Thoreau writes in his journal:
Just saw a little Irish boy, come from the distant shanty in the woods over the bleak railroad to school this morning, take his last step from his last snow-drift on to the schoolhouse door-step, floundering still; saw not his face or his profile, only his mien, and imagined, saw clearly in imagination, his old-worthy face behind the sober visor of his cap . . .
Thoreau writes in his journal on 23 December:
Yesterday afternoon I walked to the stone bridge over the Assabet, and thence down the river on the ice to the Leaning Hemlocks, and then crossed the other branch to the house . . .
I was struck by the amount of small interlaced roots—making almost a solid mass—of some red (?) oaks on the bank which the water had undermined, opposite Sam Barrett’s. Observed by a wall beneath Nawshawtuct where many rabbits appeared to have played and nearly half a pint of dung was dropped in one pile on the snow.
