tering and ushering in the light, like the argument to a new canto of an epic, a heroic poem. The serenity, the infinite promise of such a morning! The song or twitter of birds drips from the leaves like dew. Then there was something divine and immortal in our life; when I have waked up on my couch in the woods and seen the day dawning and heard the twittering of the birds. . . . . I see flocks of a dozen bluebirds together. The warble of this bird is innocent and celestial like its color. Saw a sparrow, perhaps a song-sparrow, flitting amid the young oaks where the ground was covered with snow. I think that this is an indication that the ground is quite bare a little further south. Probably the spring birds never fly far over a snow-clad country. . . . . I see the reticulated leaves of the rattlesnake plantain in the woods quite fresh and green. What is the little chickweed-like plant already springing up on the top of the cliffs? There are some other plants with bright green leaves which have either started somewhat or have never suffered from the cold under the snow. I am pretty sure that I heard the chuckle of a ground squirrel among the warm and bare rocks of the cliffs. . . . . The mosses are now very handsome like young grass pushing up. Heard the phebe note of the chickadee to-day for the first time; I
