone. 

Now it is starlight; perhaps that dark cloud in the west has concealed the evening star before.

Yet I hear a chewink, veery, and wood thrush. 

Nighthawks and whip-poor-wills, of course. 

A whip-poor-will whose nest, perchance, I am near, on the side of the Cliff, hovers in the dusky air about ten feet from me, now on this side, then on that, on quivering wings, inspecting me, showing the white on its wings. It holds itself stationary for a minute. 

It is the first warm night for a week, and I hear the toads by the river very numerous. 

First there was sundown, then starlight. 

Starlight! That would be a good way to mark the hour, if we were precise. 

That is an epoch, when the last traces of daylight have disappeared and the night (nox) has fairly set in. 

Is not the moon a mediator? 

She is a light-giver that does not dazzle me. 

I have camped out all night on the tops of four mountains, — Wachusett, Saddle-back, Ktaadn, and Monadnock, — and I usually took a ramble over the summit at midnight by moonlight. 

I remember the moaning of the wind on the rocks, and that you seemed much nearer to the moon than on the plains. The light is then in harmony with the scenery. Of what use the sunlight to the mountain-summits? From the cliffs you looked off into vast depths of illumined air.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 28, 1852

When I get nearer the wood, the veery is heard, and the oven-bird, or whet-saw, sounds hollowly from within the recesses of the wood. ...  Now it is starlight [y]et I hear a chewink, veery, and wood thrush. 
Compare July 28, 1854 ("Veery and wood thrush not very lately, nor oven-bird"); See also May 13, 1856 (“At the swamp, hear the yorrick of Wilson’s thrush; the tweezer-bird or Sylvia Americana. Also the oven-bird sings.”); May 19, 1860 (“By the path-side near there, what I should call a veery's nest with four light-blue eggs, but I have not heard the veery note this year, only the yorrick.“); June 11, 1852 ("The oven-bird and the thrasher sing. "); June 15, 1854 ("Thrasher and catbird sing still; summer yellowbird and Maryland yellow-throat sing still; and oven-bird and veery"); June 16, 1856 (“Heard . . . not only Wilson’s thrush, but evergreen forest note and tanager.”); June 21, 1852 (“I hear the veery and the huckleberry-bird and the catbird.”); July 10, 1854 ("The singing birds at present are . . . Red-eye, tanager, wood thrush, chewink, veery, oven-bird, — all even at midday.") July 27, 1852 (" Have I heard the veery lately?"): July 30, 1852 ("How long since I heard a veery? Do they go, or become silent, when the goldfinches herald the autumn? ") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Veery

Now it is starlight; perhaps that dark cloud in the west has concealed the evening star before. . . .Starlight! That would be a good way to mark the hour, if we were precise. See  August 8, 1851 ("Starlight! that would be a good way to mark the hour, if we were precise.”); May 8, 1852 (“Starlight marks conveniently a stage in the evening, i. e. when the first star can be seen. ”); June 30, 1852 (“It is starlight about half an hour after sunset to-night; i. e. the first stars appear”); July 20, 1852 ("It is starlight. You see the first star in the southwest, and know not how much earlier you might have seen it had you looked.")

I have camped out all night on the tops of four mountains . . . and I usually took a ramble over the summit at midnight by moonlight. See March 31, 1853 ("It is affecting to sec a distant mountain-top . . . whereon you camped for a night in your youth, which you have never revisited, still as blue and ethereal to your eyes as is your memory of it.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Mountains in the Horizon and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, June Moonlight

Thursday, December 12, 2019

The night comes on early these days

December 12



P. M. — To Pine Hill and round Walden. 

Seeing a little hole in the side of a dead white birch, about six feet from the ground, I broke it off and found it to be made where a rotten limb had broken off. The hole was about an inch over and was of quite irregular and probably natural outline, and, within, the rotten wood had been removed to the depth of two or three inches, and on one side of this cavity, under the hole, was quite a pile of bird-droppings. The bottom was an irregular surface of the rotten wood, and there was nothing like a nest. The diameter of the birch was little more than two inches, — if at all. 

Probably it was the roosting-place of a chickadee.  

There is a certain Irish woodchopper who, when I come across him at his work in the woods in the winter, never fails to ask me what time it is, as if he were in haste to take his dinner-pail and go home. This is not as it should be. 

Every man, and the woodchopper among the rest, should love his work as much as the poet does his. All good political arrangements proceed on this supposition. If labor mainly, or to any considerable degree, serves the purpose of a police, to keep men out of mischief, it indicates a rotteneness at the foundation of our community.

December 12, 2013

The night comes on early these days, and I soon see the pine tree tops distinctly outlined against the dun (or amber) but cold western sky. 

The snow having come, we see where is the path of the partridge, — his comings and goings from copse to copse, — and now first, as it were, we have the fox for our nightly neighbor, and countless tiny deer mice. 

So, perchance, if a still finer substance should fall from heaven (iodine ?), something delicate enough to receive the trace of their footsteps, we should see where unsuspected spirits and faery visitors had hourly crossed our steps, had held conventions and transacted their affairs in our midst. No doubt such subtle spirits transact their affairs in our midst, and we may perhaps in vent some sufficiently delicate surface to catch the impression of them. 

If in the winter there are fewer men in the fields and woods, — as in the country generally, — you see the tracks of those who had preceded you, and so are more reminded of them than in summer. 

As I talked with the woodchopper who had just cleared the top of Emerson's I got a new view of the mountains over his pile of wood in the foreground. They were very grand in their snowy mantle, which had a slight tinge of purple. But when afterward I looked at them from a higher hill, where there was no wood pile in the foreground, they affected me less. It is now that these mountains, in color as well as form, most resemble the clouds.

I am inclined to think of late that as much depends on the state of the bowels as of the stars. As are your bowels, so are the stars.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 12, 1859

Probably it was the roosting-place of a chickadee. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Chickadee in Winter

Every man, and the woodchopper among the rest, should love his work as much as the poet does his. See Walden, An artist in the city of Kouroo ("in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter, "); November 18 1851 ("The chopper who works in the woods all day is more open in some respects to the impressions they are fitted to make than the naturalist who goes to see them. . . . The man who is bent upon his work is frequently in the best attitude to observe what is irrelevant to his work."); November 20, 1851("Hard and steady and engrossing labor with the hands, especially out of doors, is invaluable to the literary man"); December 13, 1851 ("This varied employment, to which my necessities compel me, serves instead of foreign travel and the lapse of time."); June 15, 1852 ("Do not hire a man who does your work for money, but him who does it for love, and pay him well."); April 8, 1854 ("A day or two surveying is equal to a journey");April 12, 1854 ("I observe that it is when I have been intently, and it may be laboriously, at work, and am somewhat listless or abandoned after it, reposing, that the muse visits me, and I see or hear beauty. It is from out the shadow of my toil that I look into the light."); April 30, 1856 (" You would fain devote yourself to the melody, but you will hear more of it if you devote yourself to your work.")

The night comes on early these days, and I soon see the pine tree tops distinctly outlined against the dun (or amber) but cold western sky.
See December 3, 1856 ("For years my appetite was so strong that I fed — I browsed — on the pine forest's edge seen against the winter horizon"); December 9, 1856 ("The worker who would accomplish much these short days must shear a dusky slice off both ends of the night”); December 10, 1856 (“How short the afternoons! I hardly get out a couple of miles before the sun is setting”); December 11, 1854 ("The day is short; it seems to be composed of two twilights merely; the morning and the evening twilight make the whole day");  December 25, 1858 ("How full of soft, pure light the western sky now, after sunset! I love to see the outlines of the pines against it . . . In a pensive mood I enjoy the complexion of the winter sky at this hour."); January 9, 1859 ("It is worth the while to stand here at this hour and look into the soft western sky, over the pines whose outlines are so rich and distinct against the clear sky.");  See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Western Sky and 
A Book of the Seasons by Henry Thoreau,  The Season of Two Twilights

The snow having come, we see where is the path of the partridge, — his comings and goings from copse to copse, — and now first, as it were, we have the fox for our nightly neighbor, and countless tiny deer mice. See November 18, 1855 ("The snow is the great track-revealer."); December 8, 1854 ("Already foxes have left their tracks.!"); December 8, 1855 ("Let a snow come and clothe the ground and trees, and I shall see the tracks of many inhabitants now unsuspected"); December 11, 1854 ("A partridge goes off, and, coming up, I see where she struck the snow first with her wing, making five or six as it were finger-marks."); December 13, 1859 ("I see that the fox too has already taken the same walk before me.");  December 14, 1855 ("By the snow I was made aware in this short walk of the recent presence there of squirrels, a fox, and countless mice, whose trail I had crossed, but none of which I saw, or probably should have seen before the snow fell."); December 19, 1850 ("Yesterday I tracked a partridge in the new-fallen snow, till I came to where she took to flight, and I could track her no further. "):December 27, 1853 ("It is surprising what things the snow betrays . . . no sooner does the snow come and spread its mantle over the earth than it is printed with the tracks of countless mice and larger animals.")

[In the winter] you see the tracks of those who had preceded you, and so are more reminded of them than in summer. See November 15, 1858 ("You are now reminded occasionally in your walks that you have contemporaries, and perchance predecessors. I see the track of a fox . . . and, in the wood-path, of a man and a dog."); November 28, 1858 ("I cannot now walk without leaving a track behind me; that is one peculiarity of winter walking. Anybody may follow my trail. I have walked, perhaps, a particular wild path along some swamp-side all summer, and thought to myself, I am the only villager that ever comes here. But I go out shortly after the first snow has fallen, and lo, here is the track of a sportsman and his dog in my secluded path, and probably he preceded me in the summer as well."); December 7, 1856 ("I see the track of one skater who has preceded me this morning.")

In their snowy mantle, which had a slight tinge of purple . . . It is now that these mountains, in color as well as form, most resemble the clouds. See December 12, 1852 ("From Cliffs I see snow on the mountains. Last night's rain was snow there"); see also October 13, 1852 (" The air is singularly fine-grained; the mountains are more distinct from the rest of the earth and slightly purple."); ); October 20, 1852 (“I see the mountains in sunshine, all the more attractive from the cold I feel here, with a tinge of purple on them”);; November 4, 1857 ("The mountains north . . . stand out grand and distinct, a decided purple."). November 30, 1852 (" the sparkling windows and vanes of the village, seen under and against the faintly purple-tinged, slate-colored mountains ")

December 12. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, December 12

Night comes on early –
pine tree tops outlined against 
the cold western sky.

It is now mountains
have a slight tinge of purple –
resembling the clouds.


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-591212

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