He Who Searches For Spring

On Motionless Wing They Emerge From The Lifting Mists, Sweep A Final Arc Of Sky, And Settle In Clangorous Descending Spirals To Their Feeding Grounds. A New Day Has Begun On The Crane Marsh.

That Dark Laboratory We Call The Soil.

There Is Time Not Only To See Who Has Done What, But To Speculate Why.

There Is, As Yet, No Sense Of Pride In The Husbandry Of Wild Plants And Animals, No Sense Of Shame In The Proprietorship Of A Sick Landscape. We Tilt Windmills In Behalf Of Conservation In Convention Halls And Editorial Offices, But On The Back Forty We Disclaim Even Owning A Lance.

The Elemental Simplicities Of Wilderness Travel Were Thrills. They Represented Complete Freedom To Make Mistakes. The Wilderness Gave Those Rewards And Penalties, For Wise And Foolish Acts Against Which Civilization Has Built A Thousand Buffers.