Well, It Takes All Kinds To Make

By The Time It Came To The Edge Of The Forest, The Stream Had Grown Up, So That It Was Almost A River, And, Being Grown-up, It Did Not Run And Jump And Sparkle Along As It Used To Do When It Was Younger, But Moved Slowly. For It Knew Now Where It Was Going, And It Said To Itself, There Is No Hurry. We Shall Get There Some Day.

The Play-it-safe Pessimists Of The World Never Accomplish Much Of Anything, Because They Don't Look Clearly And Objectively At Situations, They Don't Recognize Or Believe In Their Own Abilities To Overcome Even The Smallest Amount Of Risk.

It's Not Surprising, Therefore, That The [bisy] Backson Thinks Of Progress In Terms Of Fighting And Overcoming. One Of His Little Idiosyncrasies, You Might Say. Of Course, Real Progress Involves Growing And Developing, Which Involves Changing Inside, But That's Something The Inflexible Backson Is Unwilling To Do.

The Masters Of Life Know The Way, For They Listen To The Voice Within Them, The Voice Of Wisdom And Simplicity, The Voice That Reasons Beyond Cleverness And Knows Beyond Knowledge.

Enjoy The Simple, The Natural And The Plain. Along With That Comes The Ability To Do Things Spontaneously And Have Them Work.