The ground is now for the most part bare, though I went through drifts three feet deep in some places. I hear that Simmonds had planted his potatoes (! !) before the snow a week ago. As I go over the railroad bridge, I hear the pewee singing pewet pewee, pee-wet pee-wee. The last time rising on the last syllable . . .

  I asked W. E. C. yesterday if he had acquired fame. He answered that, giving his name at some place, the bystanders said: “Yes, sir, we have heard of you. We know you here, sir. Your name is mentioned in Mr. ————’s book.” That’s all the fame I have had,—to be made known by another man . . .