Tilling The Fertile Soil Of Man's Vanity.

No, One Couldn't Make A Revolution, One Couldn't Even Start A Riot, With Sheep That Asked Only For Better Browsing.

I Waited And Worked, And Watched The Inferior Exalted For Nearly Thirty Years; And When Recognition Came At Last, It Was Too Late To Alter Events, Or To Make A Difference In Living.

No Matter How Vital Experience Might Be While You Lived It, No Sooner Was It Ended And Dead Than It Became As Lifeless As The Piles Of Dry Dust In A School History Book.

. . . Every Tree Near Our House Had A Name Of Its Own And A Special Identity. This Was The Beginning Of My Love For Natural Things, For Earth And Sky, For Roads And Fields And Woods, For Trees And Grass And Flowers; A Love Which Has Been Second Only To My Sense Of Enduring Kinship With Birds And Animals, And All Inarticulate Creatures.

Youth Is Always An Enemy To The Old.