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27 March 1842. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Cliffs.—Two little hawks have just come out to play, like butterflies rising one above the other in endless alternation far below me. They swoop from side to side in the broad basin of the tree-tops, with wider and wider surges, as if swung by an invisible pendulum. They stoop down on this side and scale up on that. Suddenly I look up and see a new bird, probably an eagle, quite above me, laboring with the wind not more than forty rods off. It was the largest bird of the falcon kind I ever saw. I was never so impressed by any flight.
(Journal, 1:351-352)
27 March 1846. Walden Pond.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  This morning I saw the geese from the door through the mist sailing about in the middle of the pond, but when I went to the shore they rose and circled round like ducks over my head, so that I counted them,—twenty-nine. I after saw thirteen ducks.
(Journal, 1:402)
27 March 1847. New York, N.Y.

New York N.Y. The Literary World reports:

  Henry D. Thoreau, Esq. whose elaborate paper on Carlyle, now published in Graham’s Magazine, is attracting considerable attention, has also completed a new work of which reports speak highly. It will probably be soon given to the public.
(The Literary World, 27 March 1847, 185)
27 March 1848. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in reply to H. G. O. Blake’s previous letter, beginning:

  I am glad to hear that any words of mine, though spoken so long ago that I can hardly claim identity with their author, have reached you. It gives me pleasure, because I have therefore reason to suppose that I have uttered what concerns men, and that it is not in vain that man speaks to man. This is the value of literature. Yet those days are so distant, in every sense, that I have had to look at that page again, to learn what was the tenor of my thoughts then. I should value that article, however, if only because it was the occasion of your letter.
(The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, 214-217)

Read Letters to Harrison Gray Otis Blake edited by Wendell Glick (from Great Short Works of Henry David Thoreau edited, with an introduction, by Wendell Glick (New York: Harper & Row, 1982).

27 March 1851. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Walden is two-thirds broken up. It will probably be quite open by to-morrow night (Journal, 2:172).
27 March 1853. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  P.M.—To Martial Miles’s.

  The skunk-cabbage in full bloom under the Clamshell Hill . . . I see but on tortoise (Emys guttata) in Nut Meadow Brook now . . . Tried to see the faint-croaking frogs at J. P. Brown’s Pond in the woods . . . Did not see frog spawn in the pool by Hubbard’s Wood.

(Journal, 5:55-58)
27 March 1854. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Saw a hawk—probably a marsh hawk—by meadow (Journal, 6:176).
27 March 1855. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  6.30 A.M.—To Island.

  The ducks sleep these nights in the shallowest water which does not freeze, and there may be found early in the morning. I think that they prefer that part of the shore which is permanently covered.

  P.M.—To Hubbard’s Close and down brook.

  Measured a black oak just sawed down. Twenty-three inches in diameter on the ground, and fifty-four rings. It had grown twice as much on the east side as on the west . . . Saw a wood tortoise in the brook. Am surprised to see the cowslip so forward, showing so much green . . .

(Journal, 7:272-273)
27 March 1856. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Uncle Charles [Charles Dunbar] died this morning, about midnight, aged seventy-six. The frost is now entirely out is some parts of the New Burying-Ground, the sexton tells me . . .

  Elijah Wood, Senior, about seventy, tells me he does not remember that the river was ever frozen so long, nor that so much snow lay on the ground so long . . .

(Journal, 8:229-230)
27 March 1857. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  There is no snow now visible front my window, except on the heel of a bank in the swallowhole behind Dennis’s. A sunny day, but rather cold air.

  8.30 A.M.—Up Assabet in boat.

  At last I push myself gently through the smooth and sunny water, sheltered by the Island woods and hill, where I listen for birds, etc. There I may expect to hear a woodpecker tapping the rotten aspen tree. There I pause to hear the faint voice of some early bird amid the twigs of the still wood-side. You are pretty sure to bear a woodpecker early in the morning over these still waters. But now chiefly there comes borne on the breeze the tinkle of the song sparrow along the riverside, and I push out into wind and current. Leave the boat and run down to the white maples by the bridge . . .

(Journal, 9:304-307)

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