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  Miles had hanging in his barn a little owl (Strix Acadica) which he caught alive with his hands about a week ago. He had forced it to eat, but it died. It was a funny little brown bird, spotted with white, seven and a half inches long to the end of the tail, or eight to the end of the claws, by nineteen in alar extent,—not so long by considerable as a robin, though much stouter . . .

  I was in hope to read something more form your pen in Mr. Conway’s “Dial,” but only recognized that fine pair of Walden twinlets. Of your two books, I perhaps prefer the “Week,”—but after all, “Walden” is but little less a favorite. In the former, I like especially those little snatches of poetry interspersed throughout. I would like to ask what progress you have made in a work some way connected with natural history,—I think it was on Botany,—which Mr. Emerson told me something about in a short interview I had with him two years ago at Poughkeepsie . . .

  If you should feel perfectly able at any time to drop me a few lines, I would like much to know what your state of health is, and if there is, as I cannot but hope, a prospect of your speedy recovery.

  I observe a truly wise practice on every hand, in education, in religion, and the morals of society,—enough embodied wisdom to have set up many an ancient philosopher.

  This society, if it were a person to be met face to face, would not only be tolerated but courted, with its so impressive experience and admirable acquaintance with things.

  Consider society at any epoch, and who does not see that heresy has already prevailed in it?

  Now for the shade of oaks in pastures. The witnesses attending court sit on the benches in the shade of the great elm. The cattle gather under the trees . . .

  Hosmer is haying, but inclined to talk as usual. I blowed on his horn at supper-time. I asked if I should do any harm if I sounded it. He said no, but I called Mrs. Hosmer back, who was on her way to the village . . .

  I am disappointed that Hosmer, the most intelligent farmer in Concord, and perchance in Middlesex, who admits that he has property enough for his use without accumulating more, and talks of leaving off hard work, letting his farm, and spending the rest of has days easier and better, cannot yet think of any method of employing himself but in work with his hands . . .

  We have all kinds of walks in the woods, if we follow the paths . . .

  Euphorbia maculata, good while. Polygonum aviculare, a day or two. Now a great show of elder blossoms. Polygala sangvinea, apparently a day or more. Galium asprellum in shade; probably earlier in sun. Partridges a third grown.

  Veery still sings and toad rings.

  On the hot sand of the new road at Beck Stove’s, headed toward the water a rod or more off . . .