Every Walk To The Woods Is A

Science Has Done More For The Development Of Western Civilization In One Hundred Years Than Christianity Did In Eighteen Hundred Years.

How Beautiful The Leaves Grow Old. How Full Of Light And Color Are Their Last Days.

The Fisherman Has A Harmless, Preoccupied Look; He Is A Kind Of Vagrant, That Nothing Fears. He Blends Himself With The Trees And The Shadows. All His Approaches Are Gentle And Indirect. He Times Himself To The Meandering, Soliloquizing Stream; He Addresses Himself To It As A Lover To His Mistress; He Woos It And Stays With It Till He Knows Its Hidden Secrets. Where It Deepens His Purpose Deepens; Where It Is Shallow He Is Indifferent. He Knows How To Interpret Its Every Glance And Dimple; Its Beauty Haunts Him For Days.

How Many Thorns Of Human Nature - Hard, Sharp, Lifeless Protuberances That Tear And Wound Us, Narrow Prejudices, Bristling Conceits That Repel And Disgust Us - Are Arrested Developments, Calcified Tendencies, Buds Of Promise That Should Have Lifted A Branch Up Into The Sunny Day With Fruit; And Flowers To Delight The Heart Of Men, But Now All Grown Hard, Petrified, For Want Of Culture And A Congenial Soil And Climate.

To The Scientist Nature Is A Storehouse Of Facts, Laws, Processes; To The Artist She Is A Storehouse Of Pictures; To The Poet She Is A Storehouse Of Images, Fancies, A Source Of Inspiration; To The Moralist She Is A Storehouse Of Precepts And Parables; To All She May Be A Source Of Knowledge And Joy.