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5 January 1857. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  A cold, cutting northwest wind (Journal, 9:206).
5 January 1858. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  P.M.—I see one of those fuzzy winter caterpillars, black at the two ends and brown-red in middle, crawling on a rock by the Hunt’s Bridge causeway. Mr. Hosmer is loading hay in his barn. It is meadow-hay, and I am interested in it chiefly as a botanist . . .
(Journal, 10:237-238)
5 January 1859. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  As I go over the causeway, near the railroad bridge, I hear a fine busy twitter, and, looking up, see a nuthatch hopping along and about a swamp white oak branch, inspecting every side of it, as readily hanging head-downwards as standing upright, and then it utters a distinct gnah, as if to attract a companion . . .
(Journal, 11:391)
5 January 1860. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  P.M.—Via Turnpike to Smith’s and back by Great Road . . .

  I see the dead stems of the water horehound just rising above the snow and curving outward over the bank of the Assabet, near the stone-heaps . . . (Journal, 13:76-78).

5 July 1836. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes to Henry Vose:

Dear Vose,

  You will probably recognize in the following dialogue a part which you yourself acted.

  Act 1st

    Scene 1st.

  T. Come, Vose, let’s hear from a fellow now and then.

  V. We—ll, I certainly will, but you must write first.

  T. No, confound you, I shall have my hands full, and moreover shall have nothing to say, while you will h[av]e bon-fires, gunpowder plots, and deviltry enough to back you.

  V. Well, I’ll write first, and in the course of our correspondence we can settle a certain other matter.

  Now ’tis to this “certain other matter” alone that you are indebted for this epistle. The length and breadth, the height and depth, the sum & substance of what I have to say, is this. Your humble servant will endeavor to enter the Senior Class of Harvard University next term, and if you intend taking a room in College, and should it be consistent with your pleasure, will joyfully sign himself your lawful and proper “Chum.” Should the case be otherwise, you will oblige him much if you will request that sage doughface of a Wheeler to secure me one of the following rooms. Agreeably to his polite offer.

  H. 23

  St. do

  H. 27

  St. do

  St. 28

  H. do

Look well to the order.

  I shall expect to hear from you forthwith. I leave it to you to obtain a room, should it be necessary.

Yrs Matter-of-factly
D H Thoreau

(The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, 7)
5 July 1840. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Go where we will, we discover infinite change in particulars only, not in generals.

  You cannot rob a man of anything which he will miss (Journal, 1:162).

5 July 1845. Walden Pond.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  Yesterday I came here to live. My house makes me think of some mountain houses I have seen, which seemed to have a fresher auroral atmosphere about them, as I fancy of the halls of Olympus (Journal, 1:361).
5 July 1849. Cambridge, Mass.

Louis Agassiz writes in reply to Thoreau’s letter of 30 June:

Dear Sir,

  I remember with much pleasure the time you used to send me specimens from your vicinity and also our short interview in the Marlborough Chapel. I am under too many obligations of your kindness to forget it, and I am very sorry that I missed your visit in Boston, but for 18 months I have now been settled in Cambridge.

  It would give me great pleasure to engage for the lectures you ask from me, on behalf of the Bangor Lyceum; but I find it has been last winter such an heavy tax upon my health, that I wish for the present to make no engagements, as I have some hopes of making my living this year by other efforts and beyond the necessity of my wants, both domestic and scientific. I am determined not to exert myself, as all the time I can thus secure to myself must be exclusively devoted to science . You see this does not look much like business making; but my only business is my intercourse with nature and could I do without draughtsmen, lithographers &c &c I would live still more retired. This will satisfy you, that whenever you come this way, I shall be delighted to see you, since I have also heard something of your mode of living.

  With great regard

  Sincerely yours

  L R Agassiz

(The Correspondence of Henry David Thoreau, 244)

5 July 1851. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  The vetch-like flower by the Marlborough road, the Tephrosia Virginica, is in blossom, with mixed red and yellowish blossoms . . . As we come over Hubbard’s Bridge between 5 and 6 P.M., the sun getting low, a cool wind blowing up the valley, we sit awhile on the rails which are destined for the new railing. The light on the Indian hill is very soft and glorious, giving the idea of the most wonderful fertility. The most barren hills are gilded like waving grain-fields. What a paradise to sail by! The cliffs and woods up the stream are nearer and have more shadow and actuality about them. This retired bridge is a favorite spot with me. I have witnessed many a fair sunset from it.
(Journal, 282-283)

Thoreau writes in his journal on 6 July:

  There is some advantage in being the humblest, cheapest, least dignified man in the village, so that the very stable boys shall damn you. Methinks I enjoy that advantage to an unusual extent. There is many a coarsely well-meaning fellow, who knows only the skin of me, who addresses me familiarly by my Christian name. I get the whole good of him and lose nothing myself. There is “Sam,” the jailer,—whom I never call Sam, however,—who exclaimed last evening: “Thoreau, are you going up the street pretty soon? Well, just take a couple of these handbills along and drop one in at Hoar’s piazza and one at Holbrook’s, and I’ll do as much for you another time.” I am not above being used, aye abused, sometimes.
(Journal, 2:283)
5 July 1852. Concord, Mass.

Thoreau writes in his journal:

  How perfect an invention is glass! There is a fitness in glass windows which reflect the sun morning and evening, windows, the doorways of light, thus reflecting the rays of that luminary with a splendor only second to itself . . .

  Some birds are poets and sing all summer. They are the true singers. Any man can write verses during the love season. I am reminded of this while we rest in the shade on the Major Heywood road and listen to a wood thrush, now just before sunset . . .

(Journal, 4:185-192)

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