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  Walden open, say to-day, though there is still a little ice in the deep southern bay and a very narrow edging along the southern shore.

  Cross through the woods to my boat under Fair Haven Hill. How empty and silent the woods now, before the leaves have put forth or thrushes and warblers are come! . . .

  I have just received your note of the 28th at my brother’s, and hasten a reply for the Post Office before I leave for Brooklawn.

  Nothing would give me more pleasure than a visit from you at any time. It will be perfectly agreeable to myself and family at this present time, and I shall duly expect you on Wednesday or Thursday. Should this reach you in time for an answer, I will be at Tarkiln Hill station to meet you; if not, make your appearance as early as you wish. You can leave your baggage at the depot, and I will send for it if you do not find me or our carriage in waiting.

  As Channing did not make his usual appearance, yesterday p.m., I conclude that he is with you today, and if he leaves before Wednesday or Thursday, you may like to have his company hereward. We are getting on very nicely together.

  The early birds are daily coming. Song sparrows, bluebirds, robins, meadow larks, blackbirds (“Gen. Abercrombies”) are already here, frogs croaking, but not piping yet, and the spring quite genial.

  My historical sketches have kept me quite busy, but agreeably so during the past winter. They are quite to my surprise, very popular. I should have hardly supposed that my homely habits are homlier style of composition would have suited many.

  Should Channing be in Concord and in the humor, he can report my home affairs more fully, if you wish.

  Remember me to your parents and sister and other friends, particularly the Emersons.

  I write at my brother’s, and in the midst of conversation, in which I am participating. You will perceive this is not a Shanty letter, but I am none the less cordially yours,

D. Ricketson

  P.M.—To Ball’s Hill . . .

  While I was looking at the eagle (?), I saw, on the hillside far across the meadow by Holbrook’s clearing, what I at first took for a red flag or handkerchief carried along on a pole, just above the woods. It was a fire in the woods, and I saw the top of the flashing flames above the tree-tops . . .

  Walden is first clear after to-day . . . (Journal, 12:99).

  Thimble-berry two or three days. Cattle stand in the river by the bridge for coolness. Place my hat lightly on my head that the air may circulate beneath. Wild roses budded before you know it—will be out often before you know they are budded. Fields are whitened with mouse-ear gone to seed—a mass of white fuzz blowing off one side—and also with dandelion globes of seeds. Some plants have already reached their fall. How still the hot noon; people have retired behind blinds. Yet the kingbird—lively bird, with white belly and tail edged with white, and with its lively twittering—stirs and keeps the air brisk. I see men and women through open windows in white undress taking their Sunday-afternoon nap, overcome with heat . . .

  The white maple keys have begun to fall and float down the stream like the wings of great insects . . .

  These days it is left to one Mr. Loring to say whether a citizen of Massachusetts is a slave or not. Does any one think that Justice or God awaits Mr. Loring’s decision? Such a man’s existence in this capacity under these circumstances is as impertinent as the gnat that settles on my paper. We do not ask him to make up his mind, but to make up his pack. Whv, the United States Government never performed an act of justice in its life! And this unoffending citizen is held a prisoner by the United States soldier, of whom the best you can say is that he is a fool in a painted coat. Of what use a Governor or a Legislature? they are nothing but politicians . . . I see the papers full of soft speeches of the mayor and the Governor and brother editors. I see the Court-House full of armed men, holding prisoner and trying a MAN, to find out if he is not really a SLAVE. It is a question about which there is great doubt.

  It is really the trial of Massachusetts. Every moment that she hesitates to set this man free, she is convicted . . .

  There are a great marry birds now on the Island Neck. The red-eye, its clear loud song in bars continuously repeated and varied . . . There is also the warbling vireo, with its smooth-flowing, continuous, one-barred, shorter strain . . .

  But what is that bird I hear much like the first part of the yellowbird’s strain, only two thirds as long and varied at end, and not so loud,—a-che che che, che-á, or tche tche tche, tche-a, or ah tche tche tche, chit-i-vet? It is very small, not timid, but incessantly changing its position on the pitch pines . . .

  To return to Painted-Cup Meadow, I do not perceive the rank odor of Thalictrum Cornuti expanding leaves to-day. How more than fugacious it is! Evidently this odor is emitted only at particular times. A cuckoo’s note, loud and hollow, from a wood-side. Found a painted-cup with more yellow than usual in it, and at length Edith found one perfectly yellow. What a flowery place, a vale of Enna, is that meadow . . . Where you find a rare flower, expect to find more rare ones . . .