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 unbutton 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,
