Log Search Results

  P. M.—Down river.

  Wind from northeast. Some water milkweed flying. Its pods small, slender, straight, and pointed perfectly upright ; seeds large with much wing . . .

  I hear that a Captain Hurd, of Wayland or Sudbury, estimates the loss of river meadow-hay this season in those two towns on account of the freshet at twelve hundred tons.

  It was three miles off, and I walked back and forth each day, arriving early and working as late as if I were living there. The man was gone away most of the time, but had left some sand dug up in his cow-yard for me to make mortar with. I bricked up a fireplace, papered a chamber,  but my principal work was whitewashing ceilings. Some were so dirty that many coats would not conceal the dirt. In the kitchen I finally resorted to yellow-wash to cover the dirt. I took my meals there, witting down with my employer (when he got home) and his hired men. I remember the awful condition of the sink, at which I washed one day, and when I came to look at what was called the towel I passed it by and wiped my hands on the air . . .

  P.M. (before the above).—Paddled up the Assabet. Strong north wind, bringing down leaves.

  Many white and red maple, bass, elm, and black willow leaves are strewn over the surface of the water, light, crisp colored skiffs. The bass is in the prime of its change, a mass of yellow . . .

  P.M.—To Conantum . . .

  It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know. I do not get nearer by a hair’s breadth to any natural object so long as I presume that I have an introduction to it from some learned man. To conceive of it with a total apprehension I must for the thousandth time approach it as something totally strange . . .

  Roman wormwood’s yellow dust on my clothes . . . The fragrance of a grape-vine branch, with ripe grapes on it, which I have brought home, fills the whole house. This fragrance is exceedingly rich, surpassing the flavor of any grape.

  P.M.—To the Cliffs via Hubbard’s Swamp . . .

  In Potter’s dry pasture I saw the ground black with blackbirds (troopials?). As I approach, the front rank rises and flits a little further back into the midst of the flock,—it rolls up on the edges,—and, being thus alarmed, they soon take to flight, with a loud rippling rustle, but soon alight again, the rear wheeling swiftly into place like well-drilled soldiers. Instead of being an irregular and disorderly crowd, they appear to know and keep their places and wheel With the precision of drilled troops . . .

  Carried a pail this afternoon to collect goldenrods and berries . . .

  P.M.—To climbing fern . . .

  7.30.—To Fair Haven Pond by boat . . .