Thoreau writes in his journal:
In all woods is heard now far and near the sound of the woodchopper’s axe, a twilight sound, now in the night of the year, men having come out for fuel to the forests,—as if men had stolen forth in the arctic night to get fuel to keep their fires a-going . . . Now the sun gets suddenly without a cloud, and with scarcely any redness following, so pure is the atmosphere,—only a faint rosy blush along the horizon.
