Strip The Hills, Drain The Boglands, And

A Woodland In Full Color Is Awesome As A Forest Fire, In Magnitude At Least, But A Single Tree Is Like A Dancing Tongue Of Flame To Warm The Heart.

Listen To It, And You Are Hearing The Mighty Currents Of The Air Rushing Down The Latitudes Of The Earth, Currents From The Mackenzie And The Athabasca And The Saskatchewan, And From The Prairies And The White Tundra. It Is A Homeless Wind, Forever On The Move.

Of All The Seasons, Autumn Offers The Most To Man And Requires The Least Of Him.

The Earth Turns, And The Seasons, And For All His Pride And Power Man Cannot Temper The Winds Or Change Their Course. They Are The Unseen Tides That Shape Our Days And Our Years.

March Is A Tomboy With Tousled Hair, A Mischievous Smile, Mud On Her Shoes And A Laugh In Her Voice.