Thoreau writes in his journal:
Franklin B. Sanborn writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Going up the railroad, I see a male and female rusty grackle alight on an oak near me, the latter apparently a flaxen brown, with a black tail. She looks like a different species of bird. Wilson had heard only a tchuck from the grackle, but this male, who was courting his mate, broke into incipient warbles, like a bubble burst as soon as it came to the surface, it was so aerated. Its air would not be fixed long enough . . .
Liverpool, England. Nathaniel Hawthorne writes to Ticknor & Fields:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
I notice at the Conantum house, of which only the chimney and frame now stand, a triangular mass of rubbish, more than half a bushel, resting on the great mantel-tree against an angle in the chimney . . .
Thoreau writes in his journal:
A. Bronson Alcott writes to his wife Abigail:
Alcott also writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
Thoreau writes in his journal:
A. Bronson Alcott writes in his journal:
Boston, Mass. Thoreau checks out Principles of Zoölogy by Louis Agassiz and Augustus A. Gould and The animal kingdom, arranged in conformity with its organization by Georges Léopold Chrétien Frédéric Cuvier from the Boston Society of Natural History.
Thoreau writes in his journal:
C. says he keeps a dog for society, to stir up the air of the room when it, becomes dead, for he experiences awful solitudes. Aknother time thinks we must cultivate the social qualities, perhaps had better keep two dogs apiece . . .
Thoreau writes in his journal:
A considerable fog. The weeds still covered by the flood, so that we have no Bidens Beckii. B. chrysanthemoides just out. The small, dull, lead-colored berries of the Viburnma dentatum now hang over the water. The Amphicarpa amonoica appears not to have bloomed . . .
P.M.—To Conantum.
This is by some considered the warmest day of the year thus far; but, though the weather is melting hot, yet the river having been deepened and cooled by the rains, we have none of those bathing days of July, ’52 . . . At the Swamp Bridge Brook, flocks of cow troopials now about the cows . . .
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