A cold fog. These mornings those who walk in grass are thoroughly wetted above mid-leg. All the earth is dripping wet. I am surprised to feel how warm the water is, by contrast with the cold, foggy air. The frogs seem glad to bury themselves in it. The dewy cobwebs are very thick this morning, little napkins of the fairies spread on the grass . . .

  P. M.—To Walden and Cliffs via almshouse . . . The evergreen-forest bird at old place in white pine and oak tops, top of Brister’s Hill on right. I think it has black wings with white bars. Is it not the black-throated green warbler? The unmistakable tanager sits on the oaks at midday and sings with a hoarse red-eye note, pruit, prewee, prewa, prear, preā (often more notes), some of the latter notes clearer, without the r. It does not sing so continuously as the red-eye . . .