'
In the spring of this year, 1802, I advised Kant to take the air. It
was very long since he had been out of doors, [Footnote: Wasianski here
returns thanks to some unknown person, who, having observed that Kant
in his latter walks took pleasure in leaning against a particular wall
to view the prospect, had caused a seat to be fixed at that point for
his use.] and walking was now out of the question. But I thought the
motion of a carriage and the air would be likely to revive him. On the
power of vernal sights and sounds I did not much rely; for these had
long ceased to affect him. Of all the changes that spring brings with
it, there was one only that now interested Kant; and he longed for it
with an eagerness and intensity of expectation, that it was almost
painful to witness: this was the return of a hedge sparrow that sang in
his garden, and before his window. This bird, either the same, or one
of the next generation, had sung for years in the same situation; and
Kant grew uneasy when the cold weather, lasting longer than usual,
retarded its return. Like Lord Bacon, indeed, he had a childlike love
for birds in general, and in particular, took pains to encourage the
sparrows to build above the windows of his study; and when this
happened, (as it often did, from the silence which prevailed in his
study,) he watched their proceedings with the delight and the
tenderness which others give to a human interest.
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