One Can Return To Their Place Of

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.

For Two Summers Not A Blue Wing, Not A Blue Warble. I Seemed To Miss Something Kindred And Precious From My Environment--the Visible Embodiment Of The Tender Sky And Wistful Soil. What A Loss, I Said, To Coming Generations Of Dwellers In The Country--no Bluebird In Spring!

The Lesson Which Life Repeats And Constantly Enforces Is 'look Under Foot.' You Are Always Nearer The Divine And The True Sources Of Your Power Than You Think.

Some Scenes You Juggle Two Balls, Some Scenes You Juggle Three Balls, Some Scenes You Can Juggle Five Balls. The Key Is Always To Speak In Your Own Voice. Speak The Truth. That's Acting 101. Then You Start Putting Layers On Top Of That.

O Bluebird, Welcome Back Again, Thy Azure Coat And Ruddy Vest, Are Hues That April Loveth Best.