These are warm, serene, bright autumn afternoons.

September 26. 

Saturday. 

A. M. — Apparently Hypericum prolificum in Monroe's garden, still out. 

The season is waning. A wasp just looked in upon me. A very warm day for the season. 

P. M. – Up river to Clamshell. 

September 26, 2014

These are warm, serene, bright autumn afternoons. I see far off the various-colored gowns of cranberry pickers against the green of the meadow. The river stands a little way over the grass again, and the summer is over. 

The pickerel-weed is brown, and I see musquash-houses. 

Solidago rigida, just done, within a rod southwest of the oak.

I see a large black cricket on the river, a rod from shore, and a fish is leaping at it. As long as the fish leaps, it is motionless as if dead; but as soon as it feels my paddle under it, it is lively enough. 

I sit on Clamshell bank and look over the meadows. Hundreds of crickets have fallen into a sandy gully and now are incessantly striving to creep or leap up again over the sliding sand. This their business this September afternoon.

I watch a marsh hawk circling low along the edge of the meadow, looking for a frog, and now at last it alights to rest on a tussock.

September 26, 1857

Coming home, the sun is intolerably warm on my left cheek. I perceive it is because the heat of the reflected sun, which is as bright as the real one, is added to that of the real one, for when I cover the reflection with my hand the heat is less intense.

That cricket seemed to know that if he lay quietly spread out on the surface, either the fishes would not suspect him to be an insect, or if they tried to swallow him would not be able to. 

What blundering fellows these crickets are, both large and small! They were not only tumbling into the river all along shore, but into this sandy gully, to escape from which is a Sisyphus labor. 

I have not sat there many minutes watching two foraging crickets which have decided to climb up two tall and slender weeds almost bare of branches, as a man shins up a liberty-pole sometimes, when I find that one has climbed to the summit of my knee. 

They are incessantly running about on the sunny bank. Their still larger cousins, the mole crickets, are creaking loudly and incessantly all along the shore. Others have eaten themselves cavernous apartments, sitting-room and pantry at once, in windfall apples.

Speaking to Rice of that cricket's escape, he said that a snake [sic] in like manner would puff itself up when a snake was about to swallow him, making right up to him. He once, with several others, saw a small striped snake swim across a piece of water about half a rod wide to a half-grown bullfrog which sat on the opposite shore, and attempt to seize him, but he found that he had caught a Tartar, for the bullfrog, seeing him coming, was not afraid of him, but at once seized his head in his mouth and closed his jaws upon it, and he thus held the snake a considerable while before the latter was able by struggling to get away. 

When that cricket felt my oar, he leaped without the least hesitation or perhaps consideration, trusting to fall in a pleasanter place. He was evidently trusting to drift against some weed which would afford him a point d'appui.

H. D. Thoreau , Journal , September 26, 1857


Coming home, the sun is intolerably warm on my left cheek. . . . when I cover the reflection with my hand the heat is less intense. Compare July 21, 1853 ("The sun is now warm on my back, and when I turn round I have to shade my face with my hands . . .")

September 26. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, September 26

A marsh hawk circles

low along the meadow's edge

looking for a frog.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, These are warm, serene, bright autumn afternoons

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

Acorns now turned brown fallen or falling.

September 30

September 30, 2020

I am surprised to see that some red maples, which were so brilliant a day or two ago, have already shed their leaves, and they cover the land and the water quite thickly. I see a countless fleet of them slowly carried round in the still bay by the Leaning Hemlocks.

I find a fine tupelo near Sam Barrett’s now all turned scarlet. I find that it has borne much fruit — small oval bluish berries, those I see — and a very little not ripe is still left. Gray calls it blackish-blue. 

It seems to be contemporary with the sassafras. Both these trees are now particularly forward and conspicuous in their autumnal change. I detect the sassafras by its peculiar orange scarlet half a mile distant. 

Acorns are generally now turned brown and fallen or falling; the ground is strewn with them and in paths they are crushed by feet and wheels. The white oak ones are dark and the most glossy. The conventional acorn of art is of course of no particular species, but the artist might find it worth his while to study Nature’s varieties again. 

The song sparrow is still about, and the blackbird. See a little bird with a distinct white spot on the wing, yellow about eye, and whitish beneath, which I think must-be one of the wrens I saw last spring. 

At present the river’s brim is no longer browned with button-bushes, for those of their leaves which the frost had touched have already fallen entirely, leaving a thin crop of green ones to take their turn.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, September 30, 1854

I am surprised to see that some red maples. . . have already shed their leaves, and they cover the land and the water quite thickly. October 17, 1857 ("The swamp floor is covered with red maple leaves, many yellow with bright-scarlet spots or streaks. Small brooks are almost concealed by them.") See also  A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Red Maple

A countless fleet of them slowly carried round in the still bay by the Leaning Hemlocks.   See November 11, 1853 ("As I paddle under the Leaning Hemlocks, the breeze rustles the boughs, and showers of their fresh winged seeds come wafted down to the water and are carried round and onward in the great eddy there.”)  See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, at the Leaning Hemlocks

A fine tupelo near Sam Barrett’s now all turned scarlet has borne much fruit — small oval bluish berries. See September 7, 1857 ("Measured that large tupelo behind Merriam's which now is covered with green fruit, and its leaves begin to redden."); October 6, 1858 (“The tupelo at Wharf Rock is completely scarlet, with blue berries amid its leaves”)

I detect the sassafras by its peculiar orange scarlet half a mile distant. See September 28, 1854 ("The sassafras trees on the hill are now wholly a bright orange scarlet as seen from my window, and the small ones elsewhere are also changed.")

The conventional acorn of art is of course of no particular species, but the artist might find it worth his while to study Nature’s varieties again. See September 12, 1854 ("[White oak acorns] are small and very neat light-green acorns, with small cups, commonly arranged two by two close together, often with a leaf growing between them");   September 18, 1858 ("The small shrub oak . . .with its pretty acorns striped dark and light alternately. [The black oak acorns also slightly marked thus.]"); November 27, 1858 (""I find scarlet oak acorns like this

in form not essentially different from those of the black oak, except that the scales of the black stand out more loose and bristling about the fruit.); January 19, 1859 ("Gathered a scarlet oak acorn . . .with distinct fine dark stripes or  rays, such as a Quercus ilicifolia has.")

The song sparrow is still about. See September 24, 1854 ("See a song-sparrow-like bird singing a confused low jingle."); September 25, 1854 ("And then I hear some clear song sparrow strains.")

At present the river’s brim is no longer browned with button-bushes. See September 24, 1854 (The button-bushes, which before had attained only a dull mixed yellow, are suddenly bitten, wither, and turn brown, all but the protected parts. . . . The button-bushes thus withered suddenly paint with a rich brown the river’s brim. "); September 25, 1854 ("The button-bush leaves are rapidly falling and covering the ground with a rich brown carpet")

The acorns turned brown 

 fallen or falling – the ground 

now strewn with them. 

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  Acorns now turned brown

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-540930

Seasons of the mind. The off side of summer glistens.

August 7.

It is inspiriting at last to hear the wind whistle and moan about my attic, after so much trivial summer weather, and to feel cool in my thin pants. 

August 7, 1854

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? Do not your thoughts begin to acquire consistency as well as flavor and ripeness? How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of character? 

Already some of my small thoughts — fruit of my spring life — are ripe, like the berries which feed the first broods of birds; and other some are prematurely ripe and bright, like the lower leaves of the herbs which have felt the summer's drought. 

Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio.

I walk over the pinweed-field. It is just cool enough in my thin clothes. 

There is a light on the earth and leaves, as if they were burnished. It is the glistening autumnal side of summer. 

I feel a cool vein in the breeze, which braces my thought, and I pass with pleasure over sheltered and sunny portions of the sand where the summer's heat is undiminished, and I realize what a friend I am losing.

In mid-summer we are of the earth, — confounded with it, — and covered with its dust. Now we begin to erect our selves somewhat and walk upon its surface. I am not so much reminded of former years, as of existence prior to years.

August 7, 2014

This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 7, 1854

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? See August 9, 1854 ("'Walden' published.") See also January 30, 1854 ("The winter was made to concentrate and harden and mature the kernel of [man’s] brain.” )

Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. See August 3, 1852 (" By some fortunate coincidence of thought or circumstance I am attuned to the universe, I am fitted to hear, my being moves in a sphere of melody.”); May 23, 1854 ("There was a time when . . .I sat and listened to my thoughts, and there was a song in them. I sat for hours on rocks and wrestled with the melody which possessed me. . . Think . . . of so living as to be the lyre which the breath of the morning causes to vibrate with that melody which creates worlds.")

Strains . . . surpassing any oratorio. See September 7, 1851 ("My profession is to be always on the alert to find God in nature, to know his lurking-places, to attend all the oratorios, the operas, in nature.”)

This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield. Compare July 28, 1854 (“We postponed the fulfillment of many of our hopes for this year, and, having as it were attained the ridge of the summer, commenced to descend the long slope toward winter, the afternoon and down-hill of the year”); August 5, 1854 ("It is one long acclivity from winter to midsummer and another long declivity from midsummer to winter.")

August 7. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 7

The fruit of my spring

and summer ripens – its seed

hardens within me.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Seasons of the mind

 "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/hdt-540807 

***

Do you not feel the fruit of your spring and summer beginning to ripen, to harden its seed within you? Do not your thoughts begin to acquire consistency as well as flavor and ripeness? How can we expect a harvest of thought who have not had a seed-time of character? Already some of my small thoughts -- fruit of my  spring life -- are ripe, like the berries which feed the first broods of birds; and other some are prematurely ripe and bright, like the lower leaves of the herbs which knave felt the summer's drought. Seasons when our mind is like the strings of a harp which is swept, and we stand and listen. A man may hear strains in his thought far surpassing any oratorio. 

P. M. – To Peter’s, Beck Stow’s, and Walden.

Liatris.

Still autumnal, breezy with a cool vein in the wind; so that, passing from the cool and breezy into the sunny and warm places, you begin to love the heat of summer. It is the contrast of the cool wind with the warm sun.

I walk over the pinweed-field.

It is just cool enough in my thin clothes.

There is a light on the earth and leaves, as if they were burnished.

It is the glistening autumnal side of summer.

I feel a cool vein in the breeze, which braces my thought, and I pass with pleasure over sheltered and sunny portions of the sand where the summer’s heat is undiminished, and I realize what a friend I am losing.

The pinweed does not show its stamens - I mean the L.thymifolia.

It was open probably about July 25.

 This off side of summer glistens like a burnished shield.

The waters now are some degrees cooler. Winds show the under sides of the leaves.

The cool nocturnal creak of the crickets is heard in the mid-afternoon. Tansy is apparently now in its prime, and the early goldenrods have acquired a brighter yellow. 

From this off side of the year, this imbricated slop, with alternating burnished surfaces and shady ledges, much more light and heat are reflected (less absorbed), me thinks than from the springward side. In mid-summer we are of the earth, -confounded with it, - and covered with its dust.

Now we begin to erect ourselves somewhat and walk upon its surface I am not so much reminded of former years, as of existence prior to years.

From Peter’s I look over the Great Meadows.

There are sixty or more men in sight on them, in squads of half a dozen far and near, revealed by their white shirts.

They are alternately lost and reappear from behind a distant clump of trees.

A great part of the farmers of Concord are now in the meadows, and toward night great loads of hay are seen rolling slowly along the river’s bank, — on the firmer ground there, - and perhaps fording the stream itself, toward the distant barn, followed by a troop of tired haymakers.

The very shrub oaks and hazels now look curled and dry in many places.

The bear oak acorns on the former begin to be handsome.

Tansy is in full blaze in some warm, dry places.

 It must be time, methinks, to collect the hazelnuts and dry them; many of their leaves are turned.

 The Jersey tea fruit is blackened.

 The bushy gerardia is apparently out in some places.

 Blueberries pretty thick in Gowing’s Swamp.

 Some have a slightly bitterish taste.

 A wasp stung me at one high blueberry bush on the forefinger of my left hand, just above the second joint.

 It was very venomous; a white spot with the red mark of the sting in the centre, while all the rest of the finger was red, soon showed where I was stung, and the finger soon swelled much below the joint, so that I could not completely close the finger, and the next finger sympathized so much with it that at first there was a little doubt which was stung.

 These insects are effectively weaponed.

 But there was not enough venom to prevail further than the finger.

 Trillium berry.

 

 

Children of the sun.

July 18

Methinks the asters and goldenrods begin, like the early ripening leaves, with midsummer heats.

July 18, 2014

Now look out for these children of the sun, when already the fall of some of the very earliest spring flowers has commenced.

The Island is now dry and shows few flowers. Where I looked for early spring flowers I do not look for midsummer ones. Such places are now parched and withering. 

Blue vervain, apparently a day; one circle is open a little below the top. 

As I go along the Joe Smith road, every bush and bramble bears its fruit; the sides of the road are a fruit garden; blackberries, huckleberries, thimble-berries, fresh and abundant, no signs of drought; all fruits in abundance; the earth teems.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 18, 1854

Methinks the asters and goldenrods begin, like the early ripening leaves, with midsummer heats. See July 15, 1854 ("The stems and leaves of various asters and golden-rods, which ere long will reign along the way, begin to be conspicuous."): July 19, 1851 ("Beyond the bridge there is a goldenrod partially blossomed. . . .Yesterday it was spring, and to-morrow it will be autumn."); July 26, 1853 ("I mark again, about this time when the first asters open. . . This the afternoon of the year."); July 28, 1852 ("Goldenrod and asters have fairly begun; there are several kinds of each out. "); August 30, 1853 ("Why so many asters and goldenrods now?")

Blue vervain, apparently a day; one circle is open a little below the top. See July 17, 1852 ("Verbena hastata, blue vervain. "); August 6, 1852 ("Blue vervain is now very attractive to me, and then there is that interesting progressive history in its rising ring of blossoms. It has a story. ");See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Blue Vervain

All fruits in abundance; the earth teems. See July 18, 1853 ("Now are the days to go a-berrying.")

July 18. See A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Midsummer's deepened shade and
A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 18

With midsummer heats

come asters and goldenrods  –

children of the sun.

A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Children of the sun

A Book of 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

tinyurl.com/hdt-540718b

Midsummer's deepened shade; a sultry, languid debauched look.

July 18

July 18, 2014

A hot midsummer day with a sultry mistiness in the air and shadows on land and water beginning to have a peculiar distinctness and solidity. The river, smooth and still, with a deepened shade of the elms on it, like midnight suddenly revealed, its bed-curtains shoved aside, has a sultry languid look.

The atmosphere now imparts a bluish or glaucous tinge to the distant trees. A certain debauched look. This a crisis in the season. 

After this the foliage of some trees is almost black at a distance. 

I do not know why the water should be so remarkably clear and the sun shine through to the bottom of the river, making it so plain. Methinks the air is not clearer nor the sun brighter, yet the bottom is unusually distinct and obvious in the sun. There seems to be no concealment for the fishes. On all sides, as I float along, the recesses of the water and the bottom are unusually revealed, and I see the fishes and weeds and shells. I look down into the sunny water. 

We have very few bass trees in Concord, but walk near them at this season and they will be betrayed, though several rods off, by the wonderful susurrus of the bees, etc., which their flowers attract. It is worth going a long way to hear. I am warned that I am passing one in two instances on the river, —only two I pass, — by this remarkable sound. At a little distance it is like the sound of a waterfall or of the cars; close at hand like a factory full of looms. They are chiefly humblebees, and the great globose tree is all alive with them. I hear the murmur distinctly fifteen rods off. You will know if you pass within a few rods of a bass tree at this season in any part of the town, by this loud murmur, like a water fall, which proceeds from it.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 18, 1854

A certain debauched look: See June 16, 1852 ("The earth looks like a debauchee after the sultry night") and July 24, 1851 ("Nature is like a hen panting with open mouth, in the grass, as the morning after a debauch.")

After this the foliage of some trees is almost black at a distance. See July 27, 1859 ("Now observe the darker shades, and especially the apple trees, square and round, in the northwest landscape. Dogdayish.")

Bass tree susurrus:  See July 16, 1852 ("The air is full of sweetness. The tree is full of poetry."); July 17, 1856 ("Hear at distance the hum of bees from the bass with its drooping flowers at the Island,. . . It sounds like the rumbling of a distant train of cars.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Basswood

I look down into the sunny water. See July 27, 1860 ("The water has begun to be clear and sunny, revealing the fishes and countless minnows of all sizes and colors”). July 28, 1859 ("The season has now arrived when I begin to see further into the water.");  July 30, 1856 ("The water is suddenly clear.”); August 8, 1859 ("The river, now that it is so clear and sunny, is better than any aquarium. ")

July 18. See A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Children of the sun and A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, July 18

.

Hot midsummer day

a crisis in the season

a deepened black shade

like midnight revealed

by bed-curtains shoved aside.

A Book of Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Midsummer's deepened shade

A Book of 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/hdt-540718a

Thoughts driven inward –The long slope toward winter.

July 15.

July 14, 2014

Rained still in forenoon; now cloudy. Fields comparatively deserted to-day and yesterday. Hay stands cocked in them on all sides. Some, being shorn, are clear for the walker. It is but a short time that he has to dodge the haymakers. 

This cooler, still, cloudy weather after the rain is very autumnal and restorative to our spirits. 

The robin sings still, but the goldfinch twitters over oftener, and I hear the link link of the bobolink, and the crickets creak more as in the fall. All these sounds dispose our minds to serenity.  

We seem to be passing, or to have passed, a dividing line between spring and autumn, and begin to descend the long slope toward winter. 

On the shady side of the hill I go along Hubbard's walls toward the bathing-place, stepping high to keep my feet as dry as may be. 

All is stillness in the fields. My thoughts are driven inward, even as clouds and trees are reflected in the still, smooth water. 

There is an inwardness even in the mosquitoes' hum, while I am picking blueberries in the dank wood.

The stems and leaves of various asters and golden-rods, which ere long will reign along the way, begin to be conspicuous.  

There are many butterflies, yellow and red, about the Asclepias incarnata now. 

Many birds begin to fly in small flocks like grown-up broods. 

Green grapes and cranberries also remind me of the advancing season.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, July 15, 1854

I hear the link link of the bobolink. See July 15, 1856 ("Bobolinks are heard — their link, link — above and amid the tall rue which now whitens the meadows”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Bobolink

We seem to be passing a dividing line between spring and autumn, and begin to descend the long slope toward winter. See   July 19, 1851 ("Yesterday it was spring, and to-morrow it will be autumn. Where is the summer then?");  July 28, 1854 (“Methinks the season culminated about the middle of this month, — that the year was of indefinite promise before, but that, after the first intense heats, we postponed the fulfillment of many of our hopes for this year, and, having as it were attained the ridge of the summer, commenced to descend the long slope toward winter, the afternoon and down-hill of the year.”) 

July 15. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau July 15

Thoughts driven inward –

clouds and trees reflected in

the still, smooth water.

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Thoughts driven inward

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau

"A book, each page written in its own season,

out-of-doors, in its own locality."

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2021

tinyurl.com/hdt540714

The first bluebird - true to season.

March 7.

Most of the snow left on bare, dry level ground consists of the remains of drifts, particularly along fences, — most on the south side.  

It is remarkable how true each plant is to its season. Why should not the fringed gentian put forth early in the spring, instead of holding in till the latter part of September? How short a time it is with us!

Hear the first bluebird, — something like pe-a-wor, — and then other slight warblings, as if farther off. Am surprised to see the bird within seven or eight rods on the top of an oak by the orchard's edge under the hill. But he appears silent, while I hear others faintly warbling and twittering far in the orchard. When he flies I hear no more, and I suspect that he has been ventriloquizing; as if he hardly dare open his mouth yet, while there is so much winter left. 

He revisits the apple trees, and appears to find some worms. Probably not till now is his food to be found abundantly. See some fuzzy gnats in the air.

It is an overcast and moist but rather warm afternoon.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, March 7, 1854

The fringed gentian. See October 19, 1852 ("It is a very singular and agreeable surprise to come upon this conspicuous and handsome and withal blue flower at this season, when flowers have passed out of our minds and memories; the latest of all to begin to bloom.")


Ventriloquist blue bird. See February 27, 1861 ("It occurs to me that I have just heard a bluebird. I stop and listen to hear it again, but cannot tell whither it comes.")

In the leafless November twilight awaiting the onset of the wind.

 November 14

There is a clear air and a strong northwest wind drying up the washed earth after the heavy rain of yesterday. The road looks smooth and white as if washed and swept.

I climb Annursnack. Under this strong wind more dry oak leaves are rattling down. 

All winter is their fall. A distinction is to be made between those trees whose leaves fall as soon as the bright autumnal tints are gone and they are withered and those whose leaves are rustling and falling all winter even into spring.

October is the month of painted leaves, of ripe leaves, when all the earth, not merely flowers, but fruits and leaves, are ripe. With respect to its colors and its season, it is the sunset month of the year, when the earth is painted like the sunset sky. This rich glow flashes round the world. 

November 14, 2020

This light fades into the clear, white, leafless twilight of November, and what ever more glowing sunset or Indian summer we have then is the afterglow of the year.

In October the man is ripe even to his stalk and leaves; he is pervaded by his genius, when all the forest is a universal harvest, whether he possesses the enduring color of the pines, which it takes two years to ripen and wither, or the brilliant color of the deciduous trees, which fade the first fall.

From this hill I am struck with the smoothness and washed appearance of all the landscape. All these russet fields and swells look as if the withered grass had been combed by the flowing water. Not merely the sandy roads, but the fields are swept. All waters — the rivers and ponds and swollen brooks — and many new ones are now seen through the leafless trees — are blue reservoirs of dark indigo amid the general russet and reddish-brown and gray.

October answers to that period in the life of man when he is no longer dependent on his transient moods, when all his experience ripens into wisdom, but every root, branch, leaf of him glows with maturity. What he has been and done in his spring and summer appears. He bears his fruit.

Now for the bare branches of the oak woods, where hawks have nested and owls perched, the sinews of the trees, and the brattling of the wind in their midst. For, now their leaves are off, they've bared their arms, thrown off their coats, and, in the attitude of fencers, await the onset of the wind.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, November 14, 1853

I climb Annursnack. See May 8, 1853 ("They have cut off the woods, and with them the shad-bush, on the top of Annursnack, but laid open new and wider prospects"); September 13, 1858 ("Looking from the top of Annursnack, the aspect of the earth generally is still a fresh green, especially the woods, but many dry fields,. . . are a very pale tawny or lighter still."); October 12, 1857 ("Looking from the Hill . . . I am not sure but the yellow now prevails over the red in the landscape, and even over the green. The general color of the landscape from this hill is now russet, i.e. red, yellow, etc., mingled . . .I can see very plainly the colors of the sproutland, chiefly oak, on Fair Haven Hill, about four miles distant, and also yellows on Mt. Misery, five miles off, also on Pine Hill, and even on Mt. Tabor, indistinctly. November 28, 1860 ("To Annursnack. Looking from the hilltop, I should say that there was more oak woodland than pine to be seen.")

October is the month of painted leaves . . . the sunset month of the year, when the earth is painted like the sunset sky . . . This light fades into the clear, white, leafless twilight of November.  See October 24, 1858 ("Every fruit, on ripening, and just before its fall, acquires a bright tint. So do the leaves; so the sky before the end of the day, and the year near its setting. October is the red sunset sky, November the later twilight.")

What he has been and done in his spring and summer appears. He bears his fruit. See August 18, 1853   ("Now is the season of fruits; but where is our fruit? The night of the year is approaching. What have we done with our talent?")

For, now their leaves are off, they've bared their arms, thrown off their coats, and, in the attitude of fencers, await the onset of the wind. See November 14, 1857 ("This strong and cutting northwest wind makes the oak leaves rustle dryly enough to set your heart on edge.") See also October 29, 1858 ("Nature now, like an athlete, begins to strip herself in earnest for her contest with her great antagonist Winter. In the bare trees and twigs what a display of muscle!")

November 14. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, November 14

October light fades

into the clear white leafless

November twilight.

Now the bare branches

of the oak woods await the

onset of the wind. 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The leafless November twilight 

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-531114

I hear the year falling asleep

August 21

The air within a day or two is quite cool, almost too cool for a thin coat, yet the alternate days are by some reckoned among the warmest in the year. 

Young turkeys are straying in the grass which is alive with grasshoppers. 

August 21, 2016

The bees, wasps, etc. are on the goldenrods, improving their time before the sun of the year sets. 

The leaves of the dogsbane are turning yellow. 

There are as few or fewer birds heard than flowers seen. 

The sound of the crickets gradually prevails more and more. 

August 21, 2020

I hear the year falling asleep.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 21, 1852

Almost too cool for a thin coat. See August 17, 1851 ("For a day or two it has been quite cool, a coolness that was felt even when sitting by an open window in a thin coat on the west side of the house in the morning, and you naturally sought the sun at that hour."); August 18, 1852 ("We have had some pretty cool weather within a week or two, and the evenings generally are cooler. "); September 3, 1852 ("A warm night  A thin coat sufficient."); September 9, 1851 ("A sultry night; a thin coat is enough."); September 14, 1851 ("A great change in the weather from sultry to cold, from one thin coat to a thick coat or two thin ones.")

The grass . . . alive with grasshoppers. See August 21, 1854 ("Have noticed winged grasshoppers or locusts a week or more."); September 4, 1856 ("The crackling flight of grasshoppers. The grass also is all alive with them, and they trouble me by getting into my shoes")

The bees, wasps, etc. are on the goldenrods, improving their time before the sun of the year sets. See August 30, 1859 ("Now that flowers are rarer, almost every one of whatever species has bees or butterflies upon it."); September 9, 1852 ("The goldenrods resound with the hum of bees and other insects."); September 21, 1856 ("[On top of Cliff, behind the big stump] is a great place for white goldenrod, now in its prime and swarming with honey-bees."); September 30, 1852 ("If there are any sweet flowers still lingering on the hillside, it is known to the bees both of the forest and the village"); October 11, 1856 ("The white goldenrod is still common here, and covered with bees."); October 12, 1856 ("It is interesting to see how some of the few flowers which still linger are frequented by bees and other insects. . . .in the garden, I see half a dozen honey bees, many more flies, some wasps, a grasshopper, and a large handsome butterfly. ") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau. Wasps and Hornets and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Bees

The leaves of the dogsbane are turning yellow. See September 26, 1852 ("Dogsbane leaves a clear yellow.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Dogsbane and Indian hemp

There are as few or fewer birds heard than flowers seen. See August 21, 1851 ("The prevailing conspicuous flowers are . . ." ); August 19, 1851 ("This is a world where there are flowers"); August 22, 1853 ("I hear but few notes of birds these days . . . not sounds enough to disturb the general stillness.")

The sound of the crickets gradually prevails more and more. See August 20, 1858 ("There is more shadow in the landscape than a week ago, methinks, and the creak of the cricket sounds cool and steady.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Cricket in August

I hear the year falling asleep. See August 18, 1853 ("The night of the year is approaching . . . How early in the year it begins to be late! . . . The year is full of warnings of its shortness, as is life. "); August 19, 1853 ("The day is an epitome of the year"); August 23, 1853 ("I am again struck by the perfect correspondence of a day — say an August day — and the year. I think that a perfect parallel may be drawn between the seasons of the day and of the year.”)

August 21. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 21

There are as few

or fewer birds heard 

than flowers seen.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, I hear the year falling asleep

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-520821