Thoreau writes in his journal:
Going down the railroad at 9 A.M., I hear the lark singing from over the snow. This for steady singing comes next to the robin now. It will come up very sweet from the meadows ere long. I do not hear those peculiar tender die-away notes from the pewee yet. Is it another pewee, or a later note? The snow melts astonishingly fast. The whole upper surface, when you take it up in your hand, is heavy and dark with water . . .
