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  9 P.M.—Down railroad.

  Heat lightning in the horizon. A sultry night. A flute front some villager. How rare among men so fit a thing as the sound of a flute at evening! Have not the fireflies in the meadow relation to the stars above, étincelant? When the darkness comes, we see stars beneath also . . .

  No fog this morning and scarcely any dew except in the lowest ground. There is a little air stirring, too; the breeze in the night must have been the reason. It threatens to be a hot, as well as dry, day, and gardens begin to suffer.

  Before 4 A.M., or sunrise, the sound of chip-birds and robins and bluebirds, etc., fills the air and is incessant. It is a crowing on the roost, methinks, as the cock crows before he goes abroad. They do not sing deliberately as at eve, but greet the morning with an incessant twitter. Even the crickets seem to join the concert. Yet I think it is not the same every morning, though it may be fair. An hour or two later it is comparative silence. The awaking of the birds, a tumultuous twittering.

  At sunrise, however, a slight mist curls along the surface of the water. When the sun falls on it, it looks like a red dust . . .

  P.M.—To Baker Farm by boat.

  The yellowish or greenish orchis out, maybe a day or two. It would be a very warm afternoon, if there were not so good a breeze from the southwest . . .

  As the sun went down last night, round and red in a damp misty atmosphere, so now it rises in the same manner, though there is no dense fog . . .

  Three days in succession,—the 13th, 14th, and 15th,—thunder-clouds, with thunder and lightning, have risen high in the cast, threatening instant rain, and yet each time it has failed to reach us . . .

  There is a cool east wind,—and has been afternoons for several days,—which has produced a very thick haze or a fog- . . . There is a fine ripple and sparkle on the pond, seen through the mist. But what signifies the beauty of nature when men are base? We walk to lakes to see our serenity reflected in them. When we are not serene, we go not to them. Who can be serene in a country where both rulers and ruled are without principle? The remembrance of the baseness of politicians spoils my walks. My thoughts are murder to the State; I endeavor in vain to observe nature; my thoughts involuntarily go plotting against the State. I trust that all just men will conspire . . .

  P.M.—To Hubbard’s Grove, on river . . .

  A painted tortoise just burying three flesh-colored eggs in the dry, sandy plain near the thrasher’s nest. It leaves no trace on the surface . . .

  Within half a mile I come to the house of an Indian, a gray one-storied cottage, and there were two or three more beyond. They were just beginning to build a meeting-house to-day! . . .

  It is pleasant to paddle over the meadows now, at this time of flood, and look down on the various meadow plants, for you can see more distinctly quite to the bottom than ever . . .

  Edward Emerson, Edward Bartlett, and Storrow Higginson came to ask me the names of some eggs to-night . . .

  Small snapdragon, how long?

  Examined a kingfisher’s nest,—though there is a slight doubt if I found the spot. It was formed singularly like that of the bank swallow, i.e. flat-elliptical . . .