June 11.
I hear the bobolink and the lark as I go down the railroad causeway. The cricket sings. The red-eye sings now in the woods, perhaps more than any other bird. (In the shanty field.) The mountains are misty and blue. A robin sings and wood thrush amid the pine. The air in this pitch pine wood is filled with the hum of gnats, flies, and mosquitoes. The veery reminds me of the wood thrush in its note, as well as form and color. The oven-bird and the thrasher sing. The last has a sort of chuckle.
You must attend to the birds in the spring.
I hear the bobolink and the lark as I go down the railroad causeway. The cricket sings. The red-eye sings now in the woods, perhaps more than any other bird. (In the shanty field.) The mountains are misty and blue. A robin sings and wood thrush amid the pine. The air in this pitch pine wood is filled with the hum of gnats, flies, and mosquitoes. The veery reminds me of the wood thrush in its note, as well as form and color. The oven-bird and the thrasher sing. The last has a sort of chuckle.
You must attend to the birds in the spring.
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| Golden crowned thrush (oven-bird) |
H.
D. Thoreau, Journal, June 11, 1852
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