In Thoreau’s Journal:

September 24, 1851:

The huckleberry bushes on Conantum are all turned red.

September 24, 1858:

A man must attend to nature closely for many years to know when, as well as where, to look for his objects, since he must always anticipate her a little….I would know when in the year to expect certain thoughts and moods….

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

So live that only the most beautiful wild-flowers will spring up where you have dwelt, —harebells, violets, and blue-eyed grass.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

I am astonished to see how brown & sere the Groundsel or “fire-weed” on hill side by Heywood’s meadow—which has been touched by frost-already is—as if it had died long months ago or a fire had run through it. It is a very tender plant. Standing on Bear Hill in Lincoln— The black birches (I think they are) now yellow on the south side of Flints Pond on the hill side, look like flames.

The chestnut trees are brownish yellow—as well as green. It is a beautifully clear and bracing air with just enough coolness full of the memory of frosty mornings—through which all things are distinctly seen & fields look as smooth as velvet—

The fragrance of grapes is on the breeze & the red drooping barberries sparkle amid the leaves. From the Hill on the S side of the Pond—the forests have a singularly rounded & bowery look clothing the hills quite down to the water’s edge & leaving no shore; the Ponds are like drops of dew amid and partly covering the leaves. So the great globe is luxuriously crowded without margin.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

….the mullein still in bloom….

I see many tall clustered bluish asters by the brooks…

The maples begin to be ripe. How beautiful when a whole maple on the edge of a swamp is like one great scarlet fruit—full of ripe juices— A sign of the ripening—every leaf from lowest limb to topmost spire—is a-glow….

The flattened black berries of the cucumber root—with the triangular bases of its leaves tinged red beneath as a sort of cup for them.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

On Heywood’s Peak by Walden. The surface is not perfectly smooth on account of the zephyr—& the reflections of the woods are a little indistinct and blurred. How soothing to sit on a stump on this height overlooking the pond and study the dimpling circles which are incessantly inscribed and again erased on the smooth and otherwise invisible surface, amid the reflected skies. The reflected sky is of a deeper blue How beautiful that over this vast expanse there can be no disturbance, but it is thus at once gently smoothed away & assuaged. as when a vase of water is jarred the trembling circles seek the shore & all is smooth again.

Not a fish can leap or an insect fall on it but it is reported in lines of beauty—in circling dimples—as it were the constant welling up of its fountain—the gentle pulsing of its life—the heaving of its breast. The thrills of joy & those of pain are indistinguishable. How sweet the phenomena of the lake—! Everything that moves on its surface produces a sparkle. The peaceful Pond!

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The soapwort gentian cheers & surprises with solid bulbs of blue from the shade—the stale grown purplish. It abounds along the river—after so much has been mown.

September 17, 2017 Photos

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The Prinos berries now quite red. How densely they cover the bushes! very handsome contrasting with the leaves.

September 17, 2017 Photos

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

Swamp all dry now, could not wash my hands.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

The pond is like the sky with a border of whitish clouds in the horizon.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

I love to see anything that implies a simpler mode of life and greater nearness to the earth.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

This morning the first frost—

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Asters various shades of blue and especially the smaller kinds of dense flowering white ones are more than ever—by the roadsides….The golden glow of autumn concentrated—more golden than the sun….The earth wears different colors or liveries at different seasons. If I come by at this season a golden blaze will salute me here from a thousand suns. How earnestly & rapidly each creature—each flower is fulfilling its part while its day lasts! Nature never lost a day—nor a moment — As the planet in its orbit & around its axis—so do the seasons— —so does time revolve with a rapidity inconceivable.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

[A potpourri of citations from this date]

This is the season of fogs.

It is worth the while to see the Mts in the horizon once a day.

A man should feed his senses with the best that the land affords.

I can hardly believe that there is so great a difference between one year & another as my journal shows.

Methinks that I possess the sense of smell in greater perfection than usual—& have the habit of smelling of every plant I pluck. How autumnal is the scent of ripe grapes now by the roadside!

The Prinos berries are pretty red.

Any redness like cardinal flowers or poke—or the evening sky or Cheronaea excites us as a red flag does cows & turkies.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

And next the redness became a sort of yellowish or fawn colored light & the sun now set fire to the edges of the broken cloud which had hung over the horizon—& they glowed like burning turf.

in Thoreau’s Journal:

Perhaps a history of the year would be a history of the grass, or of a leaf, regarding the grass- blades as leaves, for it is equally true that the leaves soon lose their freshness and soundness, and become the prey of insects and of drought…

The period of youth is past. The year may be in its summer, in its manhood, but it is no longer in the flower of its age. It is a season of withering, of dust and heat, a season of small fruits and trivial experiences. Summer thus answers to manhood. But there is an aftermath in early autumn, and some spring flowers bloom again, followed by an Indian summer of finer atmosphere and of a pensive beauty. May mv life be not destitute of its Indian summer, a season of fine and clear, mild weather…

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

A certain refinement & civilization in nature which increases with the wildness. The civilization that consists with wildness. The light that is in night. A smile as in a dream on the face of the sleeping lake. There is light enough to show what we see–what night has to exhibit–any more would obscure these objects. I am not advertised of any deficiency of light…

It takes some time to wear off the trivial impression which the day has made—& thus the first hours of night are sometimes lost.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

….the dew or fog rather on the fine grass in meadows—a dirty white which one of these morning—will be frozen to a white frost.

 in Thoreau’s Journal:

I have noticed the thistle-down for some days in the air—not yet the milkweed—though some flowers of the thistle are still seen.

September 4, 2017