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  9 A. M.—To Lincoln, surveying for Mr. [Loring H.] Austin (Journal, 5:75-78).

  In criticising your writing, trust your fine instinct. There are many things which we come very near questioning, but do not question . . .

  The slight haze of yesterday has become very thick, with a southwest wind, concealing the mountains. I can see it in the air within two or three rods, as I look against the bushes. The fuzzy gnats are in the air, and bluebirds, whose warble is thawed out. I am uncomfortably warm, gradually unbutton both my coats, and wish that I had left the outside one at home. I go listening for the croak of the first frog . . .

  It is incredible what a revolution in our feelings and in the aspect of nature this warmer air alone has produced. Yesterday the earth was simple to barrenness, and dead,—bound out. Out-of-doors there was nothing but the wind and the withered grass and the cold though sparkling blue water, and you were driven in upon yourself . Now you would think that there was a sudden awakening in the very crust of the earth, as if flowers were expanding and leaves putting forth . . .

  I see the scarlet tops of white maples nearly a mile off, down the river, the lusty shoots of last year. Those of the red maple do not show thus.

  I see many little holes in this old and solid snow where leaves have sunk down gradually . . . It is as if the sun had driven this thin shield like a bullet thus deep into the solid snow . . .

  P.M.—To Hill.

  As I rise the east side of the Hill, I hear the distant faint peep of hylodes and the tut tut of croaking frogs from the west of the Hill . . .

  An Irishman is digging a ditch for a foundation wall to a new shop where James Adams shop stood. He tells me that he dug up three cannon-balls just in the rear of the shop lying within a foot of each other and about eighteen inches beneath the surface . . .