June 2.THIS is the fourth day of a dark northeast storm, wind and rain. Day before yesterday was my birthday. I have now enterd on my 60th year. Every day of the storm, protected by overshoes and a waterproof blanket, I regularly come down to the pond, and ensconce myself under the lee of the great oak; I am here now writing these lines. The dark smoke-colord clouds roll in furious silence athwart the sky; the soft green leaves dangle all round me; the wind steadily keeps up its hoarse, soothing music over my headNatures mighty whisper. Seated here in solitude I have been musing over my lifeconnecting events, dates, as links of a chain, neither sadly nor cheerily, but somehow, to-day here under the oak, in the rain, in an unusually matter-of-fact spirit.
But my great oaksturdy, vital, greenfive feet thick at the butt. I sit a great deal near or under him. Then the tulip tree near bythe Apollo of the woodstall and graceful, yet robust and sinewy, inimitable in hang of foliage and throwing-out of limb; as if the beauteous, vital, leafy creature could walk, if it only would. (I had a sort of dream-trance the other day, in which I saw my favorite trees step out and promenade up, down and around, very curiouslywith a whisper from one, leaning down as he passd me, We do all this on the present occasion, exceptionally, just for you.)