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  First still hour since the afternoon of the 17th. March truly came in like a lamb and went out like a lion this year . . .

  Read an interesting article on Étienne Geoffrey Saint-Hilaire, the friend and contemporary of Cuvier, though opposed to him in his philosophy. He believed species to be variable . . .

  It is a little warmer than of late, though still the shallows are skimmed over.

  The pickerel begin to dart from the shallowest parts not frozen . I hear many phe-be notes from the chickadees, as if they appreciated this slightly warmer and sunny morning.

  A fine day. As I look through the window, I actually see a warmer atmosphere with its fine shimmer against the russet hills and the dry leaves, though the warmth has not got into the house and it is no more bright nor less windy than yesterday, or many days past. I find that the difference to the eye is a slight haze, though it is but very little warmer than yesterday.

  Still cold and blustering. I come out to see the sand and subsoil in the Deep Cut, as I would to see a spring flower, some redness in the check of Earth. These cold days have made the ice of Walden dry and pretty hard again at top. It is just twenty-four inches thick in the Middle, about eleven inches of snow ice . . .

  I go to Fair Haven via the Andromeda Swamps. The snow is a foot and more in depth there still. There is a little bare ground in and next to the swampy woods at the head of Well Meadow . . .

  Another fine afternoon, warmer than before, I think. I walk in the fields now without slumping in the thawing ground, or there are but few soft places, and the distant sand-banks look dry and warm. The frogs are now heard leaping into the ditches on your approach . . .

  Hear a red squirrel chirrup at me by the hemlocks (running up a hemlock), all for my benefit; not that lie is excited by fear, I think, but so full is he of animal spirits that lie makes a great ado about the least event . . .

  P.M.—To Walden via Hubbard’s Close . . .

  I notice again in the spring-holes in Hubbard’s Close that water purslane, being covered with water, is an evergreen,—though it is reddish.

  Little pollywogs two inches long are lively there.

  Sec on Walden two sheldrakes, male and female, as is common. So they have for some time paired . . .

  The afternoon so warm—wind southwest—you take off coat. The streets are quite dusty for the first time . . . At eve I go listening for snipe, but hear none . . .

  As I walk the street I realize that a new season has arrived . . .

  Alone, and idle here this pleasant Sunday p.m., I thought I might write you a few lines, not that I expect you to answer, but only to bring myself a little nearer to you. I have to chronicle this time, the arrival of the purple Finch, and a number of warblers and songsters of the sparrow tribe.

  The spring is coming on nicely here, and to-day it is mild, calm, and sunny. I hope you are able to get out a little and breathe the pure air of your fields and woods. While sawing some pine wood the other day, the fragrance suggested to my mind that you might be benefited by living among, or at least frequenting pine woods. I have heard of people much improved in health who were afflicted in breathing, from this source, and I once seriously thought of taking my wife to the pine woods between here and Plymouth, or rather between Middleborough and Plymouth, where the pine grows luxuriantly in the dry yellow ground of that section.

  I have thought you might, if still confined, transport yourself in imagination or spirit to your favorite haunts, which might be facilitated by taking a piece of paper and mapping out your usual rambles around Concord, making the village the centre of the chart and giving the name of each part, marking out the roads and footpaths as well as the more prominent natural features of the country.

  I have had two unusually dreamy nights—last and the one before. Last night I was climbing mountains with some accidental companion, and among the dizzy heights when near the top I saw and pointed out to my fellow-traveller two enormous birds flying over our heads. These birds soon increased, and, from being as I at first supposed eagles of great size, became griffins! as large as horses, their huge bodies moved along by broadspread wings. The dream continued, but the remainder is as the conclusion of most dreams in strange contrast. I found myself passing through a very narrow and filthy village street, the disagreeable odor of which so quickened my speed as to either awake me or cut off my dream. At any rate, when I awoke my head was aching and I was generally exhausted. But enough of this.

  Two young men in a buggy-wagon have just driven up the road singing in very sonorous strains the “John Brown” chorus. I wish its pathetic and heart-stirring appeals could reach the inward ears of Congress and the President. I hope you can see some light on our present benighted way, for I cannot except by the exercise of my faith in an overruling Providence.

  I may write you again soon, and hope I do not tire you.

  With kind regards to your family and my other Concord friend, I remain,

Yours affectionately,
Dan’l Ricketson

P.S. I have just seen a cricket in the path near the house. Flies are very lively in my shanty windows. Two flocks wild geese just passed, 4 p.m., N.E. by N. Honk-honk! Honk-honk!