Wilson never heard but one sing, their common note, where he heard them, being a cheep.
From within the house at 512 p. m. I hear the loud honking of geese, throw up the window, and see a large flock in disordered harrow flying more directly north, or even northwest than usual. Raw, thick, misty weather.
March 14, 1855. I observe the tracks of sparrows leading to every little sprig of blue curls amid the other weeds, which, with its seemingly empty pitchers, rises above the snow. There seems, however, to be a little seed left in them. This, then, is reason enough why these withered stems still stand, that they may raise these granaries above the snow for the use of the snowbirds.
March 14, 1858. p. m. I see a Fringilla hiemalis, the first bird, perchance, unless one hawk, which is an evidence of spring, though they lingered with us the past unusual winter till the 19th of January. They are now getting back earlier than our permanent summer residents. It flits past with a rattling or grating chip, showing its two white tail feathers.
March 14, 1860. No sooner has the ice of Walden melted than the wind begins to play in dark ripples over the face of the virgin water. It is affecting to see nature so tender, however old, and wearing none of the wrinkles of age.
