A second fine day.

May 7. 

A second fine day. Small pewee and, methinks, golden robin (?).

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 7, 1857

Small pewee. See May 7, 1852 ("The first small pewee sings now che-vet, or rather chirrups chevet, tche-vet — a rather delicate bird with a large head and two white bars on wings.) Also note to May 3, 1855 ("Small pewee; tchevet, with a jerk of the head.”)

Golden robin (?). See May 14, 1856 ("Air full of golden robins. Their loud clear note betrays them as soon as they arrive.”); May 13, 1855 (“[H]eard the golden robin, now that the elms are beginning to leaf . . .The gold robin, just come, is heard in all parts of the village. I see both male and female.”)

While at work I hear the bobolink.

May 6. 

Wednesday. A beautiful and warm day. 

May 6, 2017

I go to build an arbor for R. W. E. The thrasher has been heard this morning. While at work I hear the bobolink and, methinks, peetweet along the brook (surely see it on the 9th). 

Sugar maple by Dr. Barrett's, possibly to-day.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 6, 1857

While at work I hear the bobolink. See May 10, 1853 (“All at once a strain that sounds like old times and recalls a hundred associations. Not at once do I remember that a year has elapsed since I heard it, and then the idea of the bobolink is formed in my mind.”); May 16, 1854 ("The earth is all fragrant as one flower. And bobolinks tinkle in the air. Nature now is perfectly genial to man.”); and note to May 12, 1856 (“We hear the first bobolink. . . How much life the note of the bobolink imparts to the meadow! ”) See also A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, the Bobolink

Sugar maple by Dr. Barrett’s. See May 5, 1855 (“The sugar maples on the Common have just begun to show their stamens peeping out of the bud, but that by Dr. Barrett’s has them an inch and a half long or more.”); May 6, 1855 (“The young sugar maples leafing are more conspicuous now than any maples.”); May 8, 1857 (“The sugar maple at Barrett's is now in full bloom.”)

The tull-lull of a myrtle-bird.

May 5. 

Tuesday. Building fence east of house. 

Hear the tull-lull of a myrtle-bird (very commonly heard for three or four days after). 

Have dug up in the garden this season half a dozen of those great leather-colored pupae (with the tongue-case bent round to breast like a long urn-handle) of the sphinx moth. 

First potato-worm. 

Staminate Salix rostrata, possibly yesterday.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 5, 1857

Hear the tull-lull . . .See April 19,1855 ("Hear the tull-lull of the white-throated sparrow in street”); May 4, 1855 ("Myrtle-birds numerous, and sing their tea lee, tea lee in morning. White-throated sparrows here, and numerous”); May 2, 1856 ("The tea lee of the yellow-rump warbler in the street, at the end of a cool, rainy day.”)

Staminate Salix rostrata. See  May 10, 1856 ("I see an apparently native willow, a shrub, with greenish bark and conspicuous yellow catkins, now in full bloom, apparently a little earlier than the Salix alba, but its leafets or bracts much less advanced and conspicuous."); June 6, 1856 ("That willow, male and female, opposite to Trillium Woods on the railroad, I find to be the Salix rostrata, or long-beaked willow, one of the ochre-flowered . . . willows . . .”); May 6, 1858 (“The Salix rostrata staminate flowers are of very peculiar yellow, — a bright, what you might call yellow yellow.”)

A perfectly warm and pleasant day..

May 4. 

May 4, 2015

May 4, 2019

Rain. 

The barber tells me that the masons of New York tell him that they would prefer human hair to that of cattle to mix with their plastering. 

Balm-of-Gilead pollen in house to-day; outdoors, say to-morrow, if fair. 

Minott tells me of one Matthias Bowers, a native of Chelmsford and cousin of C. Bowers, a very active fellow, who used to sleep with him and when he found the door locked would climb over the roof and come in at the dormer-window. One Sunday, when they were repairing the old Unitarian church and there was a staging just above the belfry, he climbed up the lightning-rod and put his arm round the ball at the top of the spire and swung his hat there. He then threw it down and the crown was knocked out. Minott saw him do it, and Deacon White ordered him to come down. 

M. also told of a crazy fellow who got into the belfry of the Lincoln church with an axe and began to cut the spire down, but was stopped after he had done considerable damage. 

When M. lived at Baker's, B. had a dog Lion, famous for chasing squirrels. The gray squirrels were numerous and used to run over the house sometimes. It was an old-fashioned house, slanting to one story behind, with a ladder from the roof to the ground. One day a gray squirrel ran over the house, and Lion, dashing after him up the ladder, went completely over the house and fell off the front side before he could stop, putting out one of his toes. But the squirrel did not put out any of his toes. 

Wyman told Minott that he used to see black snakes crossing Walden and would wait till they came ashore and then kill them. One day he saw a bull on the northerly side swim across to get at some cows on the south. 

It has rained all day, and I see in the footpath across the Common, where water flows or has flown, a great many worms, apparently drowned. Did they not come out in unusual numbers last night because it was so warm, and so get overtaken by the rain? But how account for the worms said to be found in tubs of water? 

Perhaps the most generally interesting event at present is a perfectly warm and pleasant day. It affects the greatest number, the well out of doors and the sick in chambers. No wonder the weather is the universal theme of conversation. A warm rain; and the ring of the toads is heard all through it.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 4, 1857

Now is the time to paddle these smooth warm vernal waters.

May 3. 

Sunday. A remarkably warm and pleasant morning. A. M. — To Battle-Ground by river. 

I heard the ring of toads at 6 a. m. The flood on the meadows, still high, is quite smooth, and many are out this still and suddenly very warm morning, pushing about in boats. 

Now, thinks many a one, is the time to paddle or push gently far up or down the river, along the still, warm meadow's edge, and perhaps we may see some large turtles, or muskrats, or otter, or rare fish or fowl. It will be a grand forenoon for a cruise, to explore these meadow shores and inundated maple swamps which we have never explored. Now we shall be recompensed for the week's confinement to shop or garden. 

We will spend our Sabbath exploring these smooth warm vernal waters. Up or down shall we go? To Fair Haven Bay and the Sudbury meadows, or to Ball's Hill and Carlisle Bridge? Along the meadow's edge, lined with willow and alders and maples, under the catkins of the early willow, and brushing those of the sweet-gale with our prow, where the sloping pasture and the plowed ground, submerged, are fast drinking up the flood. What fair isles, what remote coast shall we explore? What San Salvador or Bay of All Saints arrive at? All are tempted forth, like flies, into the sun. 

All isles seem fortunate and blessed to-day; all capes are of Good Hope. 

The same sun and calm that tempts the turtles out tempts the voyagers. It is an opportunity to explore their own natures, to float along their own shores. The woodpecker cackles and the crow black bird utters his jarring chatter from the oaks and maples. All well men and women who are not restrained by superstitious custom come abroad this morning by land or water, and such as have boats launch them and put forth in search of adventure. 

Others, less free or, it may be, less fortunate, take their station on bridges, watching the rush of water through them and the motions of the departing voyagers, and listening to the notes of blackbirds from over the smooth water. They see a swimming snake, or a muskrat dive, — airing and sunning themselves there until the first bell rings. Up and down the town, men and boys that are under subjection are polishing their shoes and brushing their go-to-meeting clothes. 

I, a descendant of Northmen who worshipped Thor, spend my time worshipping neither Thor nor Christ; a descendant of Northmen who sacrificed men and horses, sacrifice neither men nor horses. I care not for Thor nor for the Jews. I sympathize not to-day with those who go to church in newest clothes and sit quietly in straight-backed pews. 

I sympathize rather with the boy who has none to look after him, who borrows a boat and paddle and in common clothes sets out to explore these temporary vernal lakes. I meet such a boy paddling along under a sunny bank, with bare feet and his pants rolled up above his knees, ready to leap into the water at a moment's warning. Better for him to read "Robinson Crusoe" than Baxter's "Saints' Rest."

I hear the soft, purring, stertorous croak of frogs on the meadow. 

The pine warbler is perhaps the commonest bird heard now from the wood-sides. It seems left [to] it almost alone to fill their empty aisles. 

The above boy had caught a snapping turtle, the third he had got this year. The first he said he got the fore part of April. He also had caught a bullfrog sitting on the shore just now. 

Thermometer from 1 to 2 p. m., at 78°. 

Neighbors come forth to view the expanding buds in their gardens. 

I see where some fish, probably a pickerel, darted away from high on the meadows, toward the river, and swims so high that it makes a long ripple for twenty rods. 

3 p. m. — To Cliffs. 

In the pool which dries up in Jonathan Wheeler's orchard, I see toads, or maybe frogs, spread out on the surface, uttering a short, loud, peculiar croak, not like that of the early croaking frog, nor the smooth, purring, stertorous one of this morning, but a coarse belching croak, at a little distance like quor and quar, being on various keys, but nearer like ow-oo-uk though one syllable or ar-r-r. Thus they lie, perhaps within a foot or two and facing each other, and alternately throwing their heads back, i. e. upward, swelling their white throats and uttering this abominable noise. 

Then one rushes upon the other, leaps upon him. They struggle and roll over and sink for a moment, and presently they show their heads again a foot or two apart. There are a dozen or more, with very prominent eyes, with bright golden irides. 

In another pool, in Warren's meadow, I hear the ring of toads and the peep of hylodes, and, taking off my stockings and shoes, at length stand in their midst. There are a hundred toads close around me, copulating or preparing to. These look at a little distance precisely like the last, but no one utters that peculiar rough, belching croak, only their common musical ring, and occasionally a short, fainter, interrupted, quivering note, as of alarm. They are continually swimming to and leaping upon each other. I see many large reddish-brown ones, probably females, with small grayish ones lying flat on their backs, the fore feet clasped around them. These commonly lie flat on the bottom, often as if dead, but from time [to time] the under one rises with its load to the surface, puts its nose out and then sinks again. 

The single ones leap upon these double ones and roll them over in vain like the rest. It is the single ones that ring and are so active. They make great gray, yellowish, greenish, or whitish bubbles (different specimens being thus various), as big as their heads. One that rings within a foot of me seems to make the earth vibrate, and I feel it and am thrilled to my very spine, it is so terrene a sound. It reminds me of many a summer night on the river. A bubbling ring, which is continuous about a minute, and then its bag must be inflated again. 

When I move suddenly, it is the single ones chiefly that conceal themselves. The others are not so easily disturbed. You would hardly believe that toads could be so excited and active. When that nearest ringer sounded, the very sod by my feet (whose spires rose above water) seemed to tremble, and the earth itself, and I was thrilled to my spine and vibrated to it. They like a rest for their toes when they ring. It is a sound as crowded with protuberant bubbles as the rind of an orange. A clear, ringing note with a bubbling trill. It takes complete possession of you, for you vibrate to it, and can hear nothing else. 

At length, too, a hylodes or two were heard close about me, but not one was seen. The nearest seemed to have his residence in my ear alone. It took such possession of my ear that I was unable to appreciate the source whence it came. 

It is so warm, mosquitoes alight on my hands and face. 

As I approach the entrance to the spring path, I hear some chickadees phe-be-ing. One sings phe-e — be' be — be' be, just as if another struck in immediately after the usual strain. 

Salix tristis is out to-day at least, perhaps yesterday, by what I may call S. tristis Path. 

Viola ovata is pretty common there. 

Above the Cliffs, scare up a pair of turtle doves from the stubble, which go off with their shrill rattling whistle. 

Corydalis glauca is five inches high. The pistillate Equisetum arvense shows itself. 

To-day we sit without fire. 

Emerson says that Brewer tells him my "night warbler" is probably the Nashville warbler.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 3, 1857

I heard the ring of toads at 6 a. m. See A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau, The ring of toads

Emerson says that Brewer tells him my "night warbler" is probably the Nashville warbler.  Thoreau;s night-warbler  is likely the oven-bird making its flight call. According to Emerson the night warbler is "a bird he had never identified, had been in search of twelve years, which always, when he saw it, was in the act of diving down into a tree or bush.”  See note to May 19, 1858 (" Heard the night-warbler begin his strain just like an oven-bird! I have noticed that when it drops down into the woods it darts suddenly one side to a perch when low.")

Building a fence between us and Mrs. Richardson.

May 2.

Saturday. Building a fence between us and Mrs. Richardson. 

In digging the holes I find the roots of small apple trees, seven or eight feet distant and four or more inches in diameter, two feet underground, and as big as my little finger. This is two or three feet beyond any branches. They reach at least twice as far as the branches. The branches get trimmed, the roots do not.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 2, 1857

The ring of the toad.

May 1. 

Friday. 2 p.m. — First notice the ring of the toad, as I am crossing the Common in front of the meeting-house. 

There is a cool and breezy south wind, and the ring of the first toad leaks into the general stream of sound, unnoticed by most, as the mill-brook empties into the river and the voyager cannot tell if he is above or below its mouth. The bell was ringing for town meeting, and every one heard it, but none heard this older and more universal bell, rung by more native Americans all the land over. It is a sound from amid the waves of the aerial sea, that breaks on our ears with the surf of the air, a sound that is almost breathed with the wind, taken into the lungs instead of being heard by the ears. It comes from far over or through the troughs of the aerial sea, like a petrel, and who can guess by what pool the singer sits? whether behind the meeting-house horse-sheds, or from over the burying- ground hill, or from the riverside? 

A new reign has commenced. Bufo the First has ascended to his throne, the surface of the earth, led into office by the south wind. Bufo the Double-chinned inflates his throat. Attend to his message. Take off your greatcoats, swains! and prepare for the summer campaign. Hop a few paces further toward your goals. The measures I shall advocate are warmth, moisture, and low-flying insects. 

White-throated sparrow in shrub oaks by Walden road. 

Is that moss with little green pendulous fruit on reddish stems Bryum pyriform? 

Apparently a skunk has picked up what I took to be the dead shrew in the Goose Pond Path. How they ransack the paths these nights ! The ground is spotted with their probings. 

Plucked the Arum triphyllum, three inches high, with its acrid corm (solid bulb), from the edge of Saw Mill Brook. 

It is foolish for a man to accumulate material wealth chiefly, houses and land. Our stock in life, our real estate, is that amount of thought which we have had, which we have thought out. The ground we have thus created is forever pasturage for our thoughts. I fall back on to visions which I have had. What else adds to my possessions and makes me rich in all lands? If you have ever done any work with these finest tools, the imagination and fancy and reason, it is a new creation, independent on the world, and a possession forever. You have laid up something against a rainy day. You have to that extent cleared the wilderness. Is a house but a gall on the face of the earth, a nidus which some insect has provided for its young?

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, May 1, 1857

Apparently a skunk has picked up what I took to be the dead shrew in the Goose Pond Path. See July 31, 1856 ("Another short-tailed shrew dead in the wood-path."); July 12, 1856 (“I have found them thus three or four times before. . . .Have I not commonly noticed them dead after rain?”)

Plucked the Arum triphyllum, three inches high, with its acrid corm. See May 19, 1851 ("Find the Arum triphyllum and the nodding trillium, or wake-robin, in Conant's Swamp.")