Log Search Results

23 September 1860. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  P.M.—To Cliffs . . .

  I hear that a large owl, probably a cat owl, killed and carried off a full-grown turkey in Carlisle a few days ago (Journal, 14:92-93).

23 September. Concord, Mass. 1851.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Notwithstanding the fog, the fences this morning are covered with so thick a frost that you can write your name anywhere with your nail . . . The sumach are among the reddest leaves at present. The telegraph harp sounds strongly to-day, in the midst of the rain. I put my ear to the trees and I hear it working terribly within, and anon it swells into a clear tone, which seems to concentrate in the core of the tree, for all the sound seems to proceed from the wood . . . I scare up large flocks of sparrows in the garden.
(Journal, 3:13-14)

Thoreau writes in his journal on 24 September:

  Last night was exceedingly dark. I could not see the sidewalk in the street, but only felt it with my feet. I was obliged to whistle to warn travellers of my nearness, and then I would suddenly find myself abreast of them without having seen anything or heard their footsteps. It was cloudy and rainy weather combined with the absence of the moon. So dark a night that, if a farmer who had come in a-shopping had spent but an hour after sunset in some shop, he might find himself a prisoner in the village for the night. Thick darkness.
(Journal, 3:14)
24 April 1837. Cambridge, Mass.

Thoreau checks out Narrative of the Arctic land expedition to the mouth of the Great Fish River and along the shores of the Arctic Ocean, in the years 1833, 1834, and 1835 by Sir George Back and Poems of Mr. Gray; To which are added memoirs of his life and writings, volumes 1-4 by Thomas Gray from Harvard College Library.

(Companion to Thoreau’s Correspondence, 288)
24 April 1838. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Men have been contriving new means and modes of motion. Steamships have been westering during these late days and nights on the Atlantic waves,—the fuglers of a new evolution to this generation. Meanwhile plants spring silently by the brooksides, and the grim woods wave indifferent; the earth emits no howl, pot on fire simmers and seethes, and men go about their business.
(Journal, 1:43)

24 April 1839. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Why should we concern ourselves with what has happened to us, and the unaccountable fickleness of events, and not rather [with] how we have happened to the universe, and it has demeaned itself in consequence? Let us record in each case the judgment we have awarded to circumstances.

  Cheap persons will stand upon ceremony, because there is no other ground, but to the great of the earth we need no introduction, nor do they need any to us.

(Journal, 1:77-78)
24 April 1841. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  It has been a cloudy, drizzling day, with occasional brightenings in the mist, when the trill of the tree sparrow seemed to be ushering in sunny hours (Journal, 1:251-252).
24 April 1852. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  6 A.M.—Water has fallen an inch and a half since last night,—which is at a regular rate.

  I know two species of men. The vast majority are men of society. They live on the surface; they are interested in the transient and fleeting; they are like driftwood on the flood . . . The terra firma of my existence lies far beyond, behind them and their improvements . . . When I am most myself and see the clearest, men are least to be seen . . .

(Journal, 3:460-464)
24 April 1853. Haverhill, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  To and around Creek Pond and back over Parsonage Hill, Haverhill . . . (Journal, 5:112-113).
24 April 1854. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  A.M.—Up railroad . . .

  P.M.—Up Assabet, and thence to Cedar Swamp . . . (Journal, 6:216-218).

24 April 1855. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  P.M.—To Flint’s Pond.

  Warm and quite a thick haze. Cannot see distant hills, nor use my glass to advantage . . . Young caterpillars’ nests are just hatched on the wild cherry. Some are an inch in diameter, others just come out. The little creatures have crawled at once to the extremity of the twigs and commenced at once on the green buds just about to burst, eating holes into them. They do not come forth till the buds are about to burst . . .

(Journal, 7:331-332)

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