170 EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 
Each new year is a surprise to us. We find 
that we had virtually forgotten the note of each 
bird, and when we hear it again it is remem¬ 
bered like a dream, reminding us of a previous 
state of existence. How happens it that the 
associations it awakens are always pleasing, 
never saddening, reminiscences of our sanest 
hours. The voice of nature is always encour¬ 
aging. 
When I get two thirds up the hill, I look 
round, and am for the hundredth time sur¬ 
prised by the landscape of the river valley 
and the horizon with its distant blue-scolloped 
rim. It is a spring landscape, and as impos¬ 
sible a fortnight ago as the song of birds. It 
is a deeper and warmer blue than in winter, 
methinks. The snow is off the mountains, 
which seem even to have .come again like the 
birds. The undulating river is a bright blue 
channel between sharp-edged shores of ice re¬ 
tained by the willows. The wind blows strong 
but warm from west by north (so that I have 
to hold my paper tight while I write this), mak¬ 
ing the copses creak and roar, but the sharp 
tinkle of a song-sparrow is heard through it all. 
But, ah ! the needles of the pine, how they 
shine, as I look down over the Holden wood 
and westward ! Every third tree is lit with 
the most subdued, but clear, ethereal light, as 
