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Thoreau writes in his journal:

A little thunder and lightning late in the afternoon. I see two flashes and hear two claps.

A kitten is so flexible that she is almost double; the hind parts are equivalent to another kitten with which the fore part plays. She does not discover that her tail belongs to her till you tread upon it . . .

((Journal, 14:314-315)

15 January 1837. Cambridge, Mass.

Thoreau writes an untitled (and apparently unassigned) essay on “madness” (Early Essays and Miscellanies, 79; The Transcendentalists and Minerva, 1:183).

15 January 1838. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

After all that has been said in praise of the Saxon race, we must allow that our blue-eyed and fairhaired ancestors were originally an ungodly and reckless crew (Journal, 1:25).

15 January 1843. Concord, Mass.

Lidian Jackson Emerson writes to her husband Ralph Waldo:

Henry is about as well as when you were here—and a great comfort to Edith [Edith Emerson] with whom he dances and for whom he plays the flute. Richard Fuller sent him a music box [see entry 16 January] as a N. Year’s gift and it was delightful to see Henrys child like joy. I never saw any one made so happy by a new possession. He said nothing could have been so acceptable. After we had heard its performance he said he must hasten to exhibit it to his sisters [Helen Thoreau / Sophia Thoreau] & mother. [Cynthia Dunbar Thoreau] My heart really warmed with sympathy, and admiration at his whole demeanour on the occasion—and I like human nature better than I did. Richard’s note was very good, I thought. It ended with saying that in presenting the box he was but an interested capitalist—and should look for its harmonies to re-appear in the poet’s senses.—News for you!!—quite fresh. Here is Mother [Ruth Haskins Emerson] just come in from church—where she affirms she saw Henry in your uppermost seat, not without “astonishment.” It must be that he is converted to the right doctrine. I had a conversation with him a few days since on his heresies—but had no expectation of so speedy a result.

(The Selected Letters of Lidian Jackson Emerson, 118)

15 January 1851.

Portland, Maine. Thoreau lectures on “An Excursion to Cape Cod” at the Temple Street Chapel for the Portland Lyceum (Studies in the American Renaissance 1995, 193-7).

Portland, Maine. William Willis writes in his journal:

Lyceum lecture by Henry Thoreau of Concord Mass. did not attend. Said to have been a very poor lecture” (Studies in the American Renaissance 1995, 197).

Concord, Mass. Ralph Waldo Emerson writes in his journal:

The proof of literary genius is the nobil volgar eloquenza,¹ or, with large views, the low tone, and humour to show its unaffectedness. Burns & Goethe & Carlyle, with great difference of power, understand it well. Goethe is in this way a great success.

M M E [Mary Moody Emerson] & Henry James are both proficients, & C. K N., [Charles King Newcomb] H. D. T., & W. E. C. [William Ellery Channing]

(The Journals and Miscellaneous Notebooks of Ralph Waldo Emerson, 11:330)

¹^{“Noble vulgar speech.” See Emerson’s “Literature” (The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, 5:234).}

15 January 1852. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

For the first time this winter I notice snow-fleas this afternoon in Walden Wood. Wherever I go they are to be seen, especially in the deepest ruts and foot-tracks. Their number is almost infinite. It is a rather warm and moist afternoon, and feels like rain. I suppose that some peculiarity in the weather has called them forth from the bark of the trees.

It is good to see Minott’s hens pecking and scratching the ground. What never-failing health they suggest! Even the sick hen is so naturally sick—like a green leaf turning to brown. No wonder men love to have hens about them and hear their creaking note. They are even laying eggs from time to time still—the undespairing race!

Minott was telling me to-day about his going across lots on snow-shoes. Why do they not use them now? He thinks the snows are not so deep . . .

(Journal, 3:191-194)

15 January 1853. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

9 A.M.—To woods . . . Mrs. [Sarah Alden] Ripley, told me this afternoon that [John] Russell had decided that green (and sometimes yellow) dust on the under side of stones in walls was a decaying state of Lepraria chlorina, a lichen,—the yellow another species of Lepraria.

(Journal, 4:466-467)

Concord, Mass. William Ellery Channing writes in his journal:

Unrivalled wood-road perfectly white untrod winding Poorhouse hill, with just one touch of soft yet kindling sunlight on the upper end. Wald beautiful now it is coverd [sic] with snow (William Ellery Channing notebooks and journals. Houghton Library, Harvard University).

Thoreau writes in his journal on 16 January:

Yesterday the hounds were heard. It was a hunter’s day . . . I met Melvin with his bag full (Journal, 4:467).

15 January 1855. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

P.M.—Skated to Bedford. It had just been snowing, and this lay in shallow drifts or waves on the Great Meadows, alternate snow and ice. Skated into a crack, and slid on my side twenty-five feet . . .

(Journal, 7:116)

15 January 1856. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

P.M.—To Hemlocks on the crust, slumping in every now and then . . . (Journal, 8:111).

15 January 1857. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

P.M.—To Fair Haven Pond and across to railroad . . .

What is there ill music that it should so stir our deeps? We are all ordinarily in a state of desperation; such is our life; ofttimes it drives us to suicide. To how many, perhaps to most, life is barely tolerable, and if it were not for the fear of death or of dying, what a multitude would immediately commit suicide! But let us hear a strain of music, we are at once advertised of a life which no man had told us of, which no preacher preaches. Suppose I try to describe faithfully the prospect which a strain of music exhibits to me. The field of my life becomes a boundless plain, glorious to tread, with no death nor disappointment at the end of it. All meanness and trivialness disappear. I become adequate to any deed . . .

(Journal, 9:222)

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