We Cannot Walk Through Life

The Fisherman Has A Harmless, Preoccupied Look; He Is A Kind Of Vagrant, That Nothing Fears. He Blends Himself With The Trees And The Shadows. All His Approaches Are Gentle And Indirect. He Times Himself To The Meandering, Soliloquizing Stream; He Addresses Himself To It As A Lover To His Mistress; He Woos It And Stays With It Till He Knows Its Hidden Secrets. Where It Deepens His Purpose Deepens; Where It Is Shallow He Is Indifferent. He Knows How To Interpret Its Every Glance And Dimple; Its Beauty Haunts Him For Days.

In The Order Of Nature We May Behold The Ways Of The Eternal.

I Go To Books And To Nature As A Bee Goes To The Flower, For A Nectar That I Can Make Into My Own Honey.

The Honey-bee's Great Ambition Is To Be Rich, To Lay Up Great Stores, To Possess The Sweet Of Every Flower That Blooms. She Is More Than Provident. Enough Will Not Satisfy Her, She Must Have All She Can Get By Hook Or Crook.

Natural History Is A Matter Of Observation; It Is A Harvest Which You Gather When And Where You Find It Growing. Birds And Squirrels And Flowers Are Not Always In Season, But Philosophy We Have Always With Us. It Is A Crop Which We Can Grow And Reap At All Times And In All Places And It Has Its Own Value And Brings Its Own Satisfaction.