Because the distance between each degree of latitude is approximately 69 miles.

December 2

As the stars, though spheres, present an outline of many little points of light to our eyes, like a flower of light, so I notice to-night the horns of the new moon appear split.

The skeleton which at first sight excites only a shudder in all mortals becomes at last not only a pure but suggestive and pleasing object to science. The more we know of it, the less we associate it with any goblin of our imaginations. The longer we keep it, the less likely it is that any such will come to claim it. We discover that the only spirit which haunts it is a universal intelligence which has created it in harmony with all nature.

Science never saw a ghost, nor does it look for any, but it sees everywhere the traces, and it is itself the agent, of a Universal Intelligence.

A communication to a newspaper, dated Bangor, 28th (November), says of the Penobscot :

“The navigation is closed here, the anchor ice with the surface ice making an obstruction of several feet thickness. There are enclosed in the ice from 60 to 80 vessels with full cargoes, besides the steamers. The ice obstruction extends about five miles," etc.

There is still no ice in the Concord River, or the skimming which forms along the shore in the night almost entirely disappears in the day. On the 30th I paddled on it in the afternoon, and there was not a particle of ice, and even in the morning my constantly wet hands were not cold.

The latitude of Lynn church is 42° 27' 51".

Calling Concord, at a venture, 42° 27', Bangor being 44° 47' 50', the difference equals about 2° 21'.

The length of a degree of latitude in Italy (43° 1') being, according to Boscovich and Lemaire's measurement, 68.998 English miles, call it in this case 69 miles, and the difference of latitude in miles between B. and C. is about 162 miles.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 2, 1853

I notice to-night the horns of the new moon appear split. See August 8, 1851 (“The moon has not yet quite filled her horns”); December 23, 1851 (“ I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.”); July 20, 1852 ("The horns of the moon only three or four days old look very sharp , still cloud like , in the midst of a blue space , prepared to shine a brief half - hour before it sets . . . and, as it sinks in the west . . . the outline of the old moon in its arms is visible if you do not look directly at it.”)

Penobscot navigation is closed. See January 20, 1857 (" I hear that Boston Harbor froze over on the 18th, down to Fort Independence."); January 26, 1857 ("Saw  Boston Harbor frozen over (for some time). Reminded me of, I think, Parry's Winter Harbor, with vessels frozen in . . . [Ice did not finally go out till about Feb. 15th.] ")

 

There is still no ice in the Concord River. . . the skimming which forms along the shore in the night almost entirely disappears in the day. See December 2, 1852 ("Started in boat before 9 A.M. down river to Billerica . . .. I do not remember when I have taken a sail or a row on the river in December before. . . . The banks are white with frost. The air is calm, and the water smooth.") Compare November 30, 1855 ("River skimmed over . . . remained iced over all day."); November 30, 1858 ("The river may be said to have frozen generally last night."); December 4, 1856 ("Dark waves are chasing each other across the river . . . Smooth white reaches of ice, as long as the river, on each side are threatening to bridge over its dark-blue artery any night. They remind me of a trap that is set for it, which the frost will spring. "); December 5, 1853 ("The river frozen over thinly in most places and whitened with snow, which was sprinkled on it this noon"); December 5, 1856 ("The river is well skimmed over in most places . . . The ice trap was sprung last night")

The new moon seen by day.

 

October 16.

The new moon, seen by day, reminds me of a poet's cheese. 

Surveying for Loring to-day. Saw the Indian Ditch, so called. 

A plant newly leaving out, a shrub; looks somewhat like shad blossom. 

To-night the spearers are out again.


H. D. Thoreau, Journal, October 16, 1851

The new moon, seen by day. See April 30, 1852 ("Then when I turned, I saw in the east, just over the woods, the modest, pale, cloud-like moon, two thirds full, looking spirit-like on these daylight scenes. Such a sight excites me. The earth is worthy to inhabit.")

Saw the Indian Ditch, so called. See September 6, 1857 ("We go along under the hill and woods north of railroad, west of Lords land, about to the west of the swamp and to the Indian ditch.")

A plant newly leaving out, a shrub; looks somewhat like shad blossom. See November 1, 1853 ("I notice the shad-bush conspicuously leafing out. Those long, narrow, pointed buds, prepared for next spring, have anticipated their time. I noticed some thing similar when surveying the Hunt wood-lot last winter"); November 4, 1854 ("The shad-bush buds have expanded into small leaflets already."); October 13, 1859 ("The shad-bush is leafing again by the sunny swamp-side. It is like a youthful or poetic thought in old age. Several times I have been cheered by this sight when surveying in former years. . . . It is a foretaste of spring. In my latter years, let me have some shad-bush thoughts. ")

To-night the spearers are out again. See November 15, 1855 ("I see a spearer’s light to-night")

The snow-storm is over

December 23

December 23, 2016

This morning, when I woke, I found it snowing, the snow fine and driving almost horizontally, as if it had set in for a long storm, but a little after noon it ceased snowing and began to clear up, and I set forth for a walk. 

The snow which we have had for the last week or ten days has been remarkably light and dry. It is pleasant walking in the woods now, when the sun is just coming out and shining on the woods freshly covered with snow. 

At a distance the oak woods look very venerable. A fine, hale, wintry aspect things wear, and the pines, all snowed up, even suggest comfort. Where boughs cross each other much snow is caught, which now in all woods is gradually tumbling down. 

By half past three the sun is fairly out. I go to the Cliffs. There is a narrow ridge of snow, a white line, on the storm side of the stem of every exposed tree. 

I see that there is to be a fine, clear sunset, and make myself a seat in the snow on the Cliff to witness it. 

Already a few clouds are glowing like a golden sierra just above the horizon. From a low arch the clear sky has rapidly spread eastward over the whole heavens, and the sun shines serenely, and the air is still, and the spotless snow covers the fields. The snow-storm is over, the clouds have departed, the sun shines serenely, the air is still, a pure and trackless white napkin covers the ground, and a fair evening is coming to conclude all. 

Gradually the sun sinks, the air grows more dusky, and I perceive that if it were not for the light reflected from the snow it would be quite dark. The woodchopper has started for home. I can no longer distinguish the color of the red oak leaves against the snow, but they appear black. The partridges have come forth to bud on the apple trees. 

Now the sun has quite disappeared, but the afterglow, as I may call it, apparently the reflection from the cloud beyond which the sun went down on the thick atmosphere of the horizon, is unusually bright and lasting. Long, broken clouds in the horizon, in the dun atmosphere, — as if the fires of day were still smoking there, — hang with red and golden edging like the saddle cloths of the steeds of the sun. 

December 23, 2018

Now all the clouds grow black, and I give up to-night; but unexpectedly, half an hour later when I look out, having got home, I find that the evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red, — that dun atmosphere instead of clouds reflecting the sun, — and I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 23, 1851

This morning, when I woke, I found it snowing, the snow fine and driving almost horizontally, as if it had set in for a long storm. See December 23, 1850 ("Here is an old-fashioned snow-storm.")  See also 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”)

There is a narrow ridge of snow, a white line, on the storm side of the stem of every exposed tree. See January 5, 1852 ("To-day the trees are white with snow . . . and have the true wintry look, on the storm side. Not till this has the winter come to the forest.”);  December 27, 1853 (“there is a white ridge up and down their trunks on the northwest side, showing which side the storm came from, which, better than the moss, would enable one to find his way in the night.”); February 21, 1854 (“The snow has lodged more or less in perpendicular lines on the northerly sides of trees”); December 26, 1855 (“The ice is chiefly on the upper and on the storm side of twigs”); January 14, 1856 ("I think that you can best tell from what side the storm came by observing on which side of the trees the snow is plastered."); January 27, 1856 ("The lodging snow of January 13th, just a fortnight ago, still adheres in deep and conspicuous ridges to large exposed trees, too stubborn to be shaken by the wind, showing from which side the storm came.")

I see that there is to be a fine, clear sunset, and make myself a seat in the snow on the Cliff to witness it. See December 23, 1859 ("I ascended Ball's Hill to see the sun set. How red its light at this hour!")

The woodchopper has started for home. See· December 15, 1856 (“the last strokes of the woodchopper, who presently bends his steps homeward; ”)

The evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red and just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.  See  January 23, 1852 ("And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene”); January 24, 1852 (“And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night.”); February  3, 1852 ("The moon is nearly full tonight, and the moment is passed when the light in the east (i. e. of the moon) balances the light in the west. Venus is now like a little moon in the west,"); June 15, 1852 ("The evening star, multiplied by undulating water, is like bright sparks of fire continually ascending. "); July 27, 1852 ("All glow on the clouds is gone, except from one higher, small, rosy pink isle. The solemnity of the evening sky! Just before the earliest star I turn round, and there shines the moon, silvering the small clouds which have gathered.”)

December 23. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, December 23

The storm is over –

trackless snow covers the fields

and the air is still.

Walking in the woods

the sun just coming out and

shining on fresh snow

a narrow white line

of snow on the storm side of

every exposed tree.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The snow-storm is over

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-511223

Redness gradually deepening till the darkness prevails.

July 20.

At evening the eastern clouds, the western clouds, and the atmosphere of the west horizon have one history successively – a fainter glow and redness, gradually and by stages deepening till the darkness prevails.

We see from the hill darkness infolding the village, collected first in the elm-tops. If it were not for the lightcolored barns and white houses, it would already be dark there. The redness of the clouds, or the golden or coppery glow, appears to endure almost till starlight. Then the cloudlets in the west turn rapidly dark, the shadow of night advances in the east, and the first stars become visible. The pitch pine woods are heavy and dark, but the river is full of golden light and more conspicuous than by day.

It is starlight. We see the first star in the southwest, and know not how much earlier we might have seen it had we looked. Now the first whip-poor-will sings hollowly in the dark pitch pine wood on Bear Garden Hill, as if the night had never ceased, and it had never ceased to sing, only now we heard it. Night is seen settling down with mists on Fair Haven Bay. The stars are few and distant; the fireflies fewer still.

Now quite into evening. There is a second glow on the few low western cloudlets, when we thought the sun had bid us a final adieu. - Those small clouds, the rearmost guard of day, which were wholly dark, are again lit up for a moment with a dull-yellowish glow and again darken.

And now the evening redness deepens till all the west or northwest horizon is red; as if the sky were rubbed there with some rich Indian pigment, a permanent dye; as if the Artist of the world had mixed his red paints on the edge of the inverted saucer of the sky. 

An exhilarating, cheering redness, most wholesome. There should be a red race of men. I would look into the west at this hour till my face permanently reflects that red. It is like the stain of some berries crushed along the edge of the sky. 

The crescent moon, meanwhile, grows more silvery, and, as it sinks in the west, more yellowish, and the outline of the old moon in its arms is visible if you do not look directly at it. Some dusky redness lasts almost till the last traces of daylight disappear, about 10 o'clock, the same time the moon goes down.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 20, 1852

The redness of the clouds, or the golden or coppery glow, appears to endure almost till starlight. Then the cloudlets in the west turn rapidly dark, the shadow of night advances in the east, and the first stars become visible. 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. 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 28,1852 ("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. That is an epoch, when the last traces of daylight have disappeared and the night (nox) has fairly set in.”); June 30, 1852 (“It is starlight about half an hour after sunset to-night; i. e. the first stars appear”); July 12, 1852 (“Now, a quarter after nine, as I walk along the river-bank, long after starlight, and perhaps an hour or more after sunset, I see some of those high-pillared clouds of the day, in the southwest, still reflecting a downy light from the regions of day, they are so high.”); July 21, 1852 ("Do we perceive such a deep Indian red after the first starlight at any other season as now in July?”)

The stars are few and distant; the fireflies fewer still. Compare July 7, 1852 ("I am older than last year; the mornings are further between; the days are fewer.")

The horns of the moon

look sharp, still cloud-like, in the

midst of a blue space.

The darkness that first 

collects in the elm-tops now 

infolds the village.

The shadow of night

advances in the east and the

first stars visible.

We see the first star

and know not if we might have

seen it earlier.

The river is full

of golden light – the pitch pine

woods heavy and dark.

The first whip-poor-will

sings in the dark pitch pine wood

on Bear Garden Hill.

The whip-poor-will sings

like it never ceased – but we

hear it only now.

Quite into evening

the stars are few and distant –

fireflies fewer still.

And now the evening

redness deepens like paint on

the edge of the sky.

Redness gradually 

by stages deepening till 

the darkness prevails.

Old moon visible

in the arms of the crescent –

if we do not look.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Redness gradually deepening till the darkness prevails.

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

Sunset, new moon.

January 24.

P. M. - Down the Flint's Pond road and return across.

Where the mountains in the horizon are well wooded and the snow does not lodge, they still look blue. 

All but a narrow segment of the sky in the northwest and southeast being suddenly overcast by a passing kind of snow-squall, though no snow falls, I look into the clear sky with its floating clouds in the northwest as from night into day, now at 4 P.M. The sun sets about five.

Walden and White Ponds are a vitreous greenish blue, like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown.

When I come out on to the causeway, I behold a splendid picture in the west. A single elm by Hayden's stands in relief against the amber and golden, deepening into dusky but soon to be red horizon.

January 24, 2026, 5:18 PM

And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night.

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

The sun sets about five. See 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 25, 1853 ("There is something springlike in this afternoon . . . The earth and sun appear to have approached some degrees."); January 25, 1855 ("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 "); February 9, 1851 ("It is midwinter. Within a few days the cold has set in stronger than ever, though the days are much longer now") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring; The Days have grown Sensibly Longer

Greenish blue, like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown. See January 27, 1854 ("Walden ice has a green tint close by, but is distinguished by its blueness at a distance") and Walden (" Walden ice, seen near at hand, has a green tint, but at a distance is beautifully blue, and you can easily tell it from the white ice of the river, or the merely greenish ice of some ponds, a quarter of a mile off. Sometimes one of those great cakes slips from the ice-man's sled into the village street, and lies there for a week like a great emerald, an object of interest to all passers.);  December 14. 1851 ("There is a beautifully pure greenish-blue sky under the clouds now in the southwest just before sunset."); January 11, 1852 ("The glory of these afternoons, though the sky may be mostly overcast, is in the ineffably clear blue, or else pale greenish-yellow, patches of sky in the west just before sunset.") December 11, 1854 ("That peculiar clear vitreous greenish sky in the west, as it were a molten gem.”) December 20, 1854 ("The sky in the eastern horizon has that same greenish-vitreous, gem-like appearance which it has at sundown, . . .") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Western Sky

And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night. See January 23, 1852 ("And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene. "); December 23, 1851 (“I find that the evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red, . . . and I detect, just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.”); see also October 28, 1852 ("That star which accompanies the moon will not be her companion tomorrow.” ) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Winter Sunsets

From night into day

I look into the clear sky

with its floating clouds.

Greenish blue patches

of winter sky seen in the

west before sundown.

And now the crescent

of the moon – and farther off –

her attendant star.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Sunset, new moon.

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

Jan. 24. If thou art a writer, write as if thy time were short, for it is indeed short at the longest. Improve each occasion when thy soul is reached. Drain the cup of inspiration to its last dregs. Fear no intemperance in that, for the years will come when otherwise thou wilt regret opportunities unimproved. The spring will not last forever. These fertile and expanding seasons of thy life, when the rain reaches thy root, when thy vigor shoots, when thy flower is budding, shall be fewer and farther between. 

Again I say, Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth. Use and commit to life what you cannot commit to memory. 

I hear the tones of my sister's piano below. It reminds me of strains which once I heard more frequently, when, possessed with the inaudible rhythm, I sought my chamber in the cold and commụned with my own thoughts. 

I feel as if I then received the gifts of the gods with too much indifference. Why did I not cultivate those fields they introduced me to? Does nothing withstand the inevitable march of time? Why did I not use my eyes when I stood on Pisgah? 

Now I hear those strains but seldom. My rhythmical mood does not endure. I cannot draw from it and return to it in my thought as to a well all the evening or the morning. I cannot dip my pen in it. I cannot work the vein, it is so fine and volatile. 

Ah, sweet, ineffable reminiscences!

 In thy journal let there never be a jest! To the earnest there is nothing ludicrous.

 P. M. Down the Flint's Pond road and return across . 

Where the mountains in the horizon are well wooded and the snow does not lodge , they still look blue . All but a narrow segment of the sky in the northwest and southeast being suddenly overcast by a passing kind of snow - squall , though no snow falls , 

I look into the clear sky with its floating clouds in the northwest as from night into day , now at 4 P. M. 

The sun sets about five . 

Walden and White Ponds are a vitreous greenish blue, like patches of the winter sky seen in the west before sundown. 

Even the dry leaves are gregarious, and they collect in little heaps in the hollows in the snow or even on the plane surfaces , driven in flocks by the wind . How like shrinking maidens wrapping their scarfs about them they flutter along ! The oaks are made thus to retain their leaves , that they may play over the snow - crust and add variety to the winter landscape . If you wished to collect leaves , you would only have to make holes in the snow for traps . I see that my tracks are often filled two feet deep with them . They are blown quite across Walden on the wavy snow . Two flitting along together by fits and starts , now one running ahead , then another , remind me of squirrels . Mostly white oak leaves , but the other oaks , i . e . especially red oaks , also . 

There is a certain refinement or cultivation, even feminineness, suggested by the rounded lobes, the scalloped edge, of the white oak leaf, compared with the wild, brusque points of the red and black and scarlet and shrub oaks. 

Now I see a faint bluish tinge in the ruts, but it is warmer and there is a snow - bearing cloud over all . When the cars passed, I being on the pond ( Walden ), the sun was setting and suffusing the clouds far and near with rosy light. Even the steam from the engine, as its flocks or wreaths rose above the shadow of the woods, became a rosy cloud even fairer than the rest, but it was soon dissipated. 

I see in the woods the woodman's embers, which have melted a circular hole in the snow, where he warms his coffee at noon. But these days the fire does not melt the snow over a space three feet across. 

These woods! Why do I not feel their being cut more sorely? Does it not affect me nearly ? The axe can deprive me of much. Concord is sheared of its pride. I am certainly the less attached to my native town in consequence. One, and a main, link is broken. I shall go to Walden less frequently. 

When the telegraph harp trembles and wavers , I am most affected , as if it were approaching to articulation . It sports so with my heart - strings . When the harp dies away a little , then I revive for it . It cannot be too faint . I almost envy the Irish , whose shanty in the Cut is so near , that they can hear this music daily standing at their door . 

How strange to think that a sound so soothing, elevating, educating, telling of Greece and the Muses , might have been heard sweep ing other strings when only the red man ranged these fields ! might , perchance , in course of time have civilized him ! If an Indian brave will not fear torture and aids his enemies to torment him , what become of pity and a hundred other Christian virtues ? The charitable are suddenly without employment . 

When I come out on to the causeway , I behold a splendid picture in the west . The damask - lined clouds , like rifts from a coal mine , which sparkle beneath , seen diving into the west . When clouds rise in mid afternoon , you cannot foresee what sunset picture they are preparing for us . A single elm by Hayden's is relieved against the amber and golden border , deepening into dusky but soon to be red , in the horizon . 

And now the crescent of the moon is seen, and her attendant star is farther off than last night .

Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth. See Ecclesiastes 12:1 (KJV)("Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.")

Why did I not use my eyes when I stood on Pisgah? See Deuteronomy 34:1–4 (“I have let you see it with your eyes, but you will not cross over into it.”)

The snow is deep and cold

January 23.

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. One is now walking about and pecking the dung in the street in front of Frank Monroe's.


To Fair Haven Hill. I see where the squirrels have torn the pine cones in pieces to come at their seeds. And in some cases the mice have nibbled the buds of the pitch pines, where the plumes have been bent down by the snow. The Blue Hills of Milton are now white.

Just before sunset there were few clouds or specks to be seen in the western sky, but the sun gets down lower, and many dark clouds are made visible, their sides toward us being darkened. In the bright light they were but floating feathers of vapor; now they swell into dark evening clouds.

It is a fair sunset, with many purplish fishes in the horizon, pinkish and golden with bright edges; like a school of purplish whales, they sail or float down from the north; or like leopards' skins they hang in the west. If the sun goes behind a cloud, it is still reflected from the least haziness or vapor in that part of the sky, the air is so clear; and the afterglow is remarkably long. 

And now the blaze is put out, and only a few glowing clouds, like the flickering light of the fire, skirt the west. And now only the brands and embers, mixed with smoke, make an Indian red along the horizon. 

And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene. 

The thermometer was at 21° this morning.


H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 23, 1852

One is now walking about and pecking the dung in the street in front of Frank Monroe’s See . February 27, 1857 ("They are picking the cow-dung scattered about, apparently for the worms, etc., it contains”)

And the new moon and the evening star, close together, preside over the twilight scene. See December 23, 1851 (“The evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red . . . and just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.”)

Unseasonable cold

June 22.

There is a strong northeast wind this afternoon, the thermometer 60° only at 12.30 P.M. and 65 at 5 P.M. But it is remarkably cold in the wind, and you require a thick coat. 65° now, with wind, is uncomfortably cold.

The heavy rain of the 20th with the cold of the 21st has killed some birds. A martin and another bird were found dead in Wheildon's garden. Frost last night kills the tops of the flowering fern along the south edge of the Great Meadows.

On the northeast side of the Great Fields there are two or three little patches of sand one to two rods across with a few slivers of arrowhead stone sprinkled over them. These spots are plowed only by the wind and rain, and yet I rarely cross them but I find a new arrowhead.

The pretty new moon in the west is quite red this evening.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal,  June 22, 1860

vide March 22, 1859

65° now, with wind, is uncomfortably cold See June 22, 1855 ("At 6 P. M. the temperature of the air is 77°, of river one rod from shore 72°. Warmest day yet.")

The pretty new moon in the west is quite red this evening See June 23, 1860 ("This is a decidedly dogdayish day, foretold by the red moon of last evening.") See also December 23, 1851 (“The evening star is shining brightly, and, beneath all, the west horizon is glowing red . . . and just above the horizon, the narrowest imaginable white sickle of the new moon.”);J uly 20, 1852 ("The horns of the moon only three or four days old look very sharp , still cloud like , in the midst of a blue space , prepared to shine a brief half - hour before it sets . . ..the crescent moon . . ., grows more silvery, and, as it sinks in the west, more yellowish, and the outline of the old moon in its arms is visible if you do not look directly at it. Some dusky redness lasts almost till the last traces of daylight disappear, about 10 o'clock, the same time the moon goes down") and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, June Moonlight