Log Search Results

  See where the muskrats have eaten much pontederia root. Got some donacia grubs for [Thaddeus William] Harris, but find no chrysalids . . .

  To Baker Farm aspen via Cliffs . . .

  In the path below the Cliff, I see some blue-stemmed golden rod turned yellow as well as purple. The Jersey tea is fallen, all but the terminal leaves. These, however, are the greenest and apparently least changed of any indigenous plant, unless it be the sweet-fern . . .

  Your very pleasant and encouraging letter reached me on Monday (the 8th). Pleasant from the cheerful spirit in which it was written, and encouraging from the appreciation you express for the little portraits of my late travelling experiences I sent you.

  This forenoon I made a visit to Arnold’s grounds, walking to and from through the woods and fields most of the way on the route by the upper road by which the wind-mill stands. In company with the gardener, rejoicing in the appropriate and symphonious name of Wellwood Young, whose broad Gaelic accent rendered an attentive ear necessary to catch the names, I made the following list. The Scotch larch, for instance, he said came from Norroway (Norway), the yellow fringes of which were still hanging on the branches.

  The following is the list I made in accordance with your request. I give the names without any order, just as we happened to meet the trees. Horse-chestnut, quite full of yellow and green foliage. English walnut, do. Beech, Linden, Hawthorn (nearly perfect in green foliage, only a little decayed at the top, but in a sheltered place), Silver Linden, Copper Beech, Elm, Weeping Ash, Weeping Willow, Scotch Larch, Euanimus Europeus (Gardener’s name), I suppose correct. These are all European or English, I believe.

  I give a few others not European, viz: Osage orange (or Maclura), Cornus Florida (handsome) Tulip, three-thorned Acacia, Mexican Cypress.

  There were numerous shrubs in full leaf, among them the Guelder Rose. Vines, Bignonia radicans and Bignonia cuminata.

  I send a few leaves. The largest green leaf is the American Linden—the smaller, the European copper leaved Beech. One English Elm (green), and two smaller and narrower leaves, the Euanimus Europeus.

  I am sorry the list is no fuller, but I think it includes all in these grounds. The location is quite sheltered. I could not ascertain from the gardener what trees exhibited particular brilliancy of foliage last month. I conclude, however, that these I have named were quite fresh up to the last of October.

  It is barely possible I may reach Concord on Saturday next and remain over Sunday, but hardly probable as they say.

  Channing I understand has been to Concord since I wrote you last, and is now here again. Is he not quite as much a “creature of moods” as old Sudbury Inn? But I am in poor mood for writing, and besides it is nearly dark ( 5 p.m.).

  May I not hear from you again soon, and may I not expect a visit also ere long? As this is only a business letter I trust you will excuse its dulness. Hoping I have supplied you (Channing has just come in) with what you wanted, I conclude.

  Yours faithfully,
  D. R.

  P. S. If I should not go to Concord I will endeavor to get one of my books to you soon.

  Collier tells me that his sunflower-head (now dried) measures just twenty-one and a half inches [in] diameter,—the solid part . . .

  Elijah Wood, senior, tells me that about 1814 (or before 1815, in which year he was married, and while he still lived at his father’s on Carlisle road), as he was riding to town on horseback in the evening alone to singing to prepare for Thanksgiving, he stopped to let his horse drink at the brook beyond Winn’s, when he heard a cry from some wild beast just across the river. It affected him so that he did not stop to let his horse drink much . . .

  2 P. M.—To Flint’s Pond. It was the seed-vessel of the Canada snapdragon in the Marlborough road that I mistook for a new flower. This is still in bloom in the Deep Cut . . .

  Going through Britton’s clearing, I find a black snake out enjoying the sun . . . Our Irish washwoman, seeing me playing with the milkweed seeds, said they filled beds with that down in her country . . . Saw a smooth sumach beyond Cyrus Smith’s, very large. The elms in the village have lost many of their leaves, and their shadows by moonlight are not so heavy as last month. Another warm night.