We Face The Question Whether A Still

The Wind That Makes Music In November Corn Is In A Hurry. The Stalks Hum, The Loose Husks Whisk Skyward In Half-playing Swirls, And The Wind Hurries On.... A Tree Tries To Argue, Bare Limbs Waving, But There Is No Detaining The Wind.

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.

Conservationists Have, I Fear, Adopted The Pedagogical Method Of The Prophets: We Mutter Darkly About Impending Doom If People Don't Mend Their Ways. The Doom Is Impending, All Right; No One Can Be An Ecologist, Even An Amateur One, Without Seeing It. But Do People Mend Their Ways For Fear Of Calamity? I Doubt It. They Are More Likely To Do It Out Of Pure Curiosity And Interest.

To Those Devoid Of Imagination A Blank Place On The Map Is A Useless Waste; To Others, The Most Valuable Part.

In Farm Country, The Plover Has Only Two Real Enemies: The Gully And The Drainage Ditch. Perhaps We Shall One Day Find That These Are Our Enemies, Too.