Abigail Alcott writes to her brother Samuel May:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Ralph Waldo Emerson writes to Margaret Fuller:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Have had a gentle rain, and now with a lowering sky, but still I hear the cricket. He seems to chirp from a new depth toward autumn, new lieferungs of the fall. The singular thought-inducing stillness after a gentle rain like this. It has allayed all excitement. I hear the singular watery twitter of the goldfinch, ter tweeter e et or e ee, as it ricochets over, he and his russet (?) female . . .
A pleasant time to behold a small lake in the woods is in the intervals of a gentle rain-storm at this season, when the air and water are perfectly still, but the sky still overcast; first, because the lake is very smooth at such a time, second, as the atmosphere is so shallow and contracted, being low-roofed with clouds, the lake as a lower heaven is much larger in proportion to it. With its glassy reflecting surface, it is somewhat more heavenly and more full of light than the regions of the air above it . . .
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
A still, cloudy day with from time to time a gentle August rain. Rain and mist contract our horizon and we notice near and small objects. The weeds—fleabane, etc.—begin to stand high in the potato-fields, overtopping the potatoes. This hardhack interests me with its bedewed pyramid . . .
After sunset, a very low, thick, and flat white fog like a napkin, on the meadows, which ushers in a foggy night . . .
Dedham, Mass. The Norfolk Democrat prints a notice of Walden.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Conantuin hillside is now literally black with berries. What a profusion of this kind of food Nature provides, as if to compensate for the scarcity last year! Fortunate that these cows in their pasture do not love them, but pass them by. The blackberries are already softening, and of all kinds there are many, many more than any or all creatures can gather. Theyare literally five or six species deep . . . You go daintily wading through this thicket, picking, perchance, only the biggest of the blackberries—as big as your thumb—and clutching here and there a handful of huckleberries or blueberries, but never, perchance, suspecting the delicious cool blue-bloomed ones under all. This favorable moist weather has expanded some of the huckleberries to the size of bullets. Each patch, each bush, seems fuller and blacker than the last . . .
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