EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 287 
March 31, 1854. In criticising your writing, 
trust your finest instinct. There are many 
things which we come very near questioning, 
but do not question. When I have sent off my 
manuscripts to the printer, certain objectionable 
sentences or expressions are sure to obtrude 
themselves on my attention with force, though 
I had not consciously suspected them before. 
My critical instinct then at once breaks the ice 
and comes to the surface. 
March 31, 1855. I see through the window 
that it is a very fine day, the first really warm 
one. I did not know the whole till I came out 
at 3 P. M. and walked to the Cliffs. The slight 
haze of yesterday has become very thick, with 
a southwest wind, concealing the mountains. I 
can see it in the air within two or three rods as 
I look against the bushes. The fuzzy gnats are 
in the air, and bluebirds whose warble is thawed 
out; I am uncomfortably warm, gradually un¬ 
button both my coats, and wish that I had left 
the outside one at home. I go listening for the 
croak of the first frog or peep of a hylodes. It 
is suddenly warm and this amelioration of the 
weather is incomparably the most important 
fact in this vicinity. It is incredible what a 
revolution in our feelings and in the aspect of 
nature this warmer air alone has produced. 
Yesterday the earth was simple to barrenness, 
