Thoreau writes in his journal:
A fine spring morning. The ground is almost completely bare again. There has been a frost in the night. Now, at 8.30, it is melted and wets my feet like a dew. The water on the meadow this still, bright morning is smooth as in April. I am surprised to hear the strain of a song sparrow from the riverside, and as I cross from the causeway to the hill, thinking of the bluebird, I that instant hear one’s note from deep in the softened air . . .
If I should make the least concession, my friend would spurn me. I am obeying his law as well as my own.
Where is the actual friend you love? Ask from what hill the rainbow’s arch springs! It adorns and crowns the earth.
Our friends are our kindred, of our species. There are very few of our species on the globe . . .
P.M.—To Walden . . .
