On Lee’s hillside by the pond, the old leaves of some pitch pines are almost of golden-yellow hue, seen in the sunlight,—a rich autumnal look . . . A large sassafras tree behind Lee’s, two feet diameter at ground. As I return over the bridge, I hear a song sparrow singing on the willows exactly as in spring. I see a large sucker rise to the surface of the river. I hear the crickets singing loudly in the walls as they have not done (so loudly) for some weeks, while the sun is going down shorn of his rays by the haze. There is a thick bed of leaves in the road under Hubbard’s elms… Cut a stout purple can of pokeweed.