in Thoreau’s Journal:

The first really cold day. I find, on breaking off a shrub oak leaf, a little life at the foot of the leafstalk, so that a part of the green comes off. It has not died quite down to the point of separation, as it will do, I suppose, before spring. Most of the oaks have lost their leaves except on the lower branches, as if they were less exposed and less mature there, and felt the changes of the seasons less. The leaves have either fallen or withered long since, yet I found this afternoon, cold as it is, – and there has been snow in the neighborhood, – some sprouts which had come up this year from the stump of a young black-looking oak, covered still with handsome fresh red and green leaves, very large and unwithered and unwilted. It was on the south side of Fair Haven in a warm angle, where the wood was cut last winter and the exposed edge of the still standing wood running north and south met the cliff at right angles and served for a fence to keep off the wind. There were one or two stumps here whose sprouts had fresh leaves which transported me back to October. Yet the surrounding shrub oak leaves were as dry and dead as usual. There were also some minute birches only a year old, their leaves still freshly yellow, and some young wild apple trees apparently still growing, their leaves as green and tender as in summer. The goldenrods, one or more species of the white and some yellow ones, were many of them still quite fresh, though elsewhere they are all whitish and dry. I saw one whose top rose above the edge of a rock, and so much of it was turned white and dry; but the lower part of its raceme was still yellow. Some of the white species seemed to have started again as if for another spring. They had sprung up freshly a foot or more, and were budded to blossom, fresh and green. And sometimes on the same stem were old and dry and white downy flowers, and fresh green blossom-buds, not yet expanded. I saw there some pale blue asters still bright, and the mullein leaves still large and green, one green to its top. And I discovered that when I put my hand on the mullein leaves they felt decidedly warm, but the radical leaves of the goldenrods felt cold and clammy. There was also the columbine, its leaves still alive and green; and I was pleased to smell the pennyroyal which I had bruised, though this dried up long ago. Each season is thus drawn out and lingers in certain localities, as the birds and insects know very well. If you penetrate to some warm recess under a cliff in the woods, you will be astonished at the amount of summer life that still flourishes there. No doubt more of the summer’s life than we are aware thus slips by and outmanoeuvres the winter, gliding from fence to fence. I have no doubt that a diligent search in proper places would discover many more of our summer flowers thus lingering till the snow came, than we suspect. It is as if the plant made no preparation for winter.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

About an inch of snow fell last night—but the ground was not at all frozen or prepared for it—a little greener grass & stubble here & there seems to burn its way through it this forenoon—

The snow is the great track-revealer—I come across the tracks of persons who at different hour from myself have crossed—& perhaps often cross some remote field on their errands—where I had not suspected a predecessor—& the track of the dog or staff are seen too. The latter have tracked their whole pasture over.  —as if there had been a thousand.

I have thus silent but unerring evidence of any who have crossed the fields since last night– It is pleasant to see tracks leading towards the woods to be reminded that any have engagements there. Yet for the most part the snow is quite untrodden– Most fields have no tracks of man in them– I only see where a squirrel has leaped from the wall…

I was so warmed in spirit in getting my wood that the heat it finally yielded when burnt was coldness in comparison. The first is a warmth which you cannot buy.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I have been so absorbed of late in Capt. Brown’s fate–as to be surprised whenever I detected the old routine running still–met persons going about their affairs indifferent– It appeared strange to me that the little dipper should be still diving in the river as of yore. & this suggested that this grebe might be diving here when Concord shall be no more.

Any affecting human event may blind our eyes to natural objects.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The obvious falling of leaves–(i.e not to include the fall of the P pines–& larches–& the complete fall of the birches, white willows &c) ended about the 1st of November. A very few bright colored leaves on small shrubs–such as oak sprouts–black cherry–blueberry &c–have lingered up to this time in favorable places–

By the 1st of November–or at most a few days later–the trees generally wear on the whole–(or in the main) their winter aspect–their leaves gradually falling until spring.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I climb Anursnack—under this strong wind—more dry oak leaves are rattling down—all winter is their fall— A distinction is to be made between those trees whose leaves fall as soon as the bright autumnal tints are gone and they are withered—& those whose leaves are rustling & falling all winter even into spring. October is the month of painted leaves—of ripe leaves—when all the earth—not merely flowers—but fruits & leaves are ripe— With respect to its colors & its season it is the sunset month of the year—when the earth is painted like the sunset sky— This rich glow flashes round the world— This light fades into the clear white leafless twilight of November—and whatever more glowing sunset—or Indian summer we have then is the after-glow of the year— In October the man is ripe even to his stalk & leaves—he is pervaded by his genius—When all the forest is a universal harvest —Whether he possess the enduring color of the pines which it takes 2 years to ripen & wither—or the brilliant color of the deciduous trees which fade the first fall.

From this hill I am struck with the smoothness & washed appearance of the landscape—all these russet fields & swells look as if the withered grass had been combed by the flowing water- -not merely the sandy roads but the fields are swept— All waters, the river—& ponds—& swolen brooks—and many new ones are now seen through the leafless trees—are blue as indigo—reservoirs of dark indigo amid the general russet—& reddish brown & grey— October answers to the period in the life of man—when he is no longer dependent on his transient moods—when all his experience ripens into wisdom—but every root branch leaf of him glows with maturity— What he has been & done in his spring & summer appears— He bears his fruit—

Now for the bare branches of the oak woods—where hawks have nested & owls perched—the sinews of the trees—& the brattling (?) of the wind in their midst —  For now their leaves are off they’ve bared their arms thrown off their coats & in the attitude of fencers await the onset of the wind—to box or wrestle with it— Such high winds would have done much harm 6 weeks ago.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

A fine clear afternoon after the misty morning and heavy rain of the night. Even after all this rain I see the streaming lines of gossamer from trees and fences. From Fair Haven Hill the air is clear and fine-grained, and now it is a perfect russet November landscape, – including the reddish brown of the oaks, excepting where the winter-rye fields and some low meadows show their green, the former quite bright, and also the evergreen patches of pines, edged in the northwest by the blue mountain ridges.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I think that the change to some higher color in a leaf is an evidence that it has arrived at a perfect and final maturity, answering to the maturity of fruits, and not to that of green leaves, etc., etc., which merely serve a purpose. The word “ripe” is thought by some to be derived from the verb “to reap,” according to which that is ripe which is ready to be reaped. The fall of the leaf is preceded by a ripe old age.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The scarlet oak leaf! What a graceful & pleasing outline! a combination of graceful curves & angles–  These deep bays in the leaf are agreeable to us as the thought of deep & smooth & secure havens to the mariner– But both your love of repose & your spirit of adventure is addressed–for both bays & headlands are represented. Sharp-pointed rocks, capes–& rounded bays with smooth strands. To the sailor’s eye it is a much indented shore–& in his casual glance he thinks that if he doubles its sharp capes he will find a haven in its deep rounded bays. If I were a drawing master I would set my pupils to copying these leaves–that they might learn to draw firmly & gracefully– It is a shore to the arial ocean–on which the windy surf beats– How different from the white oak leaf with its rounded long headlands–on which no light house need be…Some white oak leaves retain a smothered inward crimson fire long after they have fallen very pure & complete & are more interesting to me than their fresher glow–because more indestructible–an evening glow–

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The brilliancy of the scarlet oak being generally dulled, the season of brilliant leaves may be considered over, ––say about the 10th; and now a new season begins, the pure November season of the russet earth and withered leaf and bare twigs and hoary withered goldenrods, etc.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Thus steadily but unobserved the winter steals down from the north–till from our highest hills we can discern its vanguard….Little did we think how near the winter was. 

It is as if a scout had brought in word that an enemy was approaching in force only a day’s march distant….We had not thought seriously of winter–we dwelt in fancied security yet.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The stillness of the woods and fields is remarkable at this season of the year. There is not even the creak of a cricket to be heard. Of myriads of dry shrub oak leaves, not one rustles. Your own breath can rustle them, yet the breath of heaven does not suffice to. The trees have the aspect of waiting for winter. The autumnal leaves have lost their color; they are now truly sere, dead, and the woods wear a sombre color. Summer and harvest are over. The hickories, birches, chestnuts, no less than the maples, have lost their leaves. The sprouts, which had shot up so vigorously to repair the damage which the choppers had done, have stopped short for the winter. Everything stands silent and expectant. If I listen, I hear only the note of a chickadee — our most common and I may say native bird, most identified with our forests — or perchance the scream of a jay, or perchance from the solemn depths of these woods I hear tolling far away the knell of one departed. Thought rushes in to fill the vacuum.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I find it good to be out this still dark mizzling afternoon– My walk or voyage is more suggestive & profitable than in bright weather. The view is contracted by the misty rain–the water is perfectly smooth & the stillness is favorable to reflection. I am more open to impressions more sensitive–(not callused or indurated by sun & wind) as if in a chamber still. My thoughts are concentrated– I am all compact–  The solitude is real too for the weather keeps other men at home. This mist is like a roof & walls over & around & I walk with a domestic feeling– The sound of a wagon going over an unseen bridge is louder than ever–& so of other sounds.  I am compelled to look at near objects–  All things have a soothing effect–the very clouds & mists brood over me. My power of observation & contemplation is much increased. My attention does not wander. The world & my life are simplified.  – What now of Europe & Asia?

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Climbed the wooded hill by Holden’s spruce swamp—& got a novel View of the river & Fair Haven Bay—through the almost leafless woods. How much handsomer a river or lake such as ours seems thus through a foreground of scattered or else partially leafless trees though at a considerable distance this side of it—especially if the water is open without wooded shore or isles— It is the most perfect & beautiful of all frames which yet the sketcher is commonly careful to brush aside. I mean a foreground—a view of the distant water through the near forest—through a thousand little vistas—as we are rushing toward the former—that intimate mingling of wood & water which excites an expectation which the near & open view rarely realizes. We prefer that some part be concealed—which our imagination may navigate.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Sometimes I would rather get a transient glimpse or side view of a thing—than stand fronting to it.  As those poly-podies— The object I caught a glimpse of as I went by haunts my thoughts a long time—is infinitely suggestive—& I do not care to front it & scrutinize it—for I know that the thing that really concerns me is not there, but in my relation to that. That is a mere reflecting surface. 

It is not the polypody in my pitcher or herbarium, or which I may possibly persuade to grow on a bank in my yard or which is described in botanies that interests me—but the one that I pass by in my walks a little distance off—when in the right mood. Its influence is sporadic—wafted thro’ the air to me— Do you imagine its fruit to stick to the back of the leaf all winter? At this season polypody is in the air—  It is worth the while to walk in swamps now, to bathe your eyes with greenness— The terminal shield fern is the handsomest & glossiest green.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Must be out-of-doors enough to get experience of wholsome reality—as a ballast to thought and sentiment. Health requires this relaxation, this aimless life. This life in the present. Let a man have thought what he will of Nature in the house—she will still be novel outdoors. I keep out of doors for the sake of the mineral, vegetable, and animal in me….My thought is a part of the meaning of the world, and hence I use a part of the world as a symbol to express my thought.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

By fall I mean literally the falling of the leaves, though some mean by it the changing or the acquisition of a brighter color.  This I call the autumnal tint, the ripening to the fall.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The beauty of the earth answers exactly to your demand and appreciation.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

As the afternoons grow shorter, and the early evening drives us home to complete our chores, we are reminded of the shortness of life, and become more pensive, at least in this twilight of the year. We are prompted to make haste and finish our work before the night comes.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

It costs me nothing for a gardener— The falling leaves all over the forest are protecting the roots of my plants.

Only look at what is to be seen & you will have garden enough—without deepening the soil of your yard. We have only to elevate our view a little to see the whole forest as a garden—