If You Want To See Birds, You

How Many Thorns Of Human Nature - Hard, Sharp, Lifeless Protuberances That Tear And Wound Us, Narrow Prejudices, Bristling Conceits That Repel And Disgust Us - Are Arrested Developments, Calcified Tendencies, Buds Of Promise That Should Have Lifted A Branch Up Into The Sunny Day With Fruit; And Flowers To Delight The Heart Of Men, But Now All Grown Hard, Petrified, For Want Of Culture And A Congenial Soil And Climate.

What A Severe Yet Master Artist Old Winter Is... No Longer The Canvas And The Pigments, But The Marble And The Chisel.

The Spirit Of Man Can Endure Only So Much And When It Is Broken Only A Miracle Can Mend It.

For Two Summers Not A Blue Wing, Not A Blue Warble. I Seemed To Miss Something Kindred And Precious From My Environment--the Visible Embodiment Of The Tender Sky And Wistful Soil. What A Loss, I Said, To Coming Generations Of Dwellers In The Country--no Bluebird In Spring!

Then, Again, How Annoying To Be Told It Is Only Five Miles To The Next Place When It Is Really Eight Or Ten!