EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 297 
Returning. Saw a pigeon woodpecker flash 
away, showing the rich golden underside of its 
glancing wings and the large whitish spot on 
its back, and presently I heard its familiar, 
long-repeated, loud note, almost as familiar as 
that of a barn-door fowl, which it somewhat re¬ 
sembles. The robins, too, now toward sunset, 
perched on the old apple trees in Tarbel’s or¬ 
chard, twirl forth their evening lays unwea- 
riedly.To-night, for the first time, I 
hear the hylas in full blast. 
April 6, 1854. A still warmer day than yes¬ 
terday, a warm, moist, rain-smelling, west wind. 
I am surprised to find so much of the white 
maples already out. The light-colored stamens 
show some rods. Probably they began as early 
as day before yesterday. They resound with 
the hum of honey bees heard a dozen rods off, 
and you see thousands of them about the flow¬ 
ers against the sky. They know where to look 
for the white maple and when. Their susurrus 
carries me forward some months toward sum¬ 
mer. I was reminded before of those still, 
warm, summer noons when the breams’ nests are 
left dry, and the fishes retreat from the shal¬ 
lows into the cooler depths, and the cows stand 
up to their bellies in the rivers.The al¬ 
ders, both kinds, just above the hemlocks, have 
just begun to shed their pollen. They are 
