Henry David Thoreau was as much a curious child in big boy clothing as he was a transcendental author, historian, and philosopher. His journal entries are proof of this.

While reading through Early Spring in Massachusetts I stumbled upon this tale of whimsy. Thoreau finds a flying squirrel in the forest, catches it, and takes it home for the evening, much like how a young boy would collect fireflies or worms in a jar. His journals are full of stories like this where his curiosity propels him to chase after wild creatures, disturbing their nature, wrecking their homes.

When we study about people of history we are often unaware of their humanity. The facts and achievements dominate the pages of textbooks and biographies. You likely know of Thoreau’s great works like Walden and Civil Disobedience, but you’d better understand his love of nature and the origins of his political stances if you also held some knowledge of his personality, his quirks— his loves and fears. Understanding personal traits such as these are important to understanding our historical figures and how they came to be. They were more than their well-documented impacts upon the world. They were silly little humans, just like you and me.

Enjoy the following example of such humanity. Thoreau could be quite the goofball. His career was built upon a foundation of journal entries much like these.

From Henry David Thoreau’s Journal

March 22, 1855. On the steep hill-side south of the pond I observed a rotten and hollow hemlock stump about two feet high, and six inches in diameter, and instinctively approached with my right hand ready to cover it. I found a flying squirrel in it, which, as my left hand covered a small hole at the bottom, ran directly into my right hand. It struggled and bit not a little, but my cotton gloves protected me, and I felt its teeth only once or twice. It also uttered three or four dry shrieks at first, something like Cr-r-r-ach cr-r-r-ach cr-r-r-ach. I rolled it up in my handkerchief, and holding the ends tight carried it home in my hand, some three miles.

It struggled more or less all the way, especially when my feet made any unusual or louder noise going through leaves, etc. I could count its claws as they appeared through the handkerchief, and once it put its head through a hole. It even bit through the handkerchief. Color, as I remember, a chestnut ash inclining to fawn or cream color, slightly browned. Beneath, white. The under edge of its wings tinged yellow, the upper, dark, perhaps black, making a dark stripe. It was a very cunning little animal, reminding me of a mouse in the room. Its very large and prominent black eyes gave it an interesting, innocent look. Its very neat, flat, fawn-colored, distichous tail was a great ornament. Its ” sails ” were not very obvious when it was at rest, merely giving it a flat appearance beneath. It would leap off and upward into the air two or three feet from a table, spreading its ” sails,” and fall to the floor in vain, perhaps strike the side of the room in its upward spring and endeavor to cling to it.

It would run up the window by the sash, but evidently found the furniture and walls and floor too hard and smooth for it, and after some falls, became quiet. In a few moments it allowed me to stroke it, though far from confident. I put it in a barrel and covered it up for the night. It was quite busy all the evening gnawing out, clinging for this purpose and gnawing at the upper edge of a sound oak barrel, and then dropping to rest from time to time. It had defaced the barrel considerably by morning, and would probably have escaped, if I had not placed a piece of iron against the gnawed part.

I had left in the barrel some bread, apple, shagbarks, and cheese. It eat some of the apple and one shagbark, cutting it quite in two transversely. In the morning it was quiet, and squatted, somewhat curled up, amid the straw, with its tail passing under it and the end curved over its head, very prettily, as if to shield it from the light and keep it warm. I always found it in this position by day when I raised the lid.

 

March 23, 1855. Carried my flying squirrel back to the woods in my handkerchief. I placed it on the very stump I had taken it from. It immediately ran about a rod over the leaves and up a slender maple sapling about ten feet, then after a moment’s pause sprang off and skimmed downward toward a large maple nine feet distant, whose trunk it struck three or four feet from the ground. This it rapidly ascended on the opposite side from me, nearly thirty feet, and then clung to the main stem with its head downward, eyeing me.

After two or three minutes’ pause, I saw that it was preparing for another spring by raising its head and looking off, and away it went in admirable style, more like a bird than any quadruped I had dreamed of, and far surpassing the impression I had received from naturalists’ accounts. I marked the spot it started from and the place where it struck, and measured the height and distance carefully.

It sprang off from the maple at the height of twenty-eight feet and a half, and struck the ground at the foot of a tree fifty and one half feet distant measured horizontally. Its flight was not a regular descent. It varied from a direct line both horizontally and vertically. Indeed, it skimmed much like a hawk, and part of its flight was nearly horizontal. It diverged from a right line eight or ten feet to the right, making a curve in that direction. There were six trees from six inches to a foot in diameter, one a hemlock, in a direct line between the termini, and these it skimmed partly round, passing through their thinner limbs. It did not, so far as I could perceive, touch a twig. It skimmed its way like a hawk between and around the trees. Though it was a windy day, this was on a steep hillside covered with wood and away from the wind, so it was not aided by that.

As the ground rose about two feet, the distance was to the absolute height as fifty and one half feet to twenty-six and one half feet, or it advanced about two feet for every foot of descent. After the various attempts in the house I was not prepared for this exhibition. It did not fall heavily as in the house, but struck the ground quietly enough, and I cannot believe that the mere extension of the skin enabled it to skim so far. It must be still further aided by its organization. Perhaps it fills itself with air first.

Kicking over the hemlock stump, which was a mere shell with holes below, and a poor refuge, I was surprised to find a little nest at the bottom, open above just like a bird’s nest, a mere bed. It was composed of leaves, shreds of bark, and dead pine needles.

Thoreau seems like the kind of guy I could get along with, at least one who you could share some good stories with over a pint of beer. Listen to Better Hiker’s second podcast episode to hear more stories from his journals.