June 19th, 4 to 6 1/2, P. M.SITTING alone by the creeksolitude here, but the scene bright and vivid enoughthe sun shining, and quite a fresh wind blowing (some heavy showers last night,) the grass and trees looking their bestthe clare-obscure of different greens, shadows, half-shadows, and the dappling glimpses of the water, through recessesthe wild flageolet-note of a quail near bythe just-heard fretting of some hylas down there in the pondcrows cawing in the distancea drove of young hogs rooting in soft ground near the oak under which I sitsome come sniffing near me, and then scamper away, with grunts. And still the clear notes of the quailthe quiver of leaf-shadows over the paper as I writethe sky aloft, with white clouds, and the sun well declining to the westthe swift darting of many sand-swallows coming and going, their holes in a neighboring marl-bankthe odor of the cedar oak, so palpable, as evening approachesperfume, color, the bronze-and-gold of nearly ripend wheatclover-fields, with honey-scentthe well-up maize, with long and rustling leavesthe great patches of thriving potatoes, dusky green, fleckd all over with white blossomsthe old, warty, venerable oak above meand ever, mixd with the dual notes of the quail, the soughing of the wind through some near-by pines.
As I rise for return, I linger long to a delicious song-epilogue (is it the hermit-thrush?) from some bushy recess off there in the swamp, repeated leisurely and pensively over and over again. This, to the circle-gambols of the swallows flying by dozens in concentric rings in the last rays of sunset, like flashes of some airy wheel.