2 P. M.—To the Marlborough road. This day is very warm, yet not bright like the last, but hazy. Picked up an Indian gouge on Dennis’s Hill . . . By the side of J. P. Brown’s grain-field I picked up some white oak acorns in the path by the wood-side, which I found to be unexpectedly sweet and palatable, the bitterness being scarcely perceptible . . .

  The farmers are ditching,—redeeming more meadow,—getting corn, collecting their apples, threshing, etc . . . This warm day is a godsend to the wasps. I see them buzzing about the broken windows of deserted buildings, as Jenny Dugan’s,—the yellow-knotted . . . An arrowhead at the desert.

  Spergula arvensis—corn-spurry (some call it tares)—at the acorn tree. Filled my pockets with acorns. Found another gouge on Dennis’s Hill. To have found the Indian gouges and tasted sweet acorns,—is it not enough for one afternoon? The sun set red in haze, visible fifteen minutes before setting, and the moon rose in like manner at the same time. This evening, I am obliged to sit with my door and window open, in a thin coat, which I have not done for three weeks at least. A warm night like this at this season produces its effect on the village. The boys are heard at play in the street now, at 9 o’clock, in greater force and with more noise than usual. My neighbor has got out his flute. There is more fog than usual. The moon is full. The tops of the woods in the horizon seen above the fog look exactly like long, low black clouds, the fog being the color of the sky.