26 January 1857 – 1 February 1857

Another cold morning. None looked early, but about eight it was — 14°. A. M. — At Cambridge and Boston. Saw Boston Harbor frozen over (for some time). Reminded me of, I think, Parry’s Winter Harbor, with vessels frozen in. Saw thousands on the ice, a stream of men reaching down to Fort Independence, where they were cutting a channel toward the city. Ice said to reach fourteen miles. Snow untracked on many decks.*: At 10 p. M., + 14°.

Thawing a little at last. Thermometer 35°. The most poetic and truest account of objects is generally by those who first observe them, or the dis- coverers of them, whether a sharper perception and curiosity in them led to the discovery or the greater novelty more inspired their report. Accordingly I love most to read the accounts of a country, its natural pro- ductions and curiosities, by those who first settled it, and also the earliest, though often unscientific, writers on natural science. | Hear the unusual sound of pattering rain this after- noon; though it is not yet in earnest. Thermometer to-day commonly at 38°. Wood in the stove is slow to burn; often goes out with this dull atmosphere.’ But it is less needed. | 10 p. M. — Hear music below. It washes the dust off my life and everything I look at. ‘ Was struck to-day with the admirable simplicity of Pratt. He told me not only of the discovery of the tower of Babel, which, from the measures given, he had cal- culated could not stand between the roads at the Mill Pond, but of the skeleton of a man twenty feet long. Also of an eyestone which he has, bought of Betty Nutting, about as big as half a pea. Just lay it in your eye, bind up your eye with a handkerchief, and go to bed. It will not pain you, but you will feel it moving about, and when it has gathered all the dirt in the eye to itself, it will always come out, and you will probably find it in the handkerchief. It is a little thing and you must look sharp for it. He often lends his.

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. It is unwilling to move. People go to the pump, and the cat and dog walk round the wood-pile without starting it. I examine it at my leisure through a glass. Remarkable that the coldest of all winters these summer birds should remain. Per- haps it is no more comfortable this season further south, where they are accustomed to abide. In the afternoon this sparrow joined a flock of tree sparrows on the bare ground west of the house. It was amusing to see the tree sparrows wash themselves, standing in the puddles and tossing the water over themselves. Minott says they wade in to where it is an inch deep and then “splutter splutter,’ throwing the water over them. They have had no opportunity to wash for a month, per- haps, there having been no thaw. The song sparrow did not go off with them. P. M. — To Walden. Notice many heaps of leaves on snow on the hillside southwest of the pond, as usual. Probably the rain and thaw have brought down some of them.

Snows fast, turning to rain at last.

3 p. mM. — Down railroad. Thermometer at 42°. Warm as it is, I see a large flock of snow buntings on the railroad causeway. Their wings are white above next the body, but black or dark beyond and on the back. This produces that regular black and white effect when they fly past you. A laborer on the railroad tells me it is Candlemas Day (February 2d) to-morrow and the winter half out. “Half your wood and half your hay,” etc., etc.; and, as that day is, so will be the rest of the winter.