30 August 1852 – 5 September 1852

A cold storm still, —this the third day, — and a fire to keep warm by. This, methinks, is the most serious storm since spring. Polygonum amphibium var. aquaticum, which is rather rare. I have not seen it in flower. Itis floating. Its broad heart-shaped leaves are purplish beneath, like white lily pads, heart-leaves, and water-targets. What is there in the water that col- ors them? The other variety, which [is] rough and up- right, is more common, and its flowers very beautiful.

Tuesday. 9 a.m.— Up river in boat to the bend above the Pantry. It is pleasant to embark on a voyage, if only for a short river excursion, the boat to be your home for the day, especially if it is neat and dry. A sort of moving studio it becomes, you can carry so many things with you. It is almost as if you put oars out at your win- dows and moved your house along. A sailor, I see, easily becomes attached to his vessel. How continually we [are] thankful to the boat if it does not leak! We move now with a certain pomp and circumstance, with planetary dignity. The pleasure of sailing is akin to that which a planet feels. It seems a more complete adventure than a walk. We make believe embark our all, — our house and furniture. We are further from the earth than the rider ; we receive no jar from it. We can carry many things with us.

Wednesday. Some tragedy, at least some dwelling on, or even exaggeration of, the tragic side of life is necessary for contrast or relief to the picture. The genius of the writer may be such a colored glass as Gilpin describes, the use of which is “to give a greater depth to the shades; by which the effect is shown with more force.” The whole of life is seen by some through this darker medium, — partakes of the tragic, — and its bright and splendid lights become thus lurid. 4 p. Ms — To Walden. Paddling over it, I see large schools of perch only an inch long, yet easily distinguished by their transverse bars. Great is the beauty of a wooded shore seen from the water, for the trees have ample room to expand on that side, and each puts forth its most vigorous bough to fringe and adorn the pond. It is rare that you see so natural an edge to the forest. Hence a pond like this, surrounded by hills wooded down to the edge of the water, is the best place to observe the tints of the autumnal foliage. Moreover, such as stand in or near to the water change earlier than elsewhere.

P. M..—To Walden. The seringo, too, has long been silent like other birds. The red prinos berries ripe in sunny places. Rose hips begin to be handsome. Small flocks of pigeons are seen these days. Distinguished from doves by their sharper wings and bodies. August has been a month of berries and melons, small fruits. First in the de- scent from summer’s culminating-point. There is a still- ness in nature for want of singing birds, commenced a month or more ago; only the crickets’ louder creak to supply their place. I have not heard a bullfrog this long time. The small cornel, or bunch-berry, is in bloom now (!!) near the pond. What great tuft-like masses the cow-wheat makes now in sprout-lands! As I look over the pond now from the eastern shore, I am obliged to employ both my hands to defend my eyes against the reflected as well as the true sun, for they appear equally bright; and between my hands I look over the smooth and glassy surface of the lake. The skaters make the finest imaginable sparkle. Other- wise it is literally as smooth as glass, except where a fish leaps into the air or a swallow dips beneath its surface. Sometimes a fish describes an arc of three or four feet in the. air, and there is a bright flash where it emerges and another where it strikes the water.' A slight haze at this season makes the shore-line so much the more indistinct. Looking across the pond from the .Peak toward Fair Haven, which I seem to see, all the earth beyond appears insulated and floated, even by this small sheet of water, the heavens being seen reflected, as it were beneath it, so that it looks thin. The scenery of this small pond is humble though very beautiful, and does not approach to grandeur, nor can it much concern one who has not long frequented it, or lived by its shore.!

1 A. M., moon waning, to Conantum. A warm night. A thin coat sufficient. I hear an ap- ple fall, as I go along the road. Meet a man going to market thus early. There are no mists to diversify the night. Its features are very simple. I hear no whip- poor-will or other bird. See no fireflies. Saw a whip- poor-will (?) flutter across the road. Hear the dump- ing sound of frogs on the river meadow, and occasionally a kind of croak as from a bittern there. It is very dewy, and I bring home much mud on my shoes. This is a peculiarity of night, —its dews, water resuming its reign. Return before dawn. Morning and evening are more attractive than midnight. I will endeavor to separate the tide in my thoughts, or what is due to the influence of the moon, from the current distractions and fluctuations. The winds which the sun has aroused go down at evening, and the lunar influence may then perchance be detected. Of late I have not heard the wood thrush.

P. M. — To Cliffs.