Thoreau writes in his journal:
Elder is now in its prime. Buttercups are almost gone. Clover is blackened . . . The oven-bird’s nest in Laurel Glen is near the edge of an open pine wood, under a fallen pine twig and a heap of dry oak leaves. Within these, on the ground, is the nest, with a done-like top and an arched entrance of the whole height and width on one side. Lined within with dry pine-needles . . .
