The Blog of Henry David Thoreau

through with Nature...Thoreau's Journal: 23-May-1854

2013-05-23T02:20:00.000+01:00

We soon get through with Nature. She excites an expectation which she cannot satisfy. The merest child which has rambled into a copsewood dreams of a wilderness so wild and strange and inexhaustible as nature can never show him. The red-bird which I saw on my companion’s string on election days I thought but the outmost sentinel of the wild, immortal camp,—of the wild and dazzling infantry of the

a little dot of a kitten...Thoreau's Journal: 22-May-1853

2013-05-22T01:39:00.000+01:00

When yesterday Sophia and I were rowing past Mr. Prichard’s land, where the river is bordered by a row of elms and low willows, at 6 P.M., we heard a singular note of distress as if it were from a catbird—a loud, vibrating, catbird sort of note, as if the catbird’s mew were imitated by a smart vibrating spring. Blackbirds and others were flitting about, apparently attracted by it. At first,

a parrot exceedingly frightened...Thoreau's Journal: 21-May-1857

2013-05-21T03:37:00.000+01:00

I saw yesterday a parrot exceedingly frightened in its cage at a window. It rushed to the bars and struggled to get out. A piece of board had been thrown from the window above to the ground, which probably the parrot’s instinct had mistaken for a hawk. Their eyes are very open to danger from above.

the playing of the foxes...Thoreau's Journal: 20-May-1858

2013-05-20T00:35:00.000+01:00

Going along the deep valley in the woods, just before entering the part called Laurel Glen, I heard a noise and saw a fox running off along the shrubby side-hill. It looked like a rather small dirty-brown fox and very clumsy, running much like a woodchuck. It had a dirty or dark brown tail with very little white to the tip. A few steps further I came upon the remains of a wood chuck,, yet warm

evening...Thoreau's Journal: 19-May-1859

2013-05-19T01:33:00.000+01:00

It is a warm, muggy, rainy evening, when the night-hawks commonly spark and the whip-poor-will is heard.

landscape is most beautiful...Thoreau's Journal: 18-May-1852

2013-05-18T03:29:00.000+01:00

It is a fine clear atmosphere, only the mountains blue. A slight seething but no haze. Shall we have much of this weather after this? There is scarcely a flock of cloud in the sky. The heaven is now broad and open to the earth in these longest days. The world can never be more beautiful than now, for, combined with the tender fresh green, you have this remarkable clearness of the air. I doubt if

rain is good for thought...Thoreau's Journal: 17-May-1858

2013-05-17T00:01:00.000+01:00

It rains gently from time to time as I walk, but I see a farmer with his boys, John Hosmer, still working in the rain, bent on finishing his planting. He is slowly getting a soaking, quietly dropping manure in the furrows. The rain is good for thought. It is especially agreeable to me as I enter the wood and hear the soothing dripping on the leaves. It domiciliates me in nature. The woods are the

hummingbird...Thoreau's Journal: 16-May-1858

2013-05-16T23:58:00.000+01:00

A hummingbird yesterday came into the next house and was caught. Flew about our parlor to-day and tasted Sophia’s flowers. In some lights you saw none of the colors of its throat. In others, in the shade the throat was clear bright scarlet, but in the sun it glowed with splendid metallic, fiery reflections about the neck and throat. It uttered from time to time, as it flew, a faint squeaking

first cricket...Thoreau's Journal: 15-May-1852

2013-05-15T02:55:00.000+01:00

The first cricket’s chirrup which I have chanced to hear now falls on my ear and makes me forget all else; all else is a thin and moveable crust down to that depth where he resides eternally. He already foretells autumn. Deep under the dry border of some rock in this hillside he sits, and makes the finest singing of birds outward and insignificant, his own song is so much deeper and more

roots...Thoreau's Journal: 14-May-1852

2013-05-14T02:54:00.000+01:00

Most men are easily transplanted from here there, for they have so little root—no tap root,—or their roots penetrate so little way, that you can thrust a shovel quite under them and take them up, roots and all.

manners of the bear...Thoreau's Journal: 13-May-1852

2013-05-13T02:53:00.000+01:00

Where are the men who dwell in thought? Talk,—that is palaver! at which men hurrah and clap! The manners of the bear are so far good that he does not pay you any compliments.

world-ridden...Thoreau's Journal: 12-May-1857

2013-05-12T02:52:00.000+01:00

How rarely I meet with a man who can be free, even in thought! We live according to rule. Some men are bedridden; all world-ridden. I take my neighbor, an intellectual man, out into the woods and invite him to take a new and absolute view of things, to empty clean out his thoughts all institutions of men and start again; but he can’t do it, he sticks to his traditions and his crotchets. He thinks

distant thunder...Thoreau's Journal: 11-May-1854

2013-05-11T02:50:00.000+01:00

While at the Falls, I feel the air cooled and hear the mutterings of distant thunder in the northwest and see a dark cloud in that direction indistinctly through the wood. That distant thunder-shower very much cools our atmosphere. And I make haste through the woods homeward via Hubbard’s Close. Hear the evergreen-forest note. The true poet will ever live aloof from society, wild to it, as the

the May-gate...Thoreau's Journal: 10-May-1853

2013-05-10T02:48:00.000+01:00

I proceed down the Turnpike. The masses of the golden willow are seen in the distance on either side of the way, twice as high as the road is wide, conspicuous against the distant, still half-russet hills and forests, for the green grass hardly yet prevails over the dead stubble, and the woods are but just beginning to gray. The female willow is a shade greener. At this season the traveler passes

dandelion...Thoreau's Journal: 09-May-1858

2013-05-09T02:46:00.000+01:00

A dandelion perfectly gone to seed, a complete globe, a system in itself.

Anything but black clothes...Thoreau's Journal: 08-May-1857

2013-05-08T01:22:00.000+01:00

Within a week I have had made a pair of corduroy pants, which cost when done $1.60. They are of that peculiar clay-color, reflecting the light from portions of their surface. They have this advantage, that, beside being very strong, they will look about as well three months hence as now,—or as ill, some would say. Most of my friends are disturbed by my wearing them. I can get four or five pairs

Finger-cold and windy...Thoreau's Journal: 07-May-1855

2013-05-07T01:21:00.000+01:00

5 A.M. To Island. Finger-cold and windy. The sweet-flags showed themselves about in their pads. Hear Maryland yellowthroat. Many grackles still in flocks singing on trees, male and female, the latter a very dark or black ash, but with silvery eye. I suspect the red-wings are building. Large white maples began to leaf yesterday, at least, generally; one now shows considerably across the river.

alive to the extremities...Thoreau's Journal: 06-May-1854

2013-05-06T01:19:00.000+01:00

All that a man has to say or do that can possibly concern mankind, is in some shape or other to tell the story of his love,—to sing; and, if he is fortunate and keeps alive, he will be forever in love. This alone is to be alive to the extremities. It is a pity that this divine creature should ever suffer from cold feet; a still greater pity that the coldness so often reaches to his heart. I look

vegetable chandeliers...Thoreau's Journal: 05-May-1859

2013-05-05T01:17:00.000+01:00

Am struck by the beauty of the yellow birches, now fairly begun to be in bloom, at Yellow Birch, or Botrychium, Swamp. It is perhaps the handsomest tree or shrub yet in bloom (apparently opened yesterday), of similar character to the alders and poplars, but larger and of higher color. You see a great tree all hung with long yellow or golden tassels at the end of its slender, drooping spray, in

better manure...Thoreau's Journal: 04-May-1852

2013-05-04T01:16:00.000+01:00

R.W.E. tells me he does not like Haynes as well as I do. I tell him that he makes better manure than most men.

temporary vernal lakes...Thoreau's Journal: 03-May-1857

2013-05-03T01:14:00.000+01:00

Up and down the town, men and boys that are under subjection are polishing their shoes and brushing their go-to-meeting clothes. I, a descendant of Northmen who worshipped Thor, spend my time worshipping neither Thor nor Christ; a descendant of Northmen who sacrificed men and horses, sacrifice neither men nor horses. I care not for Thor nor for the Jews. I sympathize not to-day with those who go

insight...Thoreau's Journal: 02-May-1852

2013-05-02T01:11:00.000+01:00

If you would obtain insight, avoid anatomy.

Science is inhuman...Thoreau's Journal: 01-May-1859

2013-05-01T02:17:00.000+01:00

Science is inhuman. Things seen with a microscope begin to be insignificant. So described, they are as monstrous as if they should be magnified a thousand diameters. Suppose I should see and describe men and houses and trees and birds as if they were a thousand times larger than they are! With our prying instruments we disturb the balance and harmony of nature.

Pat Haggety’s rum...Thoreau's Journal: 30-Apr-1858

2013-04-30T03:16:00.000+01:00

I learn that one farmer, seeing me standing a long time still in the midst of a pool (I was watching for hylodes), said that it was his father, who had been drinking some of Pat Haggety’s rum, and had lost his way home. So, setting out to lead him home, he discovered that it was I.

to feel the boat...Thoreau's Journal: 29-Apr-1856

2013-04-29T03:15:00.000+01:00

Do not sail well till I reach Dove Rock, then glide swiftly up the stream. I move upward against the current with a moderate but fair wind, the waves somewhat larger, probably because the wind contends with the current. The sun is in my face, and the waves look particularly lively and sparkling. I can steer and write at the same time. They gurgle under my stern, in haste to fill the hollow which