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  P.M.—To Flint’s Pond . . . (Journal, 6:141-143).

Yrs respectfully
Henry D. Thoreau

  The papers are talking about the prospect of a war between England and America. Neither side sees how its country can avoid a long and fratricidal war without sacrificing its honor. Both nations are ready to take a desperate step, to forget the interests of civilization and Christianity and their commercial prosperity and fly at each other’s throats. When I see an individual thus beside himself, thus desperate, ready to shoot or be shot, like a blackleg who has little to lose, no serene aims to accomplish, I think he is a candidate for bedlam. What asylum is there for nations to go to? . . .

  The hedges on the Hill are all cut off. The journals think they cannot say too much on improvements in husbandry. It is a safe theme, like piety . . . (Journal, 10:286-287).

  Though it was a dry, powdery snow-storm yesterday, the sun is now so high that the snow is soft and sticky this afternoon . . . (Journal, 11:457).

  To Abner Buttrick’s Hill.

  The river has been breaking up for several days, and I now see great cakes lodged against each of the bridges, especially at Hunt’s and the North Bridge, where the river flows with the wind. For a week or more you could not go to Ball’s Hill by the south side of the river . . .

  I walk down the river below Flint’s on the north side. The sudden apparition of this dark-blue water on the surface of the earth is exciting. I must now walk where I can see the most water, as to the most living part of nature. This is the blood of the earth, and we see its blue arteries pulsing with new life now . . .

  C. [William Ellery Channing] found a skater-insect on E. Hubbard’s Close brook in woods to-day.

  Mother hears a robin to-day . . .

  “The bluebird has come, now let us rejoice!
  This morning I heard his melodious voice.”

  But a more certain herald of spring, the pigeon woodpecker, a few of which remain with us during the winter, has commenced his refreshing call. While I sit writing with my Shanty door open I hear, too, the sweet notes of meadow-lark, which also winters here, and regales us with his song nearly every fine morning. I have seen and heard the blackbird flying over, not his song, but crackle; the redwing, I doubt not he is quite garrulous in the warmer nooks of low and open woodlands and bushy pastures. There goes the woodpecker, rattling away on his “penny trumpet!”

  It is one of those exquisitely still mornings when all nature, without and within, seems at peace. Sing away, dear bluebird! My soul swells with gratitude to the great Giver of all good and beautiful things. As I go to my Shanty door to dry my ink in the sun, I see swarms of little flies in the air near by. The crows are cawing from the more distant pine-woods, where you and I and my other dear poetic friends have walked together. Now I hear the lonely whistle of the black-cap, followed by his strange counterpart in song, the “Chickadee” chorus.

  2p.m. Wid S.W. Thermometer 52 deg. In shade. I suppose that you are also enjoying somewhat of this spring influence, if not as fully as we. The winter has passed away this far quite comfortably with us, and though not severe, with a few occasional exceptions, yet we have had a good deal of good skating, which has been well improved by bothsexes, old and young, My sons and I again made a circuit of the Middleborough ponds on the 17th December, at which we should have liked very much your company. Our river has also been frozen strong enough, and we have had several afternoons’ skating there, visiting our friends below on the Fairhaven side. It was really a cheerful sight to see the large number—sometimes a thousand or more—enjoying the pastime and recreation. Many of our young women skate well, and among them our Emma. Walton makes his own skates, and really elegant affairs are they, and he is also very agile upon them. We have a large ship building a little below us, but far enough off not to interfere with the inland quiet of my rambles along shore which I sometimes take in foggy weather, when I suppose I am [a] little more of a Hollander than usual.

  As my object was principally to announce the bluebird, which may have reached you by the time this letter shall, I will soon close. March is close at hand again, and may be here by the time you read this. It is “a welcome month to me.” I call it a month of hope, and can patiently wait for the spring flowers and the song of birds so near by. Soon the willow will put forth its catkins, and your friend the piping or peeping frogs set up their vernal choir, so gentle and soothing to the wounded spirit, where there is also a poetic ear to listen to it.

  4 p.m. I fear after all, that thesis will prove rather a disjointed letter, for I have been interrupted several times in its progress. During the intervals I have been to town—helped load a hay-wagon with hay, and am just returned from a short drive with my wife and daughters. The only objects of particular attraction were the pussies or catkins on the willows along the lower part of the Nash road, and the aments of the alder, the latter not much advanced.

  Now that spring is so near at hand may I not expect to see you here once more? Truly pleasant would it be to ramble about with you, or sit and chat in the Shanty or with the family around our common hearthstone.

  I send you this day’s Mercury with a letter and editorial (I suppose) of [William Ellery] Channing’s.

  Hoping to hear from you soon, or, what is better, to see you here, I remain,

  Yours truly,
  Dan’l Ricketson

Your welcome letter of Nov. 4th last was duly received. I regret that mine which prompted it should have proved mystical to you. We must ‘bear and forbear’ with each other.