Aug. 26. Tuesday. More wind and quite cold this morning, but very bright and sparkling, autumn-like air, reminding of frosts to be apprehended,* also tempting abroad to adventure. The fall cricket—or is it alder locust?—sings the praises of the day.
So about 9 A.M. up river to Fair Haven Pond.
I rest and take my lunch on Lee’s Cliff, looking toward Baker Farm. What is a New England landscape this sunny August day? A weather-painted house and barn, with an orchard by its side, in midst of a sandy field surrounded by green woods, with a small blue lake on one side. A sympathy between the color of the weather-painted house and that of the lake and sky. I speak not of a country road between its fences, for this house lies off one, nor do I commonly approach them from this side. The weather-painted house. This is the New England color, homely but fit as that of a toadstool.
*We see no effects of frost yet in garden, but hear a rumor of a little somewhere. First muskmelon gathered.
–Thoreau’s Journal (August 26, 1856)