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4 March 1840.

Concord, Mass. Thoreau writes in his journal:

  I learned to-day that my ornithology had done me no service. The birds I heard, which fortunately did not come within the scope of my science, sung as freshly as if it had been the first morning of creation, and had for background to their song an untrodden wilderness, stretching through many a Carolina and Mexico of the soul.
(Journal, 1:117-118)

Cambridge, Mass. Charles Stearns Wheeler writes to Thoreau (The Correspondence (2013, Princeton), 1:64-5; MS, private owner).

4 March 1841. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal: 

  We reprove each other unconsciously by our own behavior. Our very carriage and demeanor in the streets should be a reprimand that will go to the conscience of every beholder. An infusion of love from a great soul gives a color to our faults, which will discover them, as lunar caustic detects impurities in water.
(Journal, 1:227-228)
4 March 1852. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  10 A.M.—Up river on ice to Fair Haven Pond . . .

  I cut my initials on the bee tree. Now, at 11.30 perhaps, the sky begins to be slightly overcast . . .

  It is pleasant to see the reddish-green leaves of the lambkill still hanging with fruit above the snow, for I am now crossing the shrub oak plain to the Cliffs . . .

(Journal, 3:329-335)
4 March 1853. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal on 5 March:

  Yesterday I got my grape cuttings (Journal, 5:3).
4 March 1854. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  A dull, cloudy day.

  P. M.—To Walden via Hubbard’s Wood and foot of Cliff Hill.

  The snow has melted very rapidly the past week. There is much bare ground. The checkerberries are revealed,—somewhat shrivelled many of them. I look. along the ditches and brooks for tortoises and frogs, but the ditches are still full of dirty ice . . .

(Journal, 6:149-152)
4 March 1855. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  For some time, or since the ground has been bare, I have noticed the spider-holes in the plowed land. We go over the Cliffs. Though a cold and strong wind, it is very warm in the sun, and we can sit in the sun where sheltered on these rocks with impunity. It is a genial warmth.
(Journal, 7:229-230)
4 March 1856.

Concord, Mass. Thoreau writes in his journal:

  To Carlisle, surveying.

  I had two friends. The one offered me friendship on such terms that I could not accept it, without a sense of degradation. He would not meet me on equal terms, but only be to some extent my patron. He would not come to see me, but was hurt if I did not visit him. He would not readily accept a favor, but would gladly confer one. He treated me with ceremony occasionally, though he could be simple and downright sometimes; and from time to time acted a part, treating me as if I were a distinguished stranger; was on stilts, using made words. Our relation was one long tragedy . . .

(Journal, 8:199)

New York, N.Y. Horace Greeley writes to Thoreau:

  Our home is two hours (36 miles) from New York . . . in a quiet Quaker neighborhood . . . You would be out of doors nearly all pleasant days, under a pleasant shade, with a pleasant little landscape in view from the open hill just back of our house.
(The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, 411-412)
4 March 1858. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Thermometer 14° this morning, and this makes decent sleighing of the otherwise soft snow . . .

  The snow balls particularly when, as now, colder weather comes after a damp snow has fallen on muddy ground, and it is soft beneath while just freezing above . . .

(Journal, 10:290-291)
4 March 1859. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Began to snow last evening, and it is now (early in the morning) about a foot deep, and raining.

  P.M.—To E. Hosmcr Spring. Down Turnpike and back by E. Hubbard’s Close.

  We stood still a few moments on the Turnpike below Wright’s (the Turnpike, which had no wheel-track beyond Tuttle’s and no track at all beyond Wright’s), and listened to hear a spring bird. We heard only the jay screaming in the distance and the cawing of a crow. What a perfectly New England sound is this voice of the crow! . . .

  C. [William Ellery Channing] thinks this is called a sap snow, because it comes after the sap begins to flow . . .

(Journal, 12:11-13)
4 March 1860. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  2 P.M.—To Conantum via Clamshell . . .

  The earth is never lighter-colored than now,—the hillsides reflecting the sun when first dried after the winter,especially, methinks, where the sheep’s fescue grows (?). It contrasts finely with the rich blue of the water . . .

(Journal, 13:178-180)

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