Wind northwest, growing cooler.

February 7. 

2 p. m. — To Walden and Flint's. 

Thermometer 43°. Fair, with many clouds, mostly obscuring the sun. Wind northwest, growing cooler.

The sand has begun to flow on the west side of the cut, the east being bare. Nature has some bowels at last.

I notice over the ditch near the Turnpike bridge, where water stands an inch or two deep over the ice, that the dust which had blown on to the ice from the road is now very regularly and handsomely distributed over the ice by the water, i. e., is broken into prettily shaped small black figures equally distant from one another, — so that what was a deformity is now a beauty. 

Some kinds of worms or caterpillars have apparently crawled over it and left their trails on it, white or clear trails.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 7, 1860

The sand has begun to flow on the west side of the cut. See Walden ("When the frost comes out in the spring, and even in a thawing day in the winter, the sand begins to flow down the slopes . . . As it flows it takes the forms of sappy leaves or vines, making heaps of pulpy sprays a foot or more in depth, and resembling, as you look down on them, the laciniated, lobed, and imbricated thalluses of some lichens; or you are reminded of coral, of leopards' paws or birds' feet, of brains or lungs or bowels, and excrements of all kinds. It"); March 30, 1856 ("I come out to see the sand and subsoil in the Deep Cut, as I would to see a spring flower, some redness in the cheek of Earth.")

How earthy old people become.

August 16. 

P. M. — To Flint's Pond with Mr. Conway. 

Started a woodcock in the woods. 

Also saw a large telltale, I think yellow-shanks, whose note I at first mistook for a jay's, giving the alarm to some partridges. 

The Polygonum orientale, probably some days, by Turnpike Bridge, a very rich rose-color large flowers, distinguished by its salver-shaped upper sheaths. It is a color as rich, I think, as that of the cardinal-flower. 

Desmodium paniculatum in the wood-path northeast of Flint's Pond. Its flowers turn blue-green in drying. 

Yesterday also in the Marlborough woods, perceived everywhere that offensive mustiness of decaying fungi. 

How earthy old people become, — mouldy as the grave! Their wisdom smacks of the earth. There is no foretaste of immortality in it. They remind me of earthworms and mole crickets.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, August 16, 1853

Also saw a large telltale, I think yellow-shanks. See September 14, 1854 ("A flock of thirteen tell tales, great yellow-legs, start up with their shrill whistle from the midst of the great Sudbury meadow, and away they sail in a flock.").

Polygonum orientale, probably some days. See September 12 1852 ("the Polygonum orientale, prince's-feather, in E. Hosmer's grounds.")

Yesterday also in the Marlborough woods, perceived everywhere that offensive mustiness of decaying fungi. See September 10, 1854 ("Last year, for the last three weeks of August, the woods were filled with the strong musty scent of decaying fungi, but this year I have seen very few fungi and have not noticed that odor at all ."); August 14, 1853 ("there are countless great fungi of various forms and colors, the produce of the warm rains and muggy weather . . . and for most of my walk the air is tainted with a musty, carrion like odor, in some places very offensive")

August 16. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau,  August 16

 

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

An unexpected thaw (to know nothing about the day that is to dawn).

December 29

Sunrise, December 29, 2022

What a fine and measureless joy the gods grant us by letting us know nothing about the day that is to dawn!

The sun just risen. The ground is almost entirely bare. The puddles are not skimmed over. It is warm as an April morning. 

There is a sound as of bluebirds in the air, and the cocks crow as in the spring. The steam curls up from the roofs and the ground. You walk with open cloak. In the clear atmosphere I see, far in the eastern horizon, the steam from the steam-engine, like downy clouds above the woods.

The melted snow has formed large puddles and ponds, and is running in the sluices. At the turnpike bridge, water stands a foot or two deep over the ice. Water spiders have come out and are skating against the stream.

January thaw! 

It feels as warm as in summer. You sit on any fence-rail and vegetate in the sun, and realize that the earth may produce peas again.

How admirable it is that we can never foresee the [day,] – that it is always novel! Yesterday nobody dreamed of to-day; nobody dreams of to-morrow. This day, yesterday, was as incredible as any other miracle.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, December 29, 1851

How admirable it is that we can never foresee the [day]. See January 10, 1851 ("Who can foretell the sunset,- what it will be?"); March 18, 1858 ("Each new year is a surprise to us."): January 26, 1860 ("Though you walk every day, you do not foresee the kind of walking you will have the next day.")

What a fine and measureless joy the gods grant us thus, letting us know nothing about the day that is to dawn! This day, yesterday, was as incredible as any other miracle. See December 11, 1855 ("The age of miracles is each moment thus returned.”); January 30, 1860 ("What miracles, what beauty surrounds us!");  See also March 7, 1859 ("The mystery of the life of plants is kindred with that of our own lives . . .We must not expect to probe with our fingers the sanctuary of any life, whether animal or vegetable. If we do, we shall discover nothing but surface still. The ultimate expression or fruit of any created thing is a fine effluence which only the most ingenuous worshipper perceives at a reverent distance .... the cause and the effect are equally evanescent and intangible, and . . . the essence is as far on the other side of the surface, or matter, as reverence detains the worshipper on this, and only reverence can find out this angle instinctively. "); November 30, 1858 (“But in my account of this bream I cannot go a hair’s breadth beyond the mere statement that it exists, — the miracle of its existence, my contemporary and neighbor, yet so different from me! I can only poise my thought there by its side and try to think like a bream for a moment. I can only think of precious jewels, of music, poetry, beauty, and the mystery of life. I only see the bream in its orbit, as I see a star, but I care not to measure its distance or weight. The bream, appreciated, floats in the pond as the centre of the system, another image of God. Its life no man can explain more than he can his own. I want you to perceive the mystery of the bream.”)

December 29. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, December 29

What measureless joy

to know nothing about the

day that is to dawn!

This day, yesterday,

was as incredible as

any miracle.

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, to know nothing about the

day that is to dawn

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

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

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

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2024

tinyurl.com/hdt511229

The sun just risen.

The ground is almost entirely bare.

The puddles are not skimmed over.

It is warm as an April morning.

There is a sound as of bluebirds in the air, and the cocks crow as in the spring.

The steam curls up from the roofs and the ground.

You walk with open cloak.

It is exciting [ to ] behold the smooth, glassy surface of water where the melted snow has formed large puddles and ponds, and to see it running in the sluices.

In the clear atmosphere I saw, far in the eastern horizon, the steam from the steam engine, like downy clouds above the woods, I think even beyond Weston.

By school-time you see the boys in the streets playing with the sluices, and the whole population is inspired with new life.

In the afternoon to Saw Mill Brook with W. E. C. sit on any Snow all gone from Minott's hillside.

The willow at the red house shines in the sun.

The boys have come out under the hill to pitch coppers.

Watts sits on his door-step.

It is like the first of April.

The wind is west.

At the turnpike bridge, water stands a foot or two deep over the ice.

Water spiders have come out and are skating against the stream.

How much they depend on January thaws ! 

Now for the frozen-thawed apples ! This is the first chance they have had to thaw this winter.

It feels as warm as in summer; you fence rail and vegetate in the sun, and realize that the earth may produce peas again.

Yet they say that this open and mild weather is unhealthy; that is always the way with them.

How admirable it is that we can never foresee the weather, — that that is always novel! Yesterday nobody dreamed of to-day; nobody dreams of tomorrow.

Hence the weather is ever the news.

What a fine and measureless joy the gods grant us thus, letting us know nothing about the day that is to dawn! This day, yesterday, was as incredible as any other miracle.

Now all creatures feel it, even the cattle chewing stalks in the barn-yards; and perchance it has penetrated even to the lurking-places of the crickets under the rocks.

The artist is at work in the Deep Cut. The telegraph harp sounds.