There Are Some Who Can Live Without

The Real Jewel Of My Disease-ridden Woodlot Is The Prothonotary Warbler. ... The Flash Of His Gold-and-blue Plumage Amid The Dank Decay Of The June Woods Is In Itself Proof That Dead Trees Are Transmuted Into Living Animals, And Vice Versa.

In Wildness Is The Salvation Of The World.

All Conservation Of Wildness Is Self-defeating, For To Cherish We Must See And Fondle, And When Enough Have Seen And Fondled, There Is No Wilderness Left To Cherish.

The Government Tells Us We Need Flood Control And Comes To Straighten The Creek In Our Pasture. The Engineer On The Job Tells Us The Creek Is Now Able To Carry Off More Flood Water, But In The Process We Have Lost Our Old Willows Where The Owl Hooted On A Winter Night And Under Which The Cows Switched Flies In The Noon Shade. We Lost The Little Marshy Spot Where Our Fringed Gentians Bloomed.

Like Winds And Sunsets, Wild Things Were Taken For Granted Until Progress Began To Do Away With Them