Thoreau writes in his journal:
Wednesday. 1.30 A.M.—A low fog on the meadows, but not so much as last night,—a low incense frosting them. The clouds scattered wisps in the sky, like a squadron thrown into disorder at the approach of the sun. The sun now gilds an eastern cloud a broad, bright, coppery-golden edge, fiery bright, notwithstanding which the protuberances of the cloud cast dark shadows ray-like up into the day . . .
9 P.M.—Down railroad.
Heat lightning in the horizon. A sultry night. A flute front some villager. How rare among men so fit a thing as the sound of a flute at evening! Have not the fireflies in the meadow relation to the stars above, étincelant? When the darkness comes, we see stars beneath also . . .
