_Feb. 10_.--The first chirping, almost singing, of a bird to-day. Then
I noticed a couple of honey-bees spirting and humming about the open
window in the sun.
_Feb. 11_.--In the soft rose and pale gold of the declining light, this
beautiful evening, I heard the first hum and preparation of awakening
spring--very faint--whether in the earth or roots, or starting of
insects, I know not--but it was audible, as I lean'd on a rail (I am
down in my country quarters awhile,) and look'd long at the western
horizon. Turning to the east, Sirius, as the shadows deepen'd, came
forth in dazzling splendor. And great Orion; and a little to the
north-east the big Dipper, standing on end.
_Feb. 20_.--A solitary and pleasant sundown hour at the pond, exercising
arms, chest, my whole body, by a tough oak sapling thick as my wrist,
twelve feet high--pulling and pushing, inspiring the good air. After
I wrestle with the tree awhile, I can feel its young sap and virtue
welling up out of the ground and tingling through me from crown to toe,
like health's wine. Then for addition and variety I launch forth in my
vocalism; shout declamatory pieces, sentiments, sorrow, anger, &c., from
the stock poets or plays--or inflate my lungs and sing the wild tunes
and refrains I heard of the blacks down south, or patriotic songs I
learn'd in the army. I make the echoes ring, I tell you! As the twilight
fell, in a pause of these ebullitions, an owl somewhere the other side
of the creek sounded _too-oo-oo-oo-oo_, soft and pensive (and I fancied
a little sarcastic) repeated four or five times. Either to applaud the
negro songs--or perhaps an ironical comment on the sorrow, anger, or
style of the stock poets.