EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 87 
large, black weasel, to appearance, worming its 
supple way over the snow. Where it ran, its 
tracks were thus, = = = = 
the intervals between the fore and hind feet 
sixteen or eighteen inches, and between the two 
fore and the two hind feet two inches and a 
half. 
The distant view of the open-flooded Sud¬ 
bury meadows all dark blue, surrounded by a 
landscape of white snow, gave an impulse to 
the dormant sap in my veins. Dark blue and 
angry waves contrasting with the white but 
melting winter landscape. Ponds, of course, 
do not yet afford this water prospect, only the 
flooded meadows. There is no ice over or near 
the stream, and the flood has covered or broken 
up much of the ice on the meadow. The as¬ 
pect of these waters at sunset, when the air is 
still, begins to be unspeakably soothing and 
promising. Waters are at length and begin 
to reflect, and instead of looking into the sky, 
I look into the placid reflecting water for the 
signs and promise of the morrow. These mead¬ 
ows are the most of ocean that I have fairly 
learned. Now, when the sap of the trees is 
probably beginning to flow, the sap of the 
earth, the river, overflows and bursts its icy fet¬ 
ters. This is the sap of which I make my sugar 
after the frosty nights, boiling it down and 
