Log Search Results

  George Bradford says he finds in Salem striped maple and Sambucus pubens. He (and Tuckerman?) found the Utricularia resupinata once in Plymouth, and it seems to correspond with mine at Well Meadow . . .

  Nathan Hosmer remembers that when the two new stone piers at Hunt’s Bridge were built, about 1820, one Nutting went under water to place the stones, and he was surprised to see how long he would remain under about this business . . .

  7 P.M.—To Cliffs. No moon . . .

  I hear a man playing a clarionet far off. Apollo tending the flocks of King Admetus. How cultivated, how sweet and glorious, is music! Men have brought this art to great perfection, the art of modulating sound, by long practice since the world began. What superiority over the rude harmony of savages! There is something glorious and flower-like in it. What a contrast this evening melody with the occupations of the day! It is perhaps the most admirable accomplishment of man . . .

  No fog and very little dew, or perhaps it was a slight rain in the night. I find always some dew in low ground. There is a broad crescent of clear sky in the west, but it looks rainy in the cast. As yet we are disappointed of rain. Almost all birds appear to join the early morning chorus before sunrise on the roost, the matin hymn . . . .

  8.30 P.M.—To Cliffs.

  Moon not quite full. Going across Depot Field. The western shy is now a crescent of saffron inclining to salmon, a little dunnish, perhaps. The grass is wet with dew. The evening star has come out, but no other. There is no wind. I see a nighthawk in the twilight, flitting near the ground. I hear the hum of a beetle going by. The greenish fires of lightning bugs are already seen in the meadow. I almost lay my hand on one amid the leaves as I get over the fence at the brook . . .

  I discover that J. Dugan found the eggs of my snapping turtle on June 7th, apparently the same day. It did not go to a new place then, after all. I opened the nest to-day. It is, perhaps, five or six rods from the brook, in the sand near its edge . . .

  Sparganium. A yellowbird feigns broken wings. Woodcock.

  At 3 P.M., as I walked up the bank by the Hemlocks, I saw a painted turtle just beginning its hole . . . I stooped down over it, and, to my surprise, after a slight pause it proceeded in its work, directly under and within eighteen inches of my face. I retained a constrained position for three quarters of an hour or more for fear of alarming it . . .