As deep as any time , this year.

March 7. 

P. M. - Measured snow on account of snow which fell 2d and 4th. West of railroad, 16+; east of railroad, 16; average, say 16+; Trillium Wood, 21. 

Probably quite as deep as any time before, this year. 

There are still two or more inches of ice next the ground in open land. I may say that there has not been less than sixteen inches of snow on a level in open land since January 13th. 

My stick entered the earth in some cases in the wood, as it has not done before. There has been some thawing under the snow.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, March 7, 1856

There has not been less than sixteen inches of snow on a level in open land since January 13th. See March 9, 1856 ("sixteen inches of snow on a level in open fields, hard and dry, ice in Flint’s Pond two feet thick, and the aspect of the earth is that of the middle of January in a severe winter."); March 19, 1856 ("This depth it must have preserved, owing to the remarkably cold weather . . . So it chances that the snow was constantly sixteen inches deep, at least, on a level in open land, from January 13th to March 13th")

We have had no thaw yet

January 15 .

More snow last night, and still the first that fell remains on the ground.

Rice thinks that it is two feet deep on a level now.

We have had no thaw yet.

Rice tells me that he baits the "seedees" and the jays and crows to his door nowadays with corn.

He thinks he has seen one of these jays stow away some where, without swallowing, as many as a dozen grains of corn, for, after picking it up, it will fly up into a tree near by and deposit so many successively in different crevices before it descends.

Speaking of Roman wormwood springing up abundantly when a field which has been in grass for twenty years or more is plowed, Rice says that, if you carefully examine such a field before it is plowed, you will find very short and stinted specimens of wormwood and pigweed there, and remarkably full of seed too!

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 15, 1861

I wish to get on to a hill to look down on the winter landscape.

January 2. 

The trees are white with a hoar frost this morning, small leafets, a tenth of an inch long, on every side of the twigs. They look like ghosts of trees.

Took a walk on snow-shoes at 9 A. M. to Hubbard's Grove.

A flock of snow buntings flew over the fields with a rippling whistle, accompanied sometimes by a tender peep and a ricochet motion.

P. M. - - Up Union Turnpike.

The tints of the sunset sky are never purer and ethereal than in the coldest winter days. This evening, though the colors are not brilliant, the sky is crystalline and the pale fawn-tinged clouds are very beautiful.

I wish to get on to a hill to look down on the winter landscape.

We go about these days as if we had fetters on our feet. We walk in the stocks, stepping into the holes made by our predecessors.

I noticed yesterday that the damp snow, falling gently without wind on the top of front-yard posts, had quite changed the style of their architecture, -- to the dome style of the East, a four-sided base becoming a dome at top.

I observe other revelations made by the snow.

The team and driver have long since gone by, but I see the marks of his whip-lash on the snow, -- its re coil, — but alas ! these are not a complete tally of the strokes which fell upon the oxen's back. The unmerciful driver thought perchance that no one saw him, but unwittingly he recorded each blow on the unspotted snow behind his back as in the book of life. To more searching eyes the marks of his lash are in the air.

I paced partly through the pitch pine wood and partly the open field from the Turnpike by the Lee place to the railroad, from north to south, more than a quarter of a mile, measuring at every tenth pace. The average of sixty-five measurements, up hill and down, was nine teen inches; this after increasing those in the woods by one inch each (little enough) on account of the snow on the pines.

So that, apparently, it has settled about as much as the two last snows amount to. I think there has been but little over two feet at any one time.

I think that one would have to pace a mile on a north and south line, up and down hill, through woods and fields, to get a quite reliable result. The snow will drift sometimes the whole width of a field, and fill a road or valley beyond. So that it would be well that your measuring included several such driftings.

There is very little reliance to put on the usual estimates of the depth of snow. I have heard different men set this snow at six, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-four, thirty-six, and forty-eight inches.

My snow-shoes sank about four inches into the snow this morning, but more than twice as much the 29th.

On north side the railroad, above the red house crossing, the cars have cut through a drift about a quarter of a mile long and seven to nine feet high, straight up and down. It reminds me of the Highlands, the Pictured Rocks, the side of an iceberg, etc. Now that the sun has just sunk below the horizon, it is wonderful what an amount of soft light [ it ] appears to be absorbing. There appears to be more day just here by its side than anywhere. I can almost see into [ it ] six inches. It is made translucent, it is so saturated with light.

I have heard of one precious stone found in Concord, the cinnamon stone.  A geologist has spoken of it as found in this town, and a farmer has described to me one which he once found, perhaps the same referred to by the other.  He said it was as large as a brick, and as thick, and yet you could distinguish a pin through it, it was so transparent.

If not a mountain of light, it was a brickbatful, at any rate.


H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 2, 1854

A flock of snow buntings. See January 2, 1856 ("They are pretty black, with white wings and a brown crescent on their breasts. They have come with this deeper snow and colder weather.");  December 29, 1853 ("These are the true winter birds . . . these winged snowballs."); January 6, 1856 ("While I am making a path to the pump, I hear hurried rippling notes of birds, look up, and see quite a flock of snow buntings coming to alight amid the currant-tops in the yard. It is a sound almost as if made with their wings.”); January 6, 1859 (“They made notes when they went,—sharp, rippling, like a vibrating spring.”) See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Snow Bunting

I wish to get on to a hill to look down on the winter landscape. See May 3, 1852 (“How cheering and glorious any landscape viewed from an eminence!”); December 31, 1854 ("How glorious the perfect stillness and peace of the winter landscape!"); December 21, 1855 ("A few simple colors now prevail."); December 9, 1856 ("A bewitching stillness reigns through all the woodland and over the snow-clad landscape.”)

I have heard different men set this snow at six, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-four, thirty-six, and forty-eight inches. See January 12, 1856 ("Though the snow is only ten inches deep on a level, farmers affirm that it is two feet deep, confidently.")

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  January 2.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

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

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

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2023

Another fine day.

April 9, 2016

April 9.

7 A. M. —To Trillium Woods. Air full of birds. 

The line I have measured west of railroad is now just bare of snow, though a broad and deep bank of it lies between that line and the railroad. East of railroad has been bare some time. The line in Trillium Woods is apparently just bare also. There is just about as much snow in these woods now as in the meadows and fields around generally; i. e., it is confined to the coldest sides, as in them. There is not so much as on the east side of Lee’s Hill. It is toward the north and east sides of the wood. Hence, apparently, in a level wood of this character the snow lies no longer than in adjacent fields divided by fences, etc., or even without them. 

The air is full of birds, and as I go down the causeway, I distinguish the seringo note. You have only to come forth each morning to be surely advertised of each newcomer into these broad meadows. 

Many a larger animal might be concealed, but a cunning ear detects the arrival of each new species of bird. 

These birds give evidence that they prefer the fields of New England to all other climes, deserting for them the warm and fertile south. Here is their paradise. It is here they express the most happiness by song and action. Though these spring mornings may often be frosty and rude, they are exactly tempered to their constitutions, and call forth the sweetest strains. 

The yellow birch sap has flowed abundantly, probably before the white birch. 

8 A. M. — By boat to V. palmata  Swamp for white birch sap. Leave behind greatcoat. 

The waters have stolen higher still in the night around the village, bathing higher its fences and its dry withered grass stems with a dimple. See that broad, smooth vernal lake, like a painted lake. Not a breath disturbs it. The sun and warmth and smooth water and birds make it a carnival of Nature’s.

How much would be subtracted from the day if the water was taken away! This liquid transparency, of melted snows partially warmed, spread over the russet surface of the earth! It is certainly important that there be some priests, some worshippers of Nature. I do not imagine anything going on to-day away from and out of sight of the waterside. 

Early aspen catkins have curved downward an inch, and began to shed pollen apparently yesterday. White maples also, the sunny sides of clusters and sunny sides of trees in favorable localities, shed pollen to-day. 

I hear the note of a lark amid the other birds on the meadow. For two or three days, have heard delivered often and with greater emphasis the loud, clear, sweet phebe note of the chickadee, elicited by the warmth.

Cut across Hosmer’s meadow from Island to Black Oak Creek, where the river, still rising, is breaking over with a rush and a rippling. Paddle quite to the head of Pinxter Swamp, where were two black ducks amid the maples, which went off with a hoarse quacking, leaving a feather on the smooth dark water amid the fallen tree-tops and over the bottom of red leaves. 

Set two sumach spouts in a large white birch in the southward swamp, and hung a tin pail to them, and set off to find a yellow birch. Wandering over that high huck-leberry pasture, I hear the sweet jingle of the Fringilla juncorum.

In a leafy pool in the low wood toward the river, hear a rustling, and see yellow-spot tortoises dropping off an islet, into the dark, stagnant water, and four or five more lying motionless on the dry leaves of the shore and of islets about. Their spots are not very conspicuous out of water, and in most danger. 

The warmth of the day has penetrated into these low, swampy woods on the northwest of the hill and awakened the tortoises from their winter sleep. These are the only kind of tortoise I have seen this year. Probably because the river did not rise earlier, and the brooks, and thaw them out. When I looked about, I saw the shining black backs of four or five still left, and when I threw snowballs at them, they would not move. Yet from time to time I walk four or five rods over deep snow-banks, slumping in on the north and east sides of hills and woods. Apparently they love to feel the sun on their shells. 

As I walk in the woods where the dry leaves are just laid bare, I see the bright-red berries of the Solomon’s seal still here and there above the leaves, affording food, no doubt, for some creatures. 

Not finding the birches, I return to the first swamp and tap two more white birches. They flow generally faster than the red or white maples.  

I sit on a rock in the warm, sunny swamp, where the ground is bare, and wait for my vessels to be filled. It is perfectly warm and perhaps drier than ever here.

The great butterflies, black with buff-edged wings, are fluttering about, and flies are buzzing over this rock. The spathes of the skunk-cabbage stand thickly amid the dead leaves, the only obvious sign of vegetable life. 

A few rods off I hear some sparrows busily scratching the floor of the swamp, uttering a faint iseep iseep and from time to time a sweet strain. It is probably the fox-colored sparrow. These always feed thus, I think, in woody swamps, a flock of them - rapidly advancing, flying before one another, through the swamp. 

A robin peeping at a distance is mistaken for a hyla. 

A gun fired at a muskrat on the other side of the island towards the village sounds like planks thrown down from a scaffold, borne over the water. 

Meanwhile I hear the sap dropping into my pail. The birch sap flows thus copiously before there is any other sign of life in the tree, the buds not visibly swollen. Yet the aspen, though in bloom, shows no sap when I cut it, nor does the alder. Will their sap flow later? Probably this birch sap, like the maple, flows little if any at night. It is remarkable that this dead-looking trunk should observe such seasons, that a stock should distinguish between day and night. 

When I return to my boat, I see the snow-fleas like powder, in patches on the surface of the smooth water, amid the twigs and leaves. 

I have paddled far into the swamp amid the willows and maples. The flood has reached and upset, and is floating off the chopper’s corded wood. Little did he think of this thief. 

It is quite hazy to-day. 

The red-wing’s o’gurgle-ee-e is in singular harmony with the sound and impression of the lapsing stream or the smooth, swelling flood beneath his perch. He gives expression to the flood. The water reaches far in amid the trees on which he sits, and they seem like a water-organ played on by the flood. The sound rises up through their pipes. 

There is no wind, and the water is perfectly smooth, —a Sabbath stillness till 11 A. M. We have had scarcely any wind for a month. 

Now look out for fires in the woods, for the leaves are never so dry and ready to burn as now. The snow is no sooner gone, —nay, it may still cover the north and west sides of hills, — when a day or two’s sun and wind will prepare the leaves to catch at the least spark. In deed these are such leaves as have never yet been wet, as have blown about and collected in heaps on the snow, and they would burn there in midwinter, though the fire could not spread much. 

If the ground were covered with snow, would any degree of warmth produce a blue haze like this? 

But such a fire can only run up the south and southwest sides of hills at this season. It will stop at the summit and not advance forward far, nor descend at all toward the north and east. 

P. M. —Up railroad. A very warm day. 

The Alnus incana, especially by the railroad opposite the oaks, sheds pollen. 

At the first-named alder saw a striped snake, which probably I had scared into the water from the warm railroad bank, its head erect as it lay on the bottom and swaying back and forth with the waves, which were quite high, though considerably above it. I stood there five minutes at least, and probably it could remain there an indefinite period. 

The wind has now risen, a warm, but pretty stormy southerly wind, and is breaking up those parts of the river which were yet closed. The great mass of ice at Willow Bay has drifted down against the railroad bridge. 

I see no ducks, and it is too windy for muskrat-shooters. In a leafy pond by railroad, which will soon dry up, I see large skater insects, where the snow is not all melted. 

The willow catkins there near the oaks show the red of their scales at the base of the catkins dimly through their down, —a warm crimson glow or blush. They are an inch long, others about as much advanced but rounded. They will perhaps blossom by day after to morrow, and the hazels on the hillside beyond as soon at least, if not sooner. They are loose and begin to dangle. The stigmas already peep out, minute crimson stars. 

The skaters are as forward to play on the first smooth and melted pool, as boys on the first piece of ice in the winter. It must be cold to their feet. 

I go off a little to the right of the railroad, and sit on the edge of that sand-crater near the spring by the railroad. Sitting there on the warm bank, above the broad, shallow, crystalline pool, on the sand, amid russet banks of curled early sedge-grass, showing a little green at base, and dry leaves, I hear one hyla peep faintly several times. This is, then, a degree of warmth suflicient for the hyla. He is the first of his race to awaken to the new year and pierce the solitudes with his voice. He shall wear the medal for this year. You hear him, but you will never find him. He is somewhere down amid the withered sedge and alder bushes there quarter his shrill blast sounded, but he is silent, and a kingdom will not buy it again. 

The communications from the gods to us are still deep and sweet, indeed, but scanty and transient,—enough only to keep alive the memory of the past.

I remarked how many old people died off on the approach of the present spring. It is said that when the sap begins to flow in the trees our diseases become more violent. It is now advancing toward summer apace, and we seem to be reserved to taste its sweetness, but to perform what great deeds? Do we detect the reason why we also did not die on the approach of spring? 

I measure a white oak stump, just sawed off, by  the railroad there, averaging just two feet in diameter with one hundred and forty-two rings; another, near by, an inch and a half broader, had but one hundred and five rings. 

While I am looking at the hazel, I hear from the old locality, the edge of the great pines and oaks in the swamp by the railroad, the note of the pine warbler. It sounds far off and faint, but, coming out and sitting on the iron rail, I am surprised to see it within three or four rods, on the upper part of a white oak, where it is busily catching insects, hopping along toward the extremities of the limbs and looking off on all sides, twice darting off like a wood pewee, two rods, over the railroad, after an insect and returning to the oak, and from time to time uttering its simple, rapidly iterated, cool-sounding notes. When heard a little within the wood, as he hops to that side of the oak, they sound particularly cool and inspiring, like a part of the ever green forest itself, the trickling of the sap. Its bright yellow or golden throat and breast, etc., are conspicuous at this season, — a greenish yellow above, with two white bars on its bluish-brown wings. It sits often with loose-hung wings and forked tail. 

Meanwhile a bluebird sits on the same oak, three rods off, pluming its wings. I hear faintly the warbling of one, apparently a quarter of a mile off, and am very slow to detect that it is even this one before me, which, in the intervals of pluming itself, is apparently practicing in an incredibly low voice. 

The water on the meadows now, looking with the sun, is a far deeper and more exciting blue than the heavens. 

The thermometer at 5 P. M. is 66°+, and it has probably been 70° or more; and the last two days have been nearly as warm. This degree of heat, then, brings the Fringilla juncorum and pine warbler and awakes the hyla.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, April 9, 1856

I hear from the old locality, the edge of the great pines and oaks in the swamp by the railroad, the note of the pine warbler. It sounds far off and faint, but, coming out and sitting on the iron rail, I am surprised to see it within three or four rods . . . See April 9, 1853 (“On a pitch pine on side of J. Hosmer's river hill, a pine warbler, by ventriloquism sounding farther off than it was. . .”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,  the Pine Warbler.

The great butterflies, black with buff-edged wings, are fluttering about.  See April 9, 1853 ("You see the buff-edged . . . in warm, sunny southern exposures on the edge of woods or sides of rocky hills and cliffs, above dry leaves and twigs, where the wood has been lately cut and there are many dry leaves and twigs about.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Buff-edged Butterfly

These are the only kind of tortoise I have seen this year. Probably because the river did not rise earlier. See April 1, 1858 ("It is evident that the date of the first general revival of the turtles, excepting such as are generally seen in ditches, i. e. the yellow-spotted, depends on the state of the river, whether it is high or low in the spring.")

The Alnus incana, especially by the railroad opposite the oaks, sheds pollen. See April 9, 1852 ("Observe the Alnus incana, which is distinguished from the common by the whole branchlet hanging down, so that the sterile aments not only are but appear terminal, and by the brilliant polished reddish green of the bark, and by the leaves."); See also April 8, 1855 ("I find also at length a single catkin of the Alnus incana, with a few stamens near the peduncle discolored and shedding a little dust when shaken; so this must have begun yesterday, . . .Though I have looked widely, I have not found the alder out before. ") and A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Alders

A striped snake, . . ., its head erect as it lay on the bottom and swaying back and forth with the waves. .See  April 26, 1857 (“. . . very large striped snake swimming . . . with great ease, and lifts its head a foot above the water, darting its tongue at us.”)  See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau,   The Striped Snake

The water on the meadows now, looking with the sun, is a far deeper and more exciting blue than the heavens. See April 9, 1859 ("For three weeks past, when I have looked northward toward the flooded meadows they have looked dark-blue or blackish, in proportion as the day was clear and the wind high from the northwest, making high waves and much shadow"); See also  March 5, 1854 ("And for the first time I see the water looking blue on the meadows.")'; March 29, 1852 ("The water on the meadows looks very dark from the street. Their color depends on the position of the beholder in relation to the direction of the wind."); April 5, 1856 ("The first sight of the blue water in the spring is exhilarating."); and  A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Blue waters in Spring

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

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau. Another Fine Day

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-560409

The eternity which I detect in Nature I predicate of myself also.

March 23

P. M. — To Walden. 

The sugar maple sap flows, and for aught I know is as early as the red. 

I think I may say that the snow has been not less than a foot deep on a level in open land until to-day, since January 6th, about eleven weeks. It probably begins to be less, about this date. The bare ground begins to appear where the snow is worn in the street. It has been steadily melting since March 13th, the thermometer rising daily to 40 and 45 at noon, but no rain. 

The east side of the Deep Cut is nearly bare, as is the railroad itself, and, on the driest parts of the sandy slope, I go looking for Cicindela, -- to see it run or fly amid the sere blackberry vines, -- some life which the warmth of the dry sand under the spring sun has called forth; but I see none. 

I am reassured and reminded that I am the heir of eternal inheritances which are inalienable, when I feel the warmth reflected from this sunny bank, and see the yellow sand and the reddish subsoil, and hear some dried leaves rustle and the trickling of melting snow in some sluiceway. 

The eternity which I detect in Nature I predicate of myself also. How many springs I have had this same experience! I am encouraged, for I recognize this steady persistency and recovery of Nature as a quality of myself.  

The first places which I observe to be bare now, though the snow is generally so deep still, are the steep hillsides facing the south, as the side of the Cut (though it looks not south exactly) and the slope of Heywood’s Peak toward the pond, also under some trees in a meadow (there is less snow there on account of eddy, and apparently the tree absorbs heat), or a ridge in the same place. 

Almost the whole of the steep hillside on the north of Walden is now bare and dry and warm, though fenced in with ice and snow. It has attracted partridges, four of which whir away on my approach.

There the early sedge is exposed, and, looking closer, I observe that it has been sheared off close down, when green, far and wide, and the fallen withered tops are little handfuls of hay by their sides, which have been covered by the snow and sometimes look as if they had served as nests for the mice, —for their green droppings are left in them abundantly, yet not such plain nests as in the grainfield last spring, — probably the Mus leucopus, — and the Wintergreen and the sere pennyroyal still retain some fragrance. 

As I return on the railroad, at the crossing beyond the shanty, hearing a rustling, I see a striped squirrel amid the sedge on the bare east bank, twenty feet distant. After observing me a few moments, as I stand perfectly still between the rails, he runs straight up to within three feet of me, out of curiosity; then, after a moment’s pause, and looking up to my face, turns back and finally crosses the railroad. All the red is on his rump and hind quarters. When running he carries his tail erect, as he scratched up the snowy bank. 

Now then the steep south hillsides begin to be bare, and the early sedge and sere, but still fragrant, penny royal and rustling leaves are exposed, and you see where the mice have sheared off the sedge and also made nests of its top during the winter. There, too, the partridges resort, and perhaps you hear the bark of a striped squirrel, and see him scratch toward his hole, rustling the leaves. 

For all the inhabitants of nature are attracted by this bare and dry spot, as well as you.

The muskrat-houses were certainly very few and small last summer, and the river has been remarkably low up to this time, while, the previous fall, they were very numerous and large, and in the succeeding winter the river rose remarkably high. So much for the muskrat sign. 

The bare ground just begins to appear in a few spots in the road in middle of the town.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, March 23, 1856

I am reassured and reminded that I am the heir of eternal inheritances which are inalienable, when I feel the warmth reflected from this sunny bank,. . . How many springs I have had this same experience! See March 15, 1852 ("This afternoon I throw off my outside coat. A mild spring day. The air is full of bluebirds. The ground almost entirely bare . . .I lean over a rail to hear what is in the air, liquid with the bluebirds' warble. My life partakes of infinity.")

Hear some dried leaves rustle and the trickling of melting snow. See February 21, 1855 ("When the leaves on the forest floor are dried, and begin to rustle under such a sun and wind as these, . . .I realize what was incredible to me before, that there is a new life in Nature beginning to awake, that . . . another spring is approaching."); March 7, 1859 ("I walk, these first mild spring days, with my coat thrown open, stepping over tinkling rills of melting snow, excited by the sight of the bare ground"); March 18, 1858 ("The note of the first bluebird in the air answers to the purling rill of melted snow beneath."); March 16, 1858 ("The laws, perchance, by which the world was made, and according to which the systems revolve, are seen in full operation in a rill of melted snow")

The eternity which I detect in Nature I predicate of myself also . . . for I recognize this steady persistency and recovery of Nature as a quality of myself. See November 10, 1854 ("Nature is prepared for an infinity of springs yet."); February 27, 1852 (" If rivers come out of their icy prison thus bright and immortal, shall not I too resume my spring life with joy and hope?")

Almost the whole of the steep hillside on the north of Walden is now bare and dry and warm, It has attracted partridges, four of which whir away on my approach. See March 15, 1857 ("At Heywood’s Peak, I start partridges from the perfectly bare hillside. Such the spots they frequent at this season. ") See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Partridge

The early sedge . . .  look as if they had served as nests for the mice, —for their green droppings are left in them abundantly. . . yet not such plain nests as in the grainfield last spring.  See March 13, 1855 ("Coming through the stubble of Stow's rye-field in front of the Breed house, I meet with four mice-nests in going half a dozen rods. . . .I think they were made by the  mus leucopus. "); See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The Wild Mouse

 I see a striped squirrel . . .observing me a few moments, as I stand perfectly still. . . he runs straight up to within three feet of me, . .  .looking up to my face, turns back and finally crosses the railroad.  See  March 7, 1855 ("In a sheltered and warmer place, we heard a rustling amid the dry leaves on the hillside and saw a striped squirrel eying us from its resting-place on the bare ground. It sat still . . . then suddenly dived into its hole,") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring, the striped squirrel comes out 

So much for the muskrat sign. See January 24, 1856 ("I have not been able to find any tracks of muskrats this winter.")   April 2, 1856 ("Muskrat-houses have been very scarce indeed the past winter. If they were not killed off, I cannot but think that their instinct foresaw that the river would not rise. The river has been at summer level through the winter.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Musquash

The eternity

that I detect in Nature

I see in myself.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, The eternity I detect in Nature 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

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

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

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2026

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-18560323

The thickness of the ice on Walden.

March 19.

P. M. — To Walden. 

Measure the snow again. West of railroad, 15; east of railroad, 11 4/5; average, 13 2/5; Trillium Woods, 16 3/4. 

The last measurement was on the 7th, when it averaged about sixteen inches in the open land. This depth it must have preserved, owing to the remarkably cold weather, till the 13th at least. So it chances that the snow was constantly sixteen inches deep, at least, on a level in open land, from January 13th to March 13th. 

It is remarkable how rapidly it has settled on the east of the railroad as compared with the west since the 7th (or I may say rather the 13th). The whole average settling, in open land, since say the 13th, is a little less than three inches. 

The thickness of the ice on Walden in the long cove on the south side, about five rods from shore, where the water is nineteen and a half feet deep, is just twenty six inches, about one foot being snow ice. In the middle it was twenty-four and a quarter on the 11th. It is the same there now, and undoubtedly it was then twenty six in the long cove. Probably got to be the thickest on this side. 

Since the warmer weather which began on the 13th, the snow, which was three or four inches deep, is about half melted on the ice, under the influence of the sun alone, and the ice is considerably softened within the last five days, thus suddenly, quite through, it being easier to cut and more moist, quite fine and white like snow in the hole, sticking together as damp snow when I shovel it out on my axe, the dust not at all hard, dry, and crystalline. 

Apparently, then, Walden is as thickly frozen about shore as Flint’s. 

While I am measuring, though it is quite warm, the air is filled with large, moist snowflakes, of the star form, which are rapidly concealing the very few bare spots on the railroad embankment. It is, indeed, a new snow-storm. 

Another old red maple bleeds now, on the warm south edge of Trillium Wood. The first maple was old and in a warm position.

No sooner is some opening made in the river, a square rod in area, where some brook or rill empties in, than the fishes apparently begin to seek it for light and warmth, and thus early, perchance, may become the prey of the fish hawk. They are seen to ripple the water, darting out as you approach. 

I noticed on the 18th that springy spot on the shore just above the railroad bridge, by the ash, which for a month has been bare for two or three feet, now enlarged to eight or ten feet in diameter. And in a few other places on the meadowy shore, e. g. just above mouth of Nut Meadow, I see great dimples in the deep snow, eight or ten feet over, betraying springs. 

There the pads (Nuphar) and cress already spring, and shells are left by the rat. At the broad ditch on the Corner road, opposite Bear Garden, the snowy crust had slumped or fallen in here and there, and, where the bridge was perfect, I saw it quite two feet thick. 

In the smooth open water there, small water-bugs were gyrating singly, not enough to play the game. 

I am surprised at the sudden change in the Walden ice within five days. In cutting a hole now, instead of hard, dry, transparent chips of ice, you make a fine white snow, very damp and adhering together, with but few chips in it. The ice has been affected throughout its twenty-six inches, though most, I should say, above. Hard to say exactly where the ice begins, under the two inches of snow.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, March 19, 1856

No sooner is some opening made in the river, . . . than the fishes . . . ripple the water. See March 18, 1856 (“I see the ripples made by some fishes, which were in the small opening at its mouth, making haste to hide themselves in the ice-covered river.”); March 19, 1854 (" You look into some clear, sandy-bottomed brook, where it spreads into a deeper bay, yet flowing cold from ice and snow not far off, and see, indistinctly poised over the sand on invisible fins, the outlines of a shiner, scarcely to be distinguished from the sands behind it as if it were transparent.”)

Another snowy winter.

February 24

February 24, 2025

Dr. Jarvis tells me that he thinks there was as much snow as this in ’35, when he lived in the Parkman house and drove in his sleigh from November 23d to March 30th excepting one day.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 24, 1856

As much snow as this. See February 12, 1856 ("From January 6th to January 13th, not less than a foot of snow on a level in open land, and from January 13th to February 7th, not less than sixteen inches on a level at any one time in open land, and still there is fourteen on a level. That is, for twenty-five days the snow was sixteen inches deep in open land!!”); February 19, 1856 ("The snow has been deeper since the 17th than before this winter. I think if the drifts could be fairly measured it might be found to be seventeen or eighteen inches deep on a level.”) Compare February 24, 1857 ("It seems to be one of those early springs of which we have heard but have never experienced.")

Deepest snow, measured.

February 19.

Measure snow again, on account of what fell on 17th. West of railroad, 15+ + 2; east of railroad, 12 1/2- + 2 ; average of both, 14 + 2 = 16 ; Trillium Wood, 18 1/2 + 2=20 1/2. 

The great body of the last snow appears to have settled under the east side of the railroad. There are five and one half inches more in the wood than on the 12th. and I think this is about the average of what fell on the 17th (night and day). 

Accordingly, the snow has been deeper since the 17th than before this winter. I think if the drifts could be fairly measured it might be found to be seventeen or eighteen inches deep on a level. 

This snow, you may say, is all drifted, for in the fields east of the railroad there is not so much as there was a week ago, while west there is about four inches more.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 19, 1856

The snow has been deeper since the 17th than before this winter . . . seventeen or eighteen inches deep on a level.  See January 29, 1856 ("The snow is probably about fourteen on a level in open fields now, or quite as deep as at any time this winter.”); February 12, 1856 ("From January 6th to January 13th, not less than a foot of snow on a level in open land, and from January 13th to February 7th, not less than sixteen inches on a level at any one time in open land, and still there is fourteen on a level. That is, for twenty-five days the snow was sixteen inches deep in open land!!”); March 7, 1856 ("There has not been less than sixteen inches of snow on a level in open land since January 13th."); March 19, 1856 ("Measured the snow again . . . The last measurement was on the 7th , when it averaged about sixteen inches in the open land . This depth it must have preserved  owing to the remarkably cold weather, till the 13th at least. So it chances that the snow was constantly sixteen inches deep, at least.on a level in open land, from January 13th to March 13th. "); March 23, 1856 ("The snow has been not less than a foot deep on a level in open land until to-day, since January 6th, about eleven weeks.")

Sunlight over thawing snow

February 12

Thawed all day yesterday and rained somewhat last night; clearing off this morning. Heard the eaves drop all night. The thermometer at 8.30 A. M., 42°. 

The snow or crust and cold weather began December 26th, and not till February 7th was there any considerable relenting, when it rained a little; i. e. forty three days of uninterrupted cold weather, and no serious thaw till the 11th, or yesterday. 

How different the sunlight over thawing snow from the same over dry, frozen snow! The former excites me strangely, and I experience a springlike melting in my thoughts. 

Water now stands above the ice and snow on the river. I find, on shovelling away the snow, that there is about two inches of solid ice at the bottom, — that thin crusted snow of December 26th. These two inches must be added, then, to my measures of January 12th, 16th, 23d,_29th, and 30th. 

To-day I find it has settled since the 29th—owing, of course, mainly to the rain of the 7th and especially of last night -- about two inches in open land and an inch and a half in Trillium Woods. There has been scarcely any loss on the west side of the railroad, but 3 3/4 on the east side. It may be owing to the drifting since the 29th. 

From January 6th to January 13th, not less than a foot of snow on a level in open land, and from January 13th to February 7th, not less than sixteen inches on a level at any one time in open land, and still there is fourteen on a level. That is, for twenty-five days the snow was sixteen inches deep in open land!!

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 12, 1856

The Winter of 1855-56 was the coldest winter of the 1850s. Donald Sutherland, The Long, Hard Winter of 1855-56

Heard the eaves drop all night. See February 1, 1856 ("The eaves have scarcely run at all. It has been what is called 'an old-fashioned winter.' "); February 8, 1856 ("The snow is soft, and the eaves begin to run as not for many weeks.");February 11, 1856 ("It is now fairly thawing, the eaves running; and puddles stand in some places.") See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring; The Eaves Begin to Run

Forty three days of uninterrupted cold weather . . . twenty-five days the snow was sixteen inches deep in open land!! See January 9, 1856 ("Probably it has been below zero for the greater part of the day.”); January 26, 1856 ("Methinks it is a remarkably cold, as well as snowy, January, for we have had good sleighing ever since the 26th of December and no thaw.”); February 11, 1856 ("It will indicate what steady cold weather we have had to say that the lodging snow of January 13th, though it did not lodge remarkably, has not yet completely melted off the sturdy trunks of large trees.”)

How different the sunlight over thawing snow from the same over dry, frozen snow! The former excites me strangely, and I experience a springlike melting in my thoughts. See  February 12, 1860 ("It excites me to see early in the spring that black artery leaping once more through the snow-clad town. "); See also  January 31, 1854 ("We too have our thaws. They come to our January moods, when our ice cracks, and our sluices break loose. Thought that was frozen up under stern experience gushes forth in feeling and expression.") February 23, 1856 (“It is inspiriting to feel the increased heat of the sun reflected from the snow.”); March 9, 1852 ("Springlike . . . air excites me. When the frost comes out of the ground, there is a corresponding thawing of the man"); March 21, 1853 ("Winter breaks up within us; the frost is coming out of me, and I am heaved like the road; accumulated masses of ice and snow dissolve, and thoughts like a freshet pour down unwonted channels.")

For twenty-five days the snow was sixteen inches deep in open land!! See February 19,1856 ("The snow has been deeper since the 17th than before this winter. I think if the drifts could be fairly measured it might be found to be seventeen or eighteen inches deep on a level.”)

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

Sunlight thawing snow

strangely excites a springlike

melting in my thoughts.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Sunlight thawing snow 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

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

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

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2026

https://tinyurl.com/hdt-560212

The depth of the snow.

January 29

P. M. — Measure the snow in the same places measured the 16th and 23d, having had, except yesterday, fair weather and no thaw.

As I measured oftener west than east of railroad, the snow is probably about fourteen on a level in open fields now, or quite as deep as at any time this winter. Yet it has apparently been settling a little the last six days. In the woods, apparently, it has also been settling, but it is not so deep there as on the 16th, because it settled rapidly soon after that date. It is deeper east of railroad, evidently because it lies behind it like a wall, though I measure from six to ten or twelve rods off on that side. Since the 13th there has been at no time less than one foot on a level in open fields. 

It is interesting to see near the sources, even of small streams or brooks, which now flow through an open country, perhaps shrunken in their volume, the traces of ancient mills, which have devoured the primitive forest, the earthen dams and old sluiceways, and ditches and banks for obtaining a supply of water. These relics of a more primitive period are still frequent in our midst. Such, too, probably, has been the history of the most thickly settled and cleared countries of Europe. The saw-miller is neighbor and successor to the Indian. 

January 29, 2026

It is observable that not only the moose and the wolf disappear before the civilized man, but even many species of insects, such as the black fly and the almost microscopic “no-see-em.” 

How imperfect a notion have we commonly of what was the actual condition of the place where we dwell, three centuries ago!

For the most part the farmers have not been able to get into the woods for the last fortnight or more, on account of the snow, and some who had not got up their wood before are now put to their trumps, for though it may not be more than eighteen inches deep on a level in sprout-lands, the crust cuts the legs of the cattle, and the occasional drifts are impassable.

Sometimes, with two yoke of oxen and a horse attached to the sled, the farmer attempts to break his way into his lot, one driving while another walks before with a shovel, treading and making a path for the horse, but they must take off the cattle at last and turn the sled with their hands. 

Miss Minott has been obliged to have some of her locusts about the house cut down. She remembers when the whole top of the elm north of the road close to Dr. Heywood’s broke off, —when she was a little girl. It must have been there before 1800.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 29, 1856

The snow is probably about fourteen on a level in open fields now, or quite as deep as at any time this winter.   See February 12, 1856 ("From January 6th to January 13th, not less than a foot of snow on a level in open land, and from January 13th to February 7th, not less than sixteen inches on a level at any one time in open land, and still there is fourteen on a level. That is, for twenty-five days the snow was sixteen inches deep in open land!!”)

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  January 29

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

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

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

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2023

Measuring snow.

January 16

8 A. M. — Down railroad, measuring snow, having had one bright day since the last flake fell; but, as there was a crust which would bear yesterday (as to-day), it cannot have settled much. 

January 16, 2026

The last storms have been easterly and northeasterly. Why so much (five and one half inches) more now in the woods than on the 12th, as compared with open fields? Was the driving snow caught in a small wood, or did it settle less in the rain there, or since the snow on account of bushes? 

I hear flying over (and see) a snow bunting, -- a clear loud tcheep or tcheop, sometimes rapidly trilled or quavered, -- calling its mates. 

With this snow the fences are scarcely an obstruction to the traveller; he easily steps over them. Often they are buried. 

I suspect it is two and a half feet deep in Andromeda Swamps now. 

The snow is much deeper in yards, roads, and all small inclosures than in broad fields.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 16, 1856

Why so much (five and one half inches) more now in the woods than on the 12th, as compared with open fields? See January 12, 1856 ("Other things being equal, the snow should be deeper in woods than in open fields because the trunks of trees take up room there  but . . . Probably there is less snow in the woods than in open land.")

I hear flying over (and see) a snow bunting.  See January 21, 1857 ("Beside their rippling note, they have a vibratory twitter, and from the loiterers you hear quite a tender peep, as they fly after the vanishing flock."); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Snow Bunting (Emberiza nivalis) 

With this snow the fences are scarcely an obstruction.  See January 14, 1856 ("Boys, etc., go about straddling the fences, on the crust."); January 15, 1856 ("The snow appears considerably deeper than the 12th . . . not only fences but trees are obviously shortened . . . You are sensible that you are walking at a level a foot or more above the usual one."); February 18, 1856 ("I go in any direction across the fields, stepping over the fences.")

I suspect it is two and a half feet deep in Andromeda Swamps now. See January 12, 1856 ("I carry a four-foot stick marked in inches, striking it down as far as it will go at every tenth step . . . Though the snow is only ten inches deep on a level, farmers affirm that it is two feet deep"); January 29, 1856 ("Measure the snow in the same places measured the 16th and 23d . . . the snow is probably about fourteen on a level in open fields now, or quite as deep as at any time this winter . . . Since the 13th there has been at no time less than one foot on a level in open fields."); February 12, 1856 ("From January 13th to February 7th, not less than sixteen inches on a level at any one time in open land, and still there is fourteen on a level. That is, for twenty-five days the snow was sixteen inches deep in open land!!”) Compare December 30, 1853 ("I carried a two-foot rule and measured the snow of yesterday in Abiel Wheeler's wood by the railroad, near the pond. In going a quarter of a mile it varied from fourteen to twenty-four inches. Then went to Potter's wood . . . and paced straight through a level wood where there was no drift perceptible, measuring at every ten paces for two hundred paces, and the average was twenty and one half inches.")

January 16  See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, January 16

Snow is much deeper 

in yards roads and inclosures 

than in the broad fields.

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 © 2009-2022