The ground is almost completely bare again. There has been a frost in the night.
Now, at 8.30, it is melted and wets my feet like a dew. The water on the meadow this still, bright morning is smooth as in April.
I am surprised to hear the strain of a song sparrow from the riverside, and as I cross from the causeway to the hill, thinking of the bluebird, I that instant hear one's note from deep in the softened air. It is already 40°, and by noon is between 50° and 60°. As the day advances I hear more bluebirds and see their azure flakes settling on the fence-posts. Their short, rich, crispy warble curls through the air. Its grain now lies parallel to the curve of the bluebird's warble, like boards of the same lot.
It seems to be one of those early springs of which we have heard but have never experienced. Perhaps they are fabulous.
I have seen the probings of skunks for a week or more. I now see where one has pawed out the worm-dust or other chankings from a hole in base of a walnut and torn open the fungi, etc., there, exploring for grubs or insects. They are very busy these nights.
If I should make the least concession, my friend would spurn me. I am obeying his law as well as my own.
Where is the actual friend you love? Ask from what hill the rainbow's arch springs! It adorns and crowns the earth.
Our friends are our kindred, of our species. There are very few of our species on the globe.
Between me and my friend what unfathomable distance! All mankind, like motes and insects, are between us.
If my friend says in his mind, I will never see you again, I translate it of necessity into ever. That is its definition in Love's lexicon.
Those whom we can love, we can hate; to others we are indifferent.
P. M. — To Walden. The railroad in the Deep Cut is dry as in spring, almost dusty. The best of the sand foliage is already gone. I walk without a greatcoat. A chickadee with its winter lisp flits over, and I think it is time to hear its phebe note, and that instant it pipes it forth.
Walden is still covered with thick ice, though melted a foot from the shore.
The French (in the Jesuit Relations) say fil de l'eau for that part of the current of a river in which any floating thing would be carried, generally about equidistant from the two banks. It is a convenient expression, for which I think we have no equivalent.
Get my boat out the cellar.
H. D. Thoreau, Journal, February 24, 1857
I am surprised to hear the strain of a song sparrow from the riverside. See January 15, 1857 ("I saw, to my surprise, that it must be a song sparrow, . . .taken refuge in this shed”) January 28, 1857 (“Am again surprised to see a song sparrow sitting for hours on our wood-pile in the yard, in the midst of snow in the yard.”); February 2, 1858 ("As I return from the post-office, I hear the hoarse, robin-like chirp of a song sparrow on Cheney's ground, and see him perched on the top most twig of a heap of brush, looking forlorn and drabbled and solitary in the rain.”); February 26, 1851 ("See five red-wings and a song sparrow(?) this afternoon.”); March 2, 1860 ("Looking up a narrow ditch in a meadow, I see a modest brown bird flit along it furtively, — the first song sparrow, -- and then alight far off on a rock. Ed. Hoar says he heard one February 27th."); March 3, 1860 (" The first song sparrows are very inconspicuous and shy on the brown earth. You hear some weeds rustle, or think you see a mouse run amid the stubble, and then the sparrow flits low away."); March 5, 1860 ("The song sparrows begin to sing hereabouts."); March 11, 1854 ("On Tuesday, the 7th, I heard the first song sparrow chirp, and saw it flit silently from alder to alder. This pleasant morning after three days' rain and mist, they generally forthburst into sprayey song from the low trees along the river. The developing of their song is gradual but sure, like the expanding of a flower. This is the first song I have heard.”); March 11, 1859 (“By riverside I hear the song of many song sparrows, the most of a song of any yet.”); .March 18, 1857 (“I now again hear the song sparrow’s tinkle along the riverside, probably to be heard for a day or two”); March 27, 1857 (“But now chiefly there comes borne on the breeze the tinkle of the song sparrow along the riverside.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring: The Song Sparrow Sings
Thinking of the bluebird, I that instant hear one's note from deep in the softened air. See February 27, 1861 ("Walking down the Boston road under the hill this side Clark's, it occurs to me that I have just heard a bluebird. I stop and listen to hear it again, but cannot tell whither it comes."); See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring: Listening for the Bluebird
I have seen the probings of skunks for a week or more. See February 24,1854 (“The other day I thought that I smelled a fox very strongly, and went a little further and found that it was a skunk.”); February 26, 1860 ("They appear to come out commonly in the warmer weather in the latter part of February.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring: Skunks Active
The railroad in the Deep Cut is dry as in spring, almost dusty. The best of the sand foliage is already gone. See February 24, 1852 ("I am too late by a day or two for the sand foliage on the east side of the Deep Cut. The frost is partly come out of this bank, and it is become dry again in the sun");
I walk without a greatcoat. See February 7, 1857 ("It is so warm that I am obliged to take off my greatcoat and carry it on my arm. "); February 16, 1856 ("The sun is most pleasantly warm on my cheek; the melting snow shines in the ruts; the cocks crow more than usual in barns; my greatcoat is an incumbrance.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring: My Greatcoat on my Arm
I think it is time to hear its phebe note, and that instant it pipes it forth. See January 9, 1858 ("Some chickadees come flitting close to me, and one utters its spring note, phe-be.”); February 9, 1856 ("I hear a phoebe note from a chickadee"); March 1, 1854 (" I hear the phoebe or spring note of the chickadee"); March 1, 1856 ("I hear several times the fine-drawn phe-be note of the chickadee, See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Signs of the Spring: The Spring Note of the Chickadee
Get my boat out the cellar. See February 26, 1857 ("Paint the bottom of my boat.”); March 17, 1857 (“Launch my boat.”) See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, Boat in. Boat out.
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau. get my boat out of the cellar
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality."
~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2024
tinyurl.com/hdt-570224
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