Page:Winter - from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau.djvu/358

344 sooner leaves our west windows than a solid, but beautiful crystallization coats them, except, it may be, a triangularish bare spot at one corner which, perhaps, the sun has warmed and dried. A solid, sparkling field in the midst of each pane, with broad, flowing sheaves surrounding it. It has been a very mild as well as open winter up to this. At 9 o'clock, thermometer at —16°. They say it did not rise above —6° to-day.

Feb. 7, 1853. The coldest night for a long, long time. Sheets froze stiff about the face. People dreaded to go to bed. The ground cracked in the night as if a powder-mill had blown up, and the timbers of the house also. My pail of water was frozen in the morning so that I could not break it. Iron was like fire in the hands. [Mercury?] at about 7.30 gone into the bulb of the thermometer —19° at least. Bread, meat, milk, cheese, etc., all frozen. The inside of your cellar door all covered and sparkling with frost like Golconda. The latches are white with frost, and every nail-head in entries, etc., has a white head. Neighbor Smith's thermometer stood at —26° early this morning. But the day is at length more moderate than yesterday. This will be remembered as the cold Tuesday. The old folks still refer to the cold Friday, when they