smooth water. As with tinkling sounds the sources of streams burst their icy fetters, so the rills of music begin to flow and swell the general choir of spring. Memorable is the warm light of the spring sun on russet fields in the morning.
p. m. To Ball's Hill along river. My companion tempts me to certain licenses of speech, i. e., to reckless and sweeping expressions which I am wont to regret that I have used. I find that I have used more harsh, extravagant, and cynical expressions concerning mankind and individuals than I intended. I find it difficult to make to him a sufficiently moderate statement. I think it is because I have not his sympathy in my sober and constant view. He asks for a paradox, an eccentric statement, and too often I give it to him.
Saw some small ducks, teal or widgeons.
This great expanse of deep blue water, deeper than the sky, why does it not blue my soul, as of yore? It is hard to soften me now. . . . .
The time was when this great blue scene would have tinged my spirit more.
Now is the time to look for Indian relics, the sandy fields being just bared.
I stand on the high lichen-covered and colored (greenish) hill beyond Abner Buttrick's, I go further east and look across the meadows
