I Am Glad I Will Not Be

High Horns, Low Horns, Silence, And Finally A Pandemonium Of Trumpets, Rattles, Croaks, And Cries That Almost Shakes The Bog With Its Nearness ... A New Day Has Begun On The Crane Marsh. A Sense Of Time Lies Thick And Heavy On Such A Place ... Our Ability To Perceive Quality In Nature Begins, As In Art, With The Pretty. It Expands Through Successive Stages Of The Beautiful To Values As Yet Uncaptured By Language.

Our Children Are Our Signature To The Roster Of History; Our Land Is Merely The Place Our Money Was Made. There Is As Yet No Social Stigma In The Possession Of A Gullied Farm, A Wrecked Forest, Or A Polluted Stream, Provided The Dividends Suffice To Send The Youngsters To College. Whatever Ails The Land, The Government Will Fix It.

An Oak Is No Respecter Of Persons.

Whoever Invented The Word 'grace' Must Have Seen The Wing-folding Of The Plover.

The Practice Of Conservation Must Spring From A Conviction Of What Is Ethically And Aesthetically Right, As Well As What Is Economically Expedient. A Thing Is Right Only When It Tends To Preserve The Integrity, Stability, And Beauty Of The Community, And The Community Includes The Soil, Waters, Fauna, And Flora, As Well As People.