What A Dull World If We Knew

We Console Ourselves With The Comfortable Fallacy That A Single Museum Piece Will Do, Ignoring The Clear Dictum Of History That A Species Must Be Saved In Many Places If It Is To Be Saved At All.

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.

The Drama Of The Sky Dance Is Enacted Nightly On Hundreds Of Farms, The Owners Of Which Sigh For Entertainment, But Harbor The Illusion That It Is To Be Sought In Theaters. They Live On The Land, But Not By The Land.

The Last Word In Ignorance Is The Man Who Says Of An Animal Or Plant, "what Good Is It?" If The Land Mechanism As A Whole Is Good, Then Every Part Is Good, Whether We Understand It Or Not. If The Biota, In The Course Of Aeons, Has Built Something We Like But Do Not Understand, Then Who But A Fool Would Discard Seemingly Useless Parts? To Keep Every Cog And Wheel Is The First Precaution Of Intelligent Tinkering.

He Who Hopes For Spring With Upturned Eye Never Sees So Small A Thing As Draba. He Who Despairs Of Spring With Downcast Eye Steps On It, Unknowing. He Who Searches For Spring With His Knees In The Mud Finds It, In Abundance.