man wheeling home from far a large, damp, and rotten pine log for fuel. He evidently sweats at it and pauses to rest many times. He found, perhaps, that his woodpile was gone before the winter was, and he trusts thus to contend with the remaining cold. I see him unload it in his yard before me, and then rest himself. The piles of solid oak wood which I see in other yards do not interest me at all; but this looked like fuel. It warmed me to think of it. He will now proceed to split it finely, and then I fear it will require about as much heat to dry it as it will give out at last. How rarely we are encouraged by the sight of simple actions in the street. We deal with banks and other institutions where the life and humanity are concealed, what there is of it. I like, at least, to see the great beams half-exposed in the ceiling or the corner.
February 28, 1861. p. m. Down Boston road under the hill. Air full of bluebirds, as yesterday. The sidewalk is bare and almost dry the whole distance under the hill. Turn in at the gate this, side of Moore's, and sit on one of the yellowish stones rolled down in the bay of a digging, and examine the radical leaves, etc., etc. Where the edges of grassy banks have caved I see the fine fibrous roots of the grass which have been washed bare during
