in Thoreau’s Journal:

Plenty of ripe checquer berries now— Do they blossom again in the spring?

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Pm to Fair Haven Hill & by boat to Witch Hazel bush

Were they not the white in tailbirds I saw this afternoon?  cricket still.  After yesterdays clear, windy weather we have today less wind and much haze— It is Indian summer-like.  The river has risen yet higher than last night—so that I cut across Hubbard’s meadow with ease— Took up a witch hazel with still some fresh blossoms.

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:

Truly a hard day—hard Times these.  Not a mosquito left. Not an insect to hum. Crickets gone into winter quarters— Friends long since gone there—& you left to walk on frozen ground—with your hands in your pockets.  Ah but is not this a glorious time for your deep inward fires?— & will not your green hickory & white oak burn clean—in this frosty air?  

….All fields lie fallow —  Shall not your mind?  True the freezing ground is being prepared for immeasurable snows.— but there are brave thoughts within you that shall remain to rustle the winter through like white oak leaves upon your boughs—or like scrub oaks that remind the traveller of a fire upon the hill sides—or evergreen thoughts cold even in mid summer by their nature shall contrast more fairly with the snow.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

4 PM to Cliffs. It clears up. A very bright rain-bow.  3 reds 2 greens.

I see its foot within 1/2 mile in the SE heightening the green of the pines. 

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

That delicate, waving, feathery dry grass which I saw yesterday is to be remembered with the autumn.

The dry grasses are not dead for me.

A beautiful form has as much life at one season as at another.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Photo, November 10, 2018

This morning the ground is once more whitened with snow—but it will apparently be gone in an hour or two.

I live where the pinus rigida grows—with its firm cones almost as hard as iron—armed with recurved spines.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Pitch pine cones very beautiful—not only the fresh leather colored ones but especially the dead grey ones—covered with lichens— The scales so regular & close—like an impenetrable coat of mail. These are very handsome to my eye— Also those which have long since opened regularly & shed their seeds

An abundance of the rattlesnake Plantain in the woods by Brown’s Pond….

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Ah those sun sparkles on Dudley P.

In this november air what a heaven to live in!  Intensely brilliant as no artificial light I have seen—like a dance of diamonds. Course mazes of a diamond dance seen through the trees.  All objects shine today—even the sportsmen seen at a distance—

as if a cavern were unroofed and its crystals gave entertainment to the sun.  This great see-saw of brilliants.—

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The sun now rises far southward.  I see westward the earliest sunlight on the reddish oak leave & the pines—the former appear to get more than their share—  How soon the sun gets above the hills—as if he would accomplish his whole diurnal journey in a few hours at this rate—but it is a long way around & these are nothing to the hill of heaven.

Whether we are idle or industrious the sun is constantly traveling through the sky—consuming arc after arc of this great circle at this same rapid pace.

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:

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 and glossiest green.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Autumnal Dandelion—& yarrow—  Must be out of doors enough to get experience of wholesome reality—as a ballast to thought & sentiment.  Health requires this relaxation this aimless life. This life in the present….

My thought is a part of the meaning of the world—& hence I use a part of the world as a symbol to express my thought.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The landscape from Fair Haven Hill looks Novemberry—bare gray limbs & twigs in the swamps & where many young (or shrub) oaks have lost their leaves—You hear the rustling of oak & walnut leaves in the air. There is a ripple on the river from the cool northerly wind—the plants are sere. It is the month of withered oak leaves.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The prinos berries also now attract me in the scarcity of leaves—its own all gone—its berries are apparently a brighter red for it—

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I saw there between the converging boughs of two white pines a rod or two from me on the edge of the rock, and I thought that there was no frame to a landscape equal to this—

to see between two near pine boughs whose lichens are distinct, a distant forest & lake—the one frame the other picture.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Is not this already November when the yellow & scarlet tints are gone from the forest?

in Thoreau’s Journal:

What with the rains & frosts & winds the leaves have fairly fallen now— You may say the fall has ended. Those which still hang on the trees are withered & dry —  I am surprised at the change since last Sunday — Looking at the distant woods I perceive that there is no yellow nor scarlet there now— They are (except the evergreens) a mere dull dry red— The autumnal tints are gone.   What life remains is merely at the foot of the leafstalk.  The woods have for the most part acquired their winter aspect— And coarse rustling light colored withered grasses skirt the river & the woodside— This is November— The landscape prepared for winter without snow— When the forest & fields put on their sober winter hue. We begin to look more to the sunset for color & variety.

Now now is the time to look at the buds the swamp pink—some yellowish, some mixed with thin oblong seed-vessels red—&c.  The larger red maple buds have now 2 sets of scales—3 in each. The water Andromeda is still green— Along the Depot Brook the great heads of A. Puniceus stand dry & fuzzy & singularly white (—like the golden rods & other asters—) but some quite low are still green & in flower

The prevalence of this light dry Color perhaps characterizes November—that of whitening withered grass—of the fuzzy gray goldenrods—harmonizing with the cold sunlight—and that of the leaves which still hang on deciduous trees.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I know of no such amusement, –– so wholesome and in every sense profitable, ––for instance, as to spend an hour or two in a day picking some berries or other fruits which will be food for the winter, or collecting driftwood from the river for fuel, or cultivating the few beans or potatoes which I want.

Theatres and operas, which intoxicate for a season, are as nothing compared to these pursuits. 

in Thoreau’s Journal:  

Tell me precisely the value and significance of these transient gleams which come sometimes at the end of the day, before the close of the storm, final dispersion of the clouds, too late to be of any service to the works of man for the day, and notwithstanding the whole night after may be overcast!

Is not this a language to be heard and understood? There is, in the brown and gray earth and rocks, and the withered leaves and bare twigs at this season, a purity more correspondent to the light itself than summer offers.