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  At 2 P.M. the thermometer is 47º. Whenever it is near 40 there is a speedy softening of the snow.

  I read in the papers that the ocean is frozen,—not to bear or walk on safely,—or has been lately, on the back side of Cape Cod . . .

I have read your Hermit Life and also a very appropriate Fourth of July Oration on Slavery in Massachusetts. To say that I greatly admired both would be but an inadequate expression.

A compliance with the above request will be gratefully remembered by

Yours Truly
John Burt
Bellvale Orange Co N.Y.

  3 P.M.—Thermometer 58º and snow almost gone . . .

  I walk over the moist Nawshawtuct hillside and see the green radical leaves of the buttercup, shepherd’s-purse (circular), sorrel, chickweed, cerastium, etc., revealed.

  About 4 P.M. a smart shower, ushered in by thunder and succeeded by a brilliant rainbow and yellow light from under the dark cloud in the west . . .

  Est magnus acervus nivis ad limina, et frigus intolerable intus. Coelum ipsum ruit, credo, et terrain operit. Sero stratum linquo et maturè repeto; in fenestris multa pruina prospectum absumit, et hîc miser scribo, non currente calamo, nam digiti mentesque torpescunt. Canerem cum Horatio, si vox non faucibus haeserit—

Sed olim, Musâ mutatâ, et laetiore plectro,—

  Quum turdus ferrugineus ver reduxerit, tu, spero, linques curas scholasticas, et negotio religato, desipere in loco audebis, aut mecum inter inter sylvas, aut super scopulos Pulchri-Portus, aut in cymba super lacum Waldensem, mulcens fluctus manu, aut specieum miratus sub undas.

  Bulwerius est mihi nomen incognitum, unus ex ignobile vulgo, nec refutandus nec laudandus. Certe alicui nonnullam honorem habeo qui insanabili Cacoëthe scribendi teneatur.

  Species flagrantis Lexingtonis non somnia deturbat? At non Vulcanum Neptunumque culpemus cum superstitioso grege. Natura curat animalculis aequê ac hominibus; cum serena, tum procellosa amica est.

  Si amas historian et fortia facta heroûm non depone Rollin, precor, ne Clio offendas nunc, nec illa det veniam olim.

  Quos libros Latinos legis? legis, inquam, non studes. Beatus qui potest suos libellos tractare et saepe perlegere sine metu domini urgentis! ab otio injurioso procul est; suos amicos et vocare et dimittere quandocunque velit potest. Bonus liber opus est nobilissimum hominis! Hinc ratio non modo cur legeres sed cur tu quoque scriberes. Nec lectores carent; ego sum. Si non librum meditaris, libellum certê. Nihil posteris proderit te spirâsse et vitam nunc lenîter nunc asperê egisse, sed cogitâsse praeciupue et scripsisse.
Vereor ne tibi peraesum hujus epistolae sit; Necnon alma lux caret,

H. D. Thoreaus.

Care Sophia,

  Samuel Niger crebis aegrotationibus, quae agilitatem et aequum animum abstulêre, obnoxius est; iis temporibus ad cellam descendit et multas horas (ibi) manet.

  Flores, ah crudelis pruina! parvo leti discrimine sunt. Cactus frigore ustus est, gerania vero adnuc vigent.

  Conventus sociabiles hac hieme reinstituti fuere. Conveniunt ad meum domum mense quarto vel quinto, ut tu hic esse possis. Matertera Sophia cum nobis remanet; quando urbem revertet non scio. Gravedine etiamnum, sed non tam aegre, laboramus.

  Adolescentula E. White apud pagum paulisper moratur. Memento scribere intra duas hebdomedas.

Te valere desiderium est
Tui Matris C. Thoreaus.

Amanuense, H. D. T.

P. S. Epistolam die solus proxima expectamus.

  There is a huge snowdrift at the door, and the cold inside is intolerable. The very sky is coming down, I guess, and covering up the ground. I turn out late in the morning, and go to bed early; there is thick frost on the windows, shutting out the view; and here I write in pain, for fingers and brains are numb. I would chant with Horace, if my voice did not stick in my throat,—

But soon, changing my tune, and with a cheerfuller note, I’ll say,—

  When Robin Redbreast brings back the springtime, I trust that you will lay your school-duties aside, cast off care, and venture to be gay now and then, roaming with me in the woods, or climbing the Fairhaven cliffs,—or else, in my boat on Walden, let the water kiss your hand, or gaze at your image in the wave.

  Bulwer is to me a name unknown,—one of the unnoticed crowd, attracting neither blame nor praise. To be sure, I hold any one in some esteem who is helpless in the grasp of the writing demon.

  Does not the image of the Lexington afire trouble your dreams? But we may not, like the superstitious mob, blame Vulcan or Neptune. Nature takes as much care for little animals as for mankind; first she is a serene friend, then a stormy friend.

  If you like history, and the exploits of the brave, don’t give up Rollin, I beg; thus would you displease Clio, who might not forgive you hereafter. What Latin are you reading? I mean reading, not studying. Blessed is the man who can have his library at hand, and oft peruse the books, without the fear of a taskmaster! he is far enough from harmful idleness, who can call in and dismiss these friends when he pleases. An honest book’s the noblest work of Man. There’s a reason, now, not only for your reading, but for writing something, too. You will not lack readers, – here am I, for one. If you cannot compose a volume, then try a tract. It will do the world no good, hereafter, if you merely exist, and pass life smoothly or roughly; but to have thoughts, and write them down, that helps greatly.

  I fear you will tire of this epistle; the light of day is dwindling, too,—

  Therefore, good-by; fare ye well, and sleep in quiet, both my sisters! Don’t forget to write.

H. D. Thoreau

  Sam Black (the cat) is liable to frequent attacks that impair his agility and good-nature; at such times he goes down cellar, and stays many hours. Your flowers—O, the cruel frost! are all but dead; the cactus is withered by cold, but the geraniums yet flourish. The Sewing Circles have been revived this winter; they meet at our house in April or May, so that you may then be here. Your Aunt Sophia remains with us,—when she will return to the city I don’t know. We still suffer from heavy colds, but not so much. Young Miss E. White is staying in the village a little while. Don’t forget to write within two weeks.

  That you may enjoy good health is the prayer of

Your mother,
C. Thoreau.

H.D.T. was the scribe.

P.S. We expect a letter next Sunday.

  P.M.—Deep Cut, going to Fair Haven Hill. No music from the telegraph harp on the causeway, where the wind is strong, but in the Cut this cold day I hear memorable strains . . .