Jan. 26.
Up river on ice 9 A. M.,
above Pantry,
A sharp,
cutting air,
This is a
pretty good winter morning, however. Not one of the
rarer,
There are
from time to time mornings, both in summer and winter, when especially the
world seems to begin anew, beyond which memory need not go, for not behind them
is yesterday and our past life; when, as in the morning of a hoar frost, there
are visible the effects of a certain creative energy, the world has visibly
been recreated in the night,
Mornings of
creation, I call them,
In the midst
of these marks of a creative energy recently active, while the sun is rising
with more than usual splendor, I look back, — I look back for the era of this
creation, not into the night, but to a dawn for which no man ever rose early
enough,
A morning
which carries us back beyond the Mosaic creation, where crystallizations are
fresh and unmelted,
It is the
poet's hour,
Mornings
when men are new - born, men who have the seeds of life in them,
It should be
a part of my religion to [ be ] abroad then,
This is not
one of those mornings, but a clear, cold, airy winter day,
It is
surprising how much room there is in nature, if a man will follow his proper
path.
In these
broad fields, in these extensive woods, on this stretching river, I never meet
a walker,
Passing
behind the farmhouses, I see no man out.
Perhaps I do
not meet so many men as I should have met three centuries ago, when the Indian
hunter roamed these woods.
I enjoy the
retirement and solitude of an early settler.
Men have
cleared some of the earth, which no doubt is an advantage to the walker.
I see a man
sometimes chopping in the woods, or planting or hoeing in a field, at a
distance; and yet there may be a lyceum in the evening, and there is
a book - shop and library in the village, and five times a day I can be whirled
to Boston within an hour.
There is a
little thin ice on the meadows.
I see the
bubbles underneath, looking like coin.
A slight,
fine snow has fallen in the night and drifted before the wind.
I observe
that it is so distributed over the ice as [ to ] show equal spaces of bare ice
and of snow at pretty regular distances.
I have seen
the same phenomenon on the surface of snow in fields, as if the surface of the
snow disposed itself according to the same law that makes waves of water.
There is now
a fine steam - like snow blowing over the ice, which continually lodges here
and there, and forthwith a little drift accumulates.
But why does
it lodge at such regular intervals ? I see this fine drifting snow in the air
ten or twelve feet high at a distance.
Perhaps it
may have to do with the manner in, or the angle at, which the wind strikes the
earth.
Made a
roaring fire on the edge of the meadow at Ware ( ? ) Hill in Sudbury.
A piece of
paper, birch bark, and dry leaves started it, and then we depended on the dead
maple twigs and limbs to kindle the large dead wood.
Green wood
will burn better than the damp and rotten wood that lies on the ground.
We chose a
place which afforded a prospect, but it turned out that we looked only at the
fire.
It made all
places indifferent.
The color of
the coals, in a glowing heap or seen through the white ashes on the brands,
like rubies.
The shadows,
coming and going, of the flame passing over the white ashes of the brands.
I burnt off
my eye lashes when the fire suddenly blazed up with the wind, without knowing
that I had come very near it.
Though our
fuel was dead and rotten wood found in the snow, it made very little smoke,
which may have been owing to the state of the atmosphere, clear and cold.
The sound of
the air or steam escaping from a brand, its sighing or dying shriek, fine and
sharp as a cambric needle, is the music we hear.
One half the
pleasure is in making the fire.
But then we
should have something to cook by it.
Collecting
fresh fuel from time to time is very pleasant.
The smoke
ever and anon compelled us to move round to the opposite side.
The sap
which flowed from some maple boughs which I cut froze in large drops at the end.
How came sap
there now ?
It is remarkable that many men will go with eagerness to Walden
Pond in the winter to fish for pickerel and yet not seem to care for the
landscape.
Of course it
cannot be merely for the pickerel they may catch; there is some adventure in
it; but any love of nature which they may feel is certainly very slight and
indefinite.
They call it
going a - fishing, and so indeed it is, though, perchance, their natures know
better.
Now I go a -
fishing and a - hunting every day, but omit the fish and the game, which are
the least important part.
I have
learned to do without them.
They were
indispensable only as long as I was a boy.
I am encouraged
when I see a dozen villagers drawn to Walden Pond to spend a day in fishing
through the ice, and suspect that I have more fellows than I knew, but I am
disappointed and surprised to find that they lay all the stress on the fish
which they catch or fail to catch, and on nothing else, as if there were
nothing else to be caught.
When we got
off at some distance from our fire, returning, we saw a light bluish smoke
rising as high as the woods above it, though we had not perceived it before,
and thought that no one could have detected us.
At the fall
on Clematis Brook the forms of the ice were admirable.
The coarse
spray had frozen as it fell on the rocks, and formed shell - like crusts over
them, with irregular but beautifully clear and sparkling surfaces like egg - shaped
diamonds, each being the top of a club - shaped and branched fungus icicle.
This spray
had improved the least core —as the dead and slender rushes drooping over the
water - and formed larger icicles about them, shaped exactly like horns, skulls
often attached, or roots On similar slight limbs there out from the shore and
rocks all fantastic forms, with broader ter bases, from which hung stalactites
of ice; and on logs in the water were perfect ice fungi with the of horns.
were built
sorts of and flat of all sizes, under which the water gurgled, flat underneath
and hemi spherical.
A form like
this would project over the six inches deep by four or five in and a foot long,
held by the but with a slight weed for core.
could take
off the incrustations rocks, water : width rocks, You on the turn Looking down
on it them up, and they were perfect shells.
****
The only birds I have
seen to-day were some jays, one whistled clearly, — some of my mewing red
frontlets, and some familiar chickadees. They are
inquisitive, and fly along after the traveller to inspect him.
In civilized
nations there are those answering to the rain - makers and sorcerers of
savages,
Also this
office ' is universal among savage tribes.
Bitter,
cutting, cold northwest wind on causeway, stiffening the face, freezing the
ears.
