A foul day. The scent of golden senecio recalls the meadows of my golden age. It is like sweet-briar a little.

  First kingbird. Its voice and flight relate it to the swallow . . .

  Most men can be easily transplanted from here there, for they have so little root,—no tap-root,—or their roots penetrate so little way, that you can thrust a shovel quite under them and take them up, roots and all.

  On the 11th, when Kossuth was here, I looked about for shade, but did not find it, the trees not being leaved out. Nature was not prepared for great heats . . .