From Maples to Mouse-Ears: Thoreau’s October Observations

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This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:

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October 8, 1852

On this day, dear readers, we find ourselves transported to the tranquil shores of Walden Pond, where that most astute observer of nature, Henry David Thoreau, put pen to paper in his ever-illuminating journal.

Let us peer over his shoulder, as it were, and drink in the autumnal scene he so deftly captures:

The maples are reddening, and birches yellowing.

The mouse-ear in the shade in the middle of the day... looks as if the frost still lay on it.

Bumblebees are on the Aster... and gnats are dancing in the air.

Oh, what a tableau!

Can you not feel the crisp October air, hear the rustle of leaves turning to flame, and sense the last, desperate revelry of insects before winter's approach?

Thoreau's pen paints for us a world in transition, a moment balanced precariously between summer's fading warmth and autumn's encroaching chill.

But let us linger a moment on that curious "mouse-ear" that caught Thoreau's discerning eye.

For those uninitiated in the subtle language of flora, this charming moniker refers to none other than the tufted forget-me-not (Myosotis laxa), also known by the equally delightful monikers of bay forget-me-not or small-flower forget-me-not.

Picture, if you will, this diminutive bloom nestled in some damp, shaded nook, its petals still glistening with what Thoreau fancied might be lingering frost. Such is the preferred habitat of this moisture-loving plant, and one can almost feel the cool dampness rising from the earth as Thoreau bent to examine it more closely.

Indeed, our sage of Walden Pond was quite taken with this unassuming flower.

He writes, with a tenderness that might surprise those who know him only as a stern advocate of simple living:

It is one of the most interesting minute flowers.

It is the more beautiful for being small and unpretending; even flowers must be modest.

Ah, what wisdom lies in these words! How often, in our grand gardens and manicured lawns, do we overlook the quiet beauty of the small and unassuming?

Thoreau, in his infinite wisdom, reminds us that there is beauty in modesty, charm in subtlety.

And here, dear gardeners, we arrive at a truth that many of us come to appreciate only after years of tending our plots: as we mature in our horticultural pursuits, we begin to see beauty in places we once overlooked.

The tiny forget-me-not, the delicate unfurling of a fern, the perfect symmetry of a leaf – these become as captivating as the showiest rose or the most flamboyant orchid.

Our perspective evolves, much like a garden itself. We learn to appreciate the subtle interplay of textures, the gentle gradations of color, the quiet persistence of plants that return year after year without fanfare. Our love for our gardens deepens and matures, encompassing not just the grand and obvious, but the small and quietly magnificent.

So, as we tend our gardens this autumn, let us take a page from Thoreau's journal.

Let us bend down, peer closely, and marvel at the beauty that exists in the smallest corners of our domain.

For in doing so, we not only enrich our gardens, but we cultivate a deeper appreciation for the intricate tapestry of nature that surrounds us.

And who knows?

Perhaps, like Thoreau's forget-me-not, the modest beauty we discover will linger in our memories long after the frost has come and gone.

Henry David Thoreau 1856 (colorized and enhanced)
Henry David Thoreau 1856 (colorized and enhanced)
Henry David Thoreau Engraving 1861
Henry David Thoreau Engraving 1861
Henry David Thoreau, portrait as a young man
Henry David Thoreau, portrait as a young man

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