EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS.
February 24, 1852. p. m. Railroad causeway. I am reminded of spring by the quality of the air. The cock-crowing, and even the telegraph harp prophesy it, though the ground is, for the most part, covered with snow. It is a natural resurrection, an experience of immortality. . . . . The telegraph harp reminds me of Anacreon. That is the glory of Greece, that we are reminded of her only when in our best estate,—our elysian days,—when our senses are young and healthy again. I could find a name for every strain or intonation of the harp from one or other of the Grecian bards. I often hear Mimnermus; often, Menander. I am too late by a day or two for the sand foliage on the east side of the Deep Cut. It is glorious to see the soil again here where a shovel perchance will enter it and find no frost. The frost is partly come out of this bank, and it has become dry again in the sun. The very sound of mens' work reminds, advertises, me of the coming of
