EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 27 
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-ex¬ 
posed 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 dowm 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 
