Roman wormwood’s yellow dust on my clothes . . . The fragrance of a grape-vine branch, with ripe grapes on it, which I have brought home, fills the whole house. This fragrance is exceedingly rich, surpassing the flavor of any grape.

  P.M.—To the Cliffs via Hubbard’s Swamp . . .

  In Potter’s dry pasture I saw the ground black with blackbirds (troopials?). As I approach, the front rank rises and flits a little further back into the midst of the flock,—it rolls up on the edges,—and, being thus alarmed, they soon take to flight, with a loud rippling rustle, but soon alight again, the rear wheeling swiftly into place like well-drilled soldiers. Instead of being an irregular and disorderly crowd, they appear to know and keep their places and wheel With the precision of drilled troops . . .

  Carried a pail this afternoon to collect goldenrods and berries . . .