EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 317 
in the sand at the bottom. [I hear the sound 
of the piano below as I write this and feel as if 
the winter in me were at length beginning to 
thaw, for my spring has been even more back¬ 
ward than nature’s. For a month past life has 
been a thing incredible to me. None but the 
kind gods can make me sane. If only they will 
let their south winds blow on me. I ask to be 
melted. You can only ask of the metals that 
they be tender to the fire that melts them. To 
nought else can they be tender.] 
The sweet flags are now starting up under 
water two inches high, and minnows dart. 
A pure brook is a very beautiful object to 
study minutely. It will bear the closest inspec¬ 
tion, even to the fine air-bubbles, like minute 
globules of quicksilver, that lie on its bottom. 
The minute particles or spangles of golden mica 
in these sands, when the sun shines on them, re¬ 
mind one of the golden sands we read of. Ev¬ 
erything is washed clean and bright, and the 
water is the best glass through which to see 
it. 
If I am to cold for human friendship, I trust 
I shall not soon be too cold for natural influ¬ 
ences. It appears to be a law that you cannot 
have a deep sympathy with both man and nat¬ 
ure. Those qualities which bring you near to 
the one estrange you from the other. 
