P.M. By boat with Sophia to my grapes laid down in front of Fair Haven.

  It is a beautiful, warm and calm Indian-summer afternoon. The river is so high over the meadows, and the pads and other low weeds so deeply buried, and the water is so smooth and glassy withal, that I am reminded of a calm April day during the freshets. The coarse withered grass, and the willows, and button-bushes with their myriad balls, and whatever else stands on the brink, are reflected with wonderful distinctness. This shore, thus seen from the boat, is like the ornamented frame of a mirror . . .

  Tansy lingers still by Hubbard’s Bridge. But methinks I he flowers are disappearing earlier this season than last . . .