3–9 March 1862

The snow still lies even with the tops of the walls across the Walden road, and, this after- noon, I waded through the woods to my grove. A chickadee came out to greet me, flew about within reach of my hands, perched on the near- est bough, flew down into the snow, rested there two seconds, then up again, just over my head, and busied himself on the dead bark. I whistled to him through my teeth, and (I think in re- sponse) he began at once to whistle. I promised him crumbs, and must not go again to these woods without them. I suppose the best food to carry would be the meat of shagbarks or Castile nuts. Thoreau tells me that they are very so- ciable with wood-choppers, and will take crumbs from their hands.'