What could a man learn by watching the clouds?

June 24.

P. M. – Το White Pond . The keys of the white ash cover the trees profusely , a sort of mulberry brown , an inch and a half long , handsome . The Vaccinium macrocarpon , probably for some days . The Calopogon pulchellus ( Cymbidium of Bigelow ) , grass pink of some , a pretty purple arethusa - like flower in a shady low copse on Corner road , near the Asclepias quadrifolia , a rather striking flower with two umbels of small pink and white flowers standing above the sur- rounding herbage . Spiræa salicifolia by the roadsides . Archangelica atropurpurea , interesting for its great umbels and vigorous growth of its purplish but rank- smelling stem . It is one of the most forward early leaves in warm springy places . I perceive excrescences on the grape leaves and vines , resembling in their form and disposition the grape clusters that are to be . 

The drifting white downy clouds are objects of a large, diffusive interest. Like all great themes, they are always at hand to be considered, or they float over us unregarded. They are unobtrusive. Far away they float in the serene sky, the most inoffensive of objects. What could a man learn by watching the clouds? The objects which go over our heads unobserved are vast and indefinite. They are among the most glorious objects in nature. They are the flitting sails in that ocean whose bounds no man has visited. A sky without clouds is a meadow without flowers, a sea without sails.

I still perceive that wonderful fragrance from the meadow ( ? ) on the Corner causeway , intense as ever . It is one of those effects whose cause it is best not to know , perchance . Uncommonly cool weather now , after warm days and nights for a week or more . I see many grasshoppers for the first time ( only single ones before ) , in the grass in the White Pond road . They describe a thousand little curves as I walk , with an ominous dry rustling of their wings , about three quarters of an inch long . Come to eat the grass ? It is the biggest game our dog starts . Much of the June - grass is dead ; most of it in dry fields . White Pond very handsome to - day . The shore alive with pollywogs of large size , which ripple the water on our approach . There is a fine sparkle on the water , though not equal to the fall one quite . The water is very high , so that you cannot walk round it , but it is the more pleasant while you are swimming to see how the trees actually rise out of it on all sides . It bathes their feet . The pines now hold somewhat of a subordi- nate rank amid the flourishing evergreens . The dog worried a woodchuck , half grown , which did not turn its back and run into its hole , but backed into it and faced him and us , gritting its teeth and pre- pared to die . But even this little fellow was able to defend himself against the dog with his sharp teeth . That fierce gritting of their teeth is a remarkable habit with these animals . I am disappointed to notice to - day that most of the pine - tops incline to the west , as if the wind had to do with it . The panicled andromeda has froth on it . 

The Linnæa borealis just going out of blossom. I should have found it long ago. Its leaves densely cover the ground. 

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

June 24, 2012

The drifting white downy clouds . . . See June 4, 1855 ("Great white-bosomed clouds, darker beneath, float through the cleared sky and are seen against the deliciously blue sky, such a sky as we have not had before."); June 9, 1856 ("There are some large cumuli with glowing downy cheeks floating about"); June 11, 1856 ("Great cumuli are slowly drifting in the intensely blue sky, with glowing white borders”). Also January 13, 1852 (“Here I am on the Cliffs . . .I look up and they are gone, like the steam from the engine in the winter air. Even a considerable cloud is dissolved and dispersed in a minute or two, and nothing is left but the pure ether. Then another comes by magic, is born out of the pure blue empyrean, and now this too has disappeared, and no one knows whither it is gone.”); August 9, 1860 (". . . all at once a small cloud begins to form half a mile from the summit and rapidly grows in a mysterious manner till it drapes and conceals the summit above us for a few moments, then passes off and disappears northeastward just as it had come..Watching these small clouds forming and dissolving about the summit of our mountain, I cast my eyes toward the dim bluish outline of the Green Mountains in the clear red evening sky, and, to my delight, I detect exactly over the summit of Saddleback Mountain, some sixty miles distant, its own little cloud . . . a sort of fortunate isle in the sunset sky, the local cloud of the mountain.”)

The Linnæa borealis just going out of blossom. See June 19, 1852 ("I cannot find the linnæa . . . perhaps I am too late"); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Linnaea borealis (Twinflower)

There is something in the darkness and the vapors that arise from the head . . .

June 23

June 23,2019

I am inclined to think that my hat, whose  lining is gathered in midway so as to make a shelf, is about as good a botany-box as I could have and far more convenient, and there is something in the darkness and the vapors that arise from the head - at least if you take a bath - which preserves flowers through a long walk. Flowers will frequently come fresh out of this botany- box at the end of the day, though they have had no sprinkling.

It is what I call a washing day, such as we sometimes have when buttercups first appear in the spring, an agreeably cool and clear and breezy day, when all things appear as if washed bright and shine, and, at this season especially, the sound of the wind rustling the leaves is like the rippling of a stream, and you see the light-colored under side of the still fresh foliage, and a sheeny light is reflected from the bent grass in the meadows. Haze and sultriness are far off. The air is cleared and cooled by yesterday's thunder-storms. The river too has a fine, cool, silvery sparkle or sheen on it. You can see far into the horizon, and you can hear the sound of crickets with such feelings as in the cool morning.

This grassy road now dives into the wood  as if it were entering a cellar or bulkhead, the shadow is so deep. June is the first month for shadows. How is it in July? 

And now I scent the pines. I plucked a blue geranium in a meadow near the Kibbe Place, which appeared to me remarkably fragrant, like lilies and strawberries combined. 

The path I cut through the swamp late last fall is much more grown up than I expected. The sweet fragrance of swamp-pinks fills all the swamps.

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

My hat, whose lining is gathered in midway so as to make a shelf, is about as good a botany-box as I could have. . . See December 4, 1856 ("About half a dozen years ago I found myself again attending to plants with more method, looking out the name of each one and remembering it. I began to bring them home in my hat, a straw one with a scaffold lining to it, which I called my botany- box. I never used any other, and when some whom I visited were evidently surprised at its dilapidated look, as I deposited it on their front entry table, I assured them it was not so much my hat as my botany-box.”)


It is an agreeably cool and clear and breezy day, when all things appear as if washed bright and shine. The river too has a fine, cool, silvery sparkle or sheen on it. You can see far into the horizon. See June 23, 1854 (“The air is beautifully clear, showing the glossy and light-reflecting greenness of the woods. It is a great relief to look into the horizon") See also  June 2, 1860 ("There is a lively and washing northwest wind after the rain. . . .The air is cleansed and clear, and the waves, as I look toward the sun, sparkle with so bright and white a light, - so peculiarly fresh and bright."); June 9, 1852 ("The weather is very clear, and the sky bright. The river shines like silver.”);; ; June 26, 1853 ("Summer returns without its haze. We see infinitely further into the horizon on every side, and the boundaries of the world are enlarged.") and also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The Horizon

On the river by Hubbard's meadow.

June 17

A small thunder-shower comes up in the south-west. The thunder sounds like moving a pile of boards in the attic. 

We see the increasing outline of the slate-colored falling rain from the black cloud. It passes mainly to the south. We feel only the wind of it at first, but after it appears to back up and we get some rain.  

In the damp, warm evening after the rain, the fireflies appear to be more numerous than ever.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 17, 1852

The thunder sounds like moving a pile of boards in the attic. See July 20, 1851 ("The clap that wakes me is as if some one is moving lumber in an upper apartment.");  May 29, 1857 ("The crashing thunder sounds like the overhauling of lumber on heaven's loft.")

The increasing outline of the slate-colored falling rain from the black cloud. June 8, 1860 ("Within a day or two has begun that season of summer when you see afternoon showers, maybe with thunder, or the threat of them, dark in the horizon, and are uncertain whether to venture far away or without an umbrella . . . you see perhaps, in the south west or west or maybe east horizon, a dark and threatening mass of cloud showing itself just over the woods, its base horizontal and dark, with lighter edges where it is rolled up to the light, while all beneath is the kind of dark slate of falling rain. These are summer showers, come with the heats of summer.”)

It passes mainly to the south.  See June 17, 1860 ("About 1 P.M., notice thunder-clouds in west and hear the muttering. As yesterday, it splits at sight of Concord and goes south and north") See also June 16, 1860 ("Thunder-showers show themselves about 2 P.M. in the west, but split at sight of Concord and go east on each side.”); June 16, 1854 ("Three days in succession, — the 13th, 14th, and 15th, — thunder-clouds, with thunder and lightning, have risen high in the east, threatening instant rain, and yet each time it has failed to reach us.”)

The fireflies appear to be more numerous than ever.  See June 22, 1852  ("The fireflies in the meadows are very numerous, as if they had replenished their lights from the lightning.") Compare July 20, 1852 ("The stars are few and distant; the fireflies fewer still.”) See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, Fireflies, winged sparks of fire!

June 17. See A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, June 17

The outline of the slate-

colored rain falling from the

black cloud passing south. 

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, On the river by Hubbard's meadow.

 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-520617

The coolness of the morning';the earth-song of the cricket.

June 17.

Thursday. 4 a. m. — To Cliffs.

No fog this morning.

At early dawn, the windows being open, I hear a steady, breathing, cricket-like sound from the chip-bird (?), ushering in the day. Perhaps these mornings are the most memorable in the year, — after a sultry night and before a sultry day, — when, especially, the morning is the most glorious season of the day, when its coolness is most refreshing and you enjoy the glory of the summer gilded or silvered with dews, without the torrid summer's sun or the obscuring haze.

The sound of the crickets at dawn after these first sultry nights seems like the dreaming of the earth still continued into the daylight. I love that early twilight hour when the crickets still creak right on with such dewy faith and promise, as if it were still night, — expressing the innocence of morning, — when the creak of the cricket is fresh and bedewed. While the creak of the cricket has that ambrosial sound, no crime can be committed. It buries Greece and Rome past resurrection.

The earth-song of the cricket ! Before Christianity was, it is. Health! health! health! is the burden of its song.

It is, of course, that man, refreshed with sleep, is thus innocent and healthy and hopeful. When we hear that sound of the crickets in the sod, the world is not so much with us.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 17, 1852

No fog this morning. Compare June 17, 1854 ("A cold fog."); June 17, 1860 ("Quite a fog this morning.")

Perhaps these mornings are the most memorable in the year . . . when, especially, the morning is the most glorious season of the day. See Walden (“The morning is the most memorable season of the day, the awakening hour. ”)

The earth-song of the cricket! See June 13, 1851 ("I listen to the ancient, familiar, immortal, dear cricket sound under all others, and as these cease I become aware of the general earth-song.”); July 14, 1851 (“It is a sound from within, not without.You cannot dispose of it by listening to it. In proportion as I am stilled I hear it. It reminds me that I am a denizen of the earth.”); and note to June 4, 1857 ("One thing that chiefly distinguishes this season from three weeks ago is that fine serene undertone or earth-song as we go by sunny banks and hillsides, the creak of crickets, which affects our thoughts so favorably, imparting its own serenity.")

A sultry night.

June 16.

Down railroad. 

Heat lightning in the horizon. A sultry night. 

A flute from some villager. How rare among men so  fit a thing as the sound of a flute at evening! 

The sonorous note of bullfrogs is heard a mile off in the river, the loudest sound this evening. Ever and anon the sound of his trombone comes over the meadows and fields, a-lulling all Concord to sleep. 

Have not the fireflies in the meadow relation to the stars above etincelant? When the darkness comes, we see stars beneath also.  Do not the stars, too, show their light for love, like the fireflies?

There are northern lights, shooting high up withal.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 16, 1852

Have not the fireflies in the meadow relation to the stars? See August 2, 1854 (“Shooting stars are but fireflies of the firmament.”)

A flute from some villager. How rare among men so fit a thing as the sound of a flute at evening! See  June 18, 1852 ("I hear a man playing a clarionet far off.  . . .  There is something glorious and flower-like in it. What a contrast this evening melody with the occupations of the day! It is perhaps the most admirable accomplishment of man."); June 25, 1852 (“Now his day's work is done, the laborer plays his flute, — only possible at this hour. Contrasted with his work, what an accomplishment! . . . He plays some well-known march. But the music is not in the tune; it is in the sound.”);   August 3, 1852  ("I hear the sound of a distant piano. . . .  By some fortunate coincidence of thought or circumstance I am attuned to the universe ...")

Sunrise and morning paddle.

June 16.

A low fog on the meadows.  

The clouds scattered wisps in the sky, like a squadron thrown into disorder at the approach of the sun.  The sun now gilds an eastern cloud a broad, bright, coppery-golden edge, fiery bright.  Protuberances of the cloud cast dark shadows ray-like up into the day.  

A new season. The earth looks like a  debauchee after the sultry night.

Paddle from the ash tree to the swimming-place. The river appears covered with an almost imperceptible blue film.  What wealth in a stagnant river! 

There is music in every sound in the morning atmosphere.  

As I look up over the bay,  I see the reflections of the meadow woods and the Hosmer hill at a distance, the tops of the trees cut off by a  slight ripple. Even the fine grasses on the near bank are distinctly reflected. Owing to the reflections of the distant woods and hills, you seem to be paddling into a vast hollow country, doubly novel and interesting. 

Thus the voyageur is lured onward to fresh pastures.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 16, 1852

The earth looks like a debauchee after the sultry night: See July 24, 1851 ("Nature is like a hen panting with open mouth, in the grass, as the morning after a debauch.”)


Owing to the reflections of the distant woods and hills, you seem to be paddling into a vast hollow country, doubly novel and interesting. See September 7, 1854 (“The beauty of the sunset is doubled by the reflection. . . . We seem withal to be floating directly into it. . .We paddle over the liquid and almost invisible surface, floating directly toward those clouds in the sunset sky. . . .The reflected shadow of the Hill is black as night, and we seem to be paddling directly into it a rod or two before us, but we never reach it at all.”)

You must attend to the birds in the spring.

June 11.

I hear the bobolink and the lark as I go down the railroad causeway. The cricket sings. The red-eye sings now in the woods, perhaps more than any other bird. (In the shanty field.) The mountains are misty and blue.  A robin sings and wood thrush amid the pine. The air in this pitch pine wood is filled with the hum of gnats, flies, and mosquitoes. The veery reminds me of the wood thrush in its note, as well as form and color. The oven-bird and the thrasher sing. The last has a sort of chuckle. 

You must attend to the birds in the spring.

Golden crowned thrush (oven-bird)

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, June 11, 1852