August 5.
Thursday. 9.30 A. M. — Up river to Pantry Brook.
It clears up this morning after several cool, cloudy, and rainy dog-days. The wind is westerly and will probably blow us part way back.
The river is unusually full for the season, and now quite smooth.
The pontederia is apparently in its prime; the button-bush perhaps a little past, the upper halves of its balls in the sun looking brown generally.
The late rose is still conspicuous, in clumps advanced into the meadow here and there.
See the mikania only in one or two places beginning. The white lilies are less abundant than usual, methinks, perhaps on account of the high water.
The water milkweed flower is an interesting red, here and there, like roses along the shore.
See the mikania only in one or two places beginning. The white lilies are less abundant than usual, methinks, perhaps on account of the high water.
The water milkweed flower is an interesting red, here and there, like roses along the shore.
The gratiola begins to yellow the shore in some places, and I notice the unobtrusive red of dense fields of stachys on the flat shores.
The sium has begun to lift its umbels of white flowers above most other plants.
The purple utricularia tinges the pools in many places, the most common of all its tribe.
The sium has begun to lift its umbels of white flowers above most other plants.
The purple utricularia tinges the pools in many places, the most common of all its tribe.
The best show of lilies is on the west side of the bay, in Cyrus Hosmer’s meadow, above the willow— row. Many of them are not open at 10 o’clock A. M.
I noticed one with the sepals perfectly spread flat on the water, but the petals still held together in a sharp cone, being held by the concave, slightly hooked points. Touching this with an oar, it opens quickly with a spring.
The same with many others, whose sepals were less spread. Under the influence of the light and warmth, the petals elevate or expand themselves in the middle, becoming more and more convex, till at last, being released at their overlapping points, they spring open and quickly spread themselves equally, revealing their yellow stamens.
How satisfactory is the fragrance of this flower! It is the emblem of purity.
It reminds me of a young country maiden. It is just so simple and unproved.
Wholesome as the odor of the cow. It is not a highly refined odor, but merely a fresh youthful morning sweetness.
It is merely the unalloyed sweetness of the earth and the water; a fair opportunity and field for life; like its petals, uncolored by any experience; a simple maiden on her way to school, her face surrounded by a white ruff.
But how quickly it becomes the prey of insects! As we paddle slowly along the edge of the pads, we can see the weeds and the bottom distinctly in the sun, in this still August air, even five or six feet deep, — the countless utricularias, potamogetons, etc., etc., and hornwort standing erect with its reddish stems.
Countless schools of little minnows of various species, chubby little breams not an inch long, and lighter-colored banded minnows are steadily passing, partly concealed by the pads, and ever and anon we see the dimple where some larger pickerel has darted away, for they lie just on the outer edge of the pads.
The foliage is apparently now in the height of its beauty, this wet year, now dense enough to hide the trunks and stems.
The black willows are perhaps in their best condition, —airy, rounded masses of light green rising one above another, with a few slender black stems, like umbrella handles, seen here and there in their midst, low spreading cumuli of slender falcate leaves, buttressed by smaller sallows, button-bushes, cornels, and pontederias, ——like long green clouds or wreaths of vapor resting on the riverside.
They scarcely leave the impression of leaves, but rather of a low, swelling, rounded bank, even as the heaviest particles of alluvium are deposited nearest the channel.
It is a peculiarity of this, which I think is our most interesting willow, that you rarely see the trunk and yet the foliage is never dense. They generally line one side of the river only, and that is the meadow, a concave, passive, female side.
They resound still with the sprightly twitter of the kingbird, that aerial and spirited bird hovering over them, swallow-like, which loves best, methinks, to fly where the sky is reflected beneath him.
Also now from time to time you hear the chattering of young blackbirds or the link of bobolinks there, or see the great bittem flap slowly away.
The kingbird, by his activity and lively note and his white breast, keeps the air sweet. He sits now on a dead willow twig, akin to the flecks of mackerel sky, or its reflection in the water, or the white clamshell, wrong side out, opened by a musquash, or the fine particles of white quartz that may be found in the muddy river’s sand.
He is here to give a voice to all these.
The willow’s dead twig is aerial perch enough for him. Even the swallows deign to perch on it.
I noticed one with the sepals perfectly spread flat on the water, but the petals still held together in a sharp cone, being held by the concave, slightly hooked points. Touching this with an oar, it opens quickly with a spring.
The same with many others, whose sepals were less spread. Under the influence of the light and warmth, the petals elevate or expand themselves in the middle, becoming more and more convex, till at last, being released at their overlapping points, they spring open and quickly spread themselves equally, revealing their yellow stamens.
How satisfactory is the fragrance of this flower! It is the emblem of purity.
It reminds me of a young country maiden. It is just so simple and unproved.
Wholesome as the odor of the cow. It is not a highly refined odor, but merely a fresh youthful morning sweetness.
It is merely the unalloyed sweetness of the earth and the water; a fair opportunity and field for life; like its petals, uncolored by any experience; a simple maiden on her way to school, her face surrounded by a white ruff.
But how quickly it becomes the prey of insects! As we paddle slowly along the edge of the pads, we can see the weeds and the bottom distinctly in the sun, in this still August air, even five or six feet deep, — the countless utricularias, potamogetons, etc., etc., and hornwort standing erect with its reddish stems.
Countless schools of little minnows of various species, chubby little breams not an inch long, and lighter-colored banded minnows are steadily passing, partly concealed by the pads, and ever and anon we see the dimple where some larger pickerel has darted away, for they lie just on the outer edge of the pads.
The foliage is apparently now in the height of its beauty, this wet year, now dense enough to hide the trunks and stems.
The black willows are perhaps in their best condition, —airy, rounded masses of light green rising one above another, with a few slender black stems, like umbrella handles, seen here and there in their midst, low spreading cumuli of slender falcate leaves, buttressed by smaller sallows, button-bushes, cornels, and pontederias, ——like long green clouds or wreaths of vapor resting on the riverside.
They scarcely leave the impression of leaves, but rather of a low, swelling, rounded bank, even as the heaviest particles of alluvium are deposited nearest the channel.
It is a peculiarity of this, which I think is our most interesting willow, that you rarely see the trunk and yet the foliage is never dense. They generally line one side of the river only, and that is the meadow, a concave, passive, female side.
They resound still with the sprightly twitter of the kingbird, that aerial and spirited bird hovering over them, swallow-like, which loves best, methinks, to fly where the sky is reflected beneath him.
Also now from time to time you hear the chattering of young blackbirds or the link of bobolinks there, or see the great bittem flap slowly away.
The kingbird, by his activity and lively note and his white breast, keeps the air sweet. He sits now on a dead willow twig, akin to the flecks of mackerel sky, or its reflection in the water, or the white clamshell, wrong side out, opened by a musquash, or the fine particles of white quartz that may be found in the muddy river’s sand.
He is here to give a voice to all these.
The willow’s dead twig is aerial perch enough for him. Even the swallows deign to perch on it.
These willows appear to grow best on elevated sand-bars or deep sandy banks, which the stream has brought down, leaving a little meadow behind them, at some bend, often mixed with sawdust from a mill. They root themselves firmly here, and spread entirely over the sand.
The rose, which grows along with the willows and button-bushes, has a late and rare look now.
From off Rainbow Rush Shore I pluck a lily more than five inches in diameter.
Its sepals and petals are long and slender or narrow (others are Often short, broad, and rounded); the thin white edges of the four sepals are, as usual, or often, tinged with red.
There are some twenty-five petals in about four rows. Four alternate ones of the outmost row have a reddish or rosaceous line along the middle between the sepals, and both the sepals and the outmost row of petals have seven or eight parallel darkish lines from base to tip.
As you look down on the lily, it is a pure white star centred with yellow, — with its short central anthers orange yellow.
The Scirpus lacustris and rainbow rush are still in bloom and going to seed.
The first is the tule of California. Landed at Fair Haven Pond to smell the Aster macro phyllus. It has a slight fragrance, somewhat like that of the Maine and northern New Hampshire one. Why has it no more in this latitude? When I first plucked it on Webster Stream I did not know but it was some fragrant garden herb. Here I can detect some faint relationship only by perseveringly smelling it.
The rose, which grows along with the willows and button-bushes, has a late and rare look now.
From off Rainbow Rush Shore I pluck a lily more than five inches in diameter.
Its sepals and petals are long and slender or narrow (others are Often short, broad, and rounded); the thin white edges of the four sepals are, as usual, or often, tinged with red.
There are some twenty-five petals in about four rows. Four alternate ones of the outmost row have a reddish or rosaceous line along the middle between the sepals, and both the sepals and the outmost row of petals have seven or eight parallel darkish lines from base to tip.
As you look down on the lily, it is a pure white star centred with yellow, — with its short central anthers orange yellow.
The Scirpus lacustris and rainbow rush are still in bloom and going to seed.
The first is the tule of California. Landed at Fair Haven Pond to smell the Aster macro phyllus. It has a slight fragrance, somewhat like that of the Maine and northern New Hampshire one. Why has it no more in this latitude? When I first plucked it on Webster Stream I did not know but it was some fragrant garden herb. Here I can detect some faint relationship only by perseveringly smelling it.
The purple utricularia is the flower of the river to-day, apparently in its prime. It is very abundant, far more than any other utricularia, especially from Fair Haven Pond upward.
That peculiar little bay in the pads, just below the inlet of the river, I will call Purple Utricularia Bay, from its prevalence there. I count a dozen within a square foot, one or two inches above the water, and they tinge the pads with purple for more than a dozen rods.
I can distinguish their color thus far. The buds are the darkest or deepest purple. Methinks it is more abundant than usual this year.
I notice a commotion in the pads there, as of a musquash making its way along, close beneath the surface, and at its usual rate, when suddenly a snap ping turtle puts its snout out, only up to the eyes. It looks exactly like a sharp stake with two small knots on it, thus:
While passing there, I heard what I should call my night-warbler’s note, and, looking up, saw the bird drop ping to a bush on the hillside: Looking through the glass, I saw that it was the Maryland yellow-throat! ! and it afterward flew to the button-bushes in the meadow.
I notice no polygonum out, or a little of the front-rank only. Some of the polygonums not only have leaves like a willow, especially like the S. lucida, but I see that their submerged leaves turn, or give place, to fibrous pink roots which might be mistaken for those of the willow.
Lily Bay is on the left, just above the narrow place in the river, which is just above Bound Rock. There are but few lilies this year, however; but if you wish to see how many there are, you must be on the side toward the sun.
Just opposite this bay, I heard a peculiar note which I thought at first might be that of a kingbird, but soon saw for the first time a wren within two or three rods perched on the tall sedge or the wool-grass and making it, —— probably the short-billed marsh wren.
It was peculiarly brisk and rasping, not at all musical, the rhythm something like shar te dittle ittle ittle ittle ittle, but the last part was drier or less liquid than this implies. It was a small bird, quite dark above and apparently plain ashy white beneath, and held its head up when it sang, and also commonly its tail. It dropped into the deep sedge - on our approach, but did not go off, as we saw by the motion of the grass; then reappeared and uttered its brisk notes quite near us, and, flying off, was lost in the sedge again.
We ate our dinner on the hill by Rice’s.
This forenoon there were no hayers in the meadow, but before we returned we saw many at work, for they had already cut some grass next to the upland, on the drier sides of the meadow, and we noticed where they had stuck up green bushes near the riverside to mow to.
While bathing at Rice’s landing, I noticed under my arm, amid the potamogeton, a little pickerel between two and a half and three inches long, with a little silvery minnow about one inch long in his mouth. He held it by the tail, as it was jerking to and fro, and was slowly taking it in by jerks.
I watched to see if he turned it, but to my surprise he at length ... lyallowed it tail fore most, the minnow struggling to the last and going alive into his maw. Perhaps the pickerel learn by experience to turn them head downward.
Thus early do these minnows fall on fate, and the pickerel too fulfill his destiny.
Several times on our return we scared up apparently two summer ducks, probably of this year, from the side of the river, first, in each case, seeing them swimming about in the pads; also, once, a great bittern, — I suspect also a this year’s bird, for they are probably weaned at the same time with the green one.
Though the river was high, we pushed through many beds of potamogeton, long leafy masses, slanting down ward and waving steadily in the stream, ten feet or more in length by a foot wide.
In some places it looked as if the new sparganium would fairly choke up the stream.
Huckleberries are not quite yet in their prime.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 5, 1858
That peculiar little bay in the pads, just below the inlet of the river, I will call Purple Utricularia Bay, from its prevalence there. I count a dozen within a square foot, one or two inches above the water, and they tinge the pads with purple for more than a dozen rods.
I can distinguish their color thus far. The buds are the darkest or deepest purple. Methinks it is more abundant than usual this year.
I notice a commotion in the pads there, as of a musquash making its way along, close beneath the surface, and at its usual rate, when suddenly a snap ping turtle puts its snout out, only up to the eyes. It looks exactly like a sharp stake with two small knots on it, thus:
While passing there, I heard what I should call my night-warbler’s note, and, looking up, saw the bird drop ping to a bush on the hillside: Looking through the glass, I saw that it was the Maryland yellow-throat! ! and it afterward flew to the button-bushes in the meadow.
I notice no polygonum out, or a little of the front-rank only. Some of the polygonums not only have leaves like a willow, especially like the S. lucida, but I see that their submerged leaves turn, or give place, to fibrous pink roots which might be mistaken for those of the willow.
Lily Bay is on the left, just above the narrow place in the river, which is just above Bound Rock. There are but few lilies this year, however; but if you wish to see how many there are, you must be on the side toward the sun.
Just opposite this bay, I heard a peculiar note which I thought at first might be that of a kingbird, but soon saw for the first time a wren within two or three rods perched on the tall sedge or the wool-grass and making it, —— probably the short-billed marsh wren.
It was peculiarly brisk and rasping, not at all musical, the rhythm something like shar te dittle ittle ittle ittle ittle, but the last part was drier or less liquid than this implies. It was a small bird, quite dark above and apparently plain ashy white beneath, and held its head up when it sang, and also commonly its tail. It dropped into the deep sedge - on our approach, but did not go off, as we saw by the motion of the grass; then reappeared and uttered its brisk notes quite near us, and, flying off, was lost in the sedge again.
We ate our dinner on the hill by Rice’s.
This forenoon there were no hayers in the meadow, but before we returned we saw many at work, for they had already cut some grass next to the upland, on the drier sides of the meadow, and we noticed where they had stuck up green bushes near the riverside to mow to.
While bathing at Rice’s landing, I noticed under my arm, amid the potamogeton, a little pickerel between two and a half and three inches long, with a little silvery minnow about one inch long in his mouth. He held it by the tail, as it was jerking to and fro, and was slowly taking it in by jerks.
I watched to see if he turned it, but to my surprise he at length ... lyallowed it tail fore most, the minnow struggling to the last and going alive into his maw. Perhaps the pickerel learn by experience to turn them head downward.
Thus early do these minnows fall on fate, and the pickerel too fulfill his destiny.
Several times on our return we scared up apparently two summer ducks, probably of this year, from the side of the river, first, in each case, seeing them swimming about in the pads; also, once, a great bittern, — I suspect also a this year’s bird, for they are probably weaned at the same time with the green one.
Though the river was high, we pushed through many beds of potamogeton, long leafy masses, slanting down ward and waving steadily in the stream, ten feet or more in length by a foot wide.
In some places it looked as if the new sparganium would fairly choke up the stream.
Huckleberries are not quite yet in their prime.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 5, 1858
August 5. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, August 5
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
