Thoreau writes in his journal:
This Monday the streets are full of cattle being driven up-country,—cows and calves and colts. The rain is making the grass grow apace. It appears to stand upright,—its blades,—and you can almost see it grow. For some reason I now remember the autumn,—the succory and the goldenrod. We remember autumn to best advantage in the spring; the finest aroma of it reaches us then . . .
