One Is Tempted To Say That The

Natural History Is A Matter Of Observation; It Is A Harvest Which You Gather When And Where You Find It Growing. Birds And Squirrels And Flowers Are Not Always In Season, But Philosophy We Have Always With Us. It Is A Crop Which We Can Grow And Reap At All Times And In All Places And It Has Its Own Value And Brings Its Own Satisfaction.

The Rocks Are Not So Close Akin To Us As The Soil; They Are One More Remove From Us; But They Lie Back Of All, And Are The Final Source Of All. ... Time, Geologic Time, Looks Out At Us From The Rocks As From No Other Objects In The Landscape.

Oh, Spring Is Surely Coming, Her Couriers Fill The Air; Each Morn Are New Arrivals, Each Night Her Ways Prepare; I Scent Her Fragrant Garments, Her Foot Is On The Stair.

We Cannot Walk Through Life On Mountain Peaks.

The Pleasure And Value Of Every Walk Or Journey We Take May Be Doubled To Us By Carefully Noting Down The Impressions It Makes Upon Us.