258 
EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 
his bones. They would not prove any art that 
wielded them, such as this work of his bones 
does. It is humanity inscribed on the face of 
the earth, patent to my eyes as soon as the snow 
is off, not hidden away in some crypt or grave, 
or under a pyramid. No disgusting mummy, 
but a clean stone, the best symbol or letter that 
could have been transmitted to me. The red 
man, his mark! ^ At every step I 
see it.It ~L—-is no single in¬ 
scription on a particular rock, but a footprint 
or rather a mindprint left everywhere and alto¬ 
gether illegible. No Vandals, however van- 
dalic in their disposition, can be so industrious 
as to destroy them.They are not fossil 
bones, but, as it were, fossil thoughts, forever 
reminding me of the mind that shaped them. 
I would fain know that I am treading in the 
tracks of human game, that I am on the trail of 
mind.When I see these signs I know 
that the subtle spirits that made them are not 
far off, into whatever form transmuted. What 
if you do plow and hoe amid them, and swear 
that not one stone shall be left upon another, 
they are only the less likely to break in that 
case. When you turn up one layer you bury 
another so much the more securely. They are 
at peace with rust. This arrow-headed charac¬ 
ter promises to outlast all others. The larger 
