P. M. Down Boston road under the hill.
Air full of bluebirds as yesterday.
The sidewalk is bare and almost dry the whole distance under the hill.
Turn in at the gate this side of Moore's and sit on the yellow stones rolled down in the bay of a digging, and examine the radical leaves, etc., etc.
Where the edges of grassy banks have caved I see the fine fibrous roots of the grass which have been washed bare during the winter extending straight downward two feet (and how much further within the earth I know not), -- a pretty dense grayish mass.
The buttonwood seed has apparently scarcely begun to fall yet — only two balls under one tree, but they loose and broken. [Almost entirely fallen March 7th, leaving the dangling stems and bare receptacles.]
Air full of bluebirds as yesterday. See February 27, 1861 ("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 February 8, 1860 ("It will take a yet more genial and milder air before the bluebird's warble can be heard."); February 18, 1857 ("The bluebird does not come till the air consents"); February 24, 1857 ("A]s 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."); March 15, 1852 ("A mild spring day. The air is full of bluebirds. . . . liquid with the bluebirds' warble. My life partakes of infinity. ") March 17, 1858 ("The air is full of bluebirds. I hear them far and near on all sides of the hill.") See also A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, the Bluebird in Early Spring.
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