Thoreau writes in his journal:
Sunday morning. A thunder-shower in the night . . . I meet one [a villager], late in the afternoon, going to the river with his basket on his arm and his pole in hand, not ambitious to catch pickerel this time, but he thinks he may perhaps get a mess of small fish . . .
Thoreau writes in his journal on 22 July:
The last Sunday afternoon I smelled the clear pork frying for a farmer’s supper thirty rods off (what a Sunday supper!), the windows being open, and could imagine the clear tea without milk which usually accompanies it (Journal, 2:335).
