It Is, By Common Consent, A Good

My Dog Does Not Care Where Heat Comes From, But He Cares That It Comes, And Soon. Indeed He Considers My Ability To Make It Come As Something Magical, For When I Rise In The Coal Black Pre-dawn And Kneel By The Hearth To Make A Fire, He Pushes Himself Blandly Between Me And The Kindling Splits I Have Laid In The Ashes, And I Must Touch A Match To Them By Poking It Between His Legs. Such Faith , I Suppose, Is The Kind That Moves Mountains.

There Are Idle Spots On Every Farm, And Every Highway Is Bordered By An Idle Strip As Long As It Is; Keep Cow, Plow, And Mower Out Of These Idle Spots, And The Full Native Flora, Plus Dozens Of Interesting Stowaways From Foreign Parts, Could Be Part Of The Normal Environment Of Every Citizen.

This Song Of The Waters Is Audible To Every Ear, But There Is Other Music In These Hills, By No Means Audible To All. On A Still Night, When The Campfire Is Low And The Pleiades Have Climbed Over Rimrocks, Sit Quietly And Listen, And Think Hard Of Everything You Have Seen And Tried To Understand. Then You May Hear It - A Vast Pulsing Harmony - Its Score Inscribed On A Thousand Hills, Its Notes The Lives And Deaths Of Plants And Animals, Its Rhythms Spanning The Seconds And The Centuries.

No Farmer-sportsman Group Is Stronger Than The Ties Of Mutual Confidence And Enthusiasm Which Bind Its Members.

The Landscape Of Any Farm Is The Owner's Portrait Of Himself.